The following ranks highly among the “random, very weird, possibly too eccentric things I like” category: a box spring cover. As you know, I take disproportionate pride in my bed. I mean, I spend half my life in it, and it’s maybe the one part of our entire petite apartment that is truly mine (well, and Mr. Magpie’s — but it is not a space where you’ll often find mini’s Little People, or crumbs from mini’s snacks, or a bottle cap. We usually keep it tidy and taut, just for us.) A reader not long ago wrote something along the lines of: “Life is not all about ironed sheets.” She meant it in a friendly context, i.e., “I enjoy your more serious writing — or its balance with the more frivolous,” but I saw in it a glimpse of what I must look like to many of you: a thoughtful, empathic woman, but one who is occasionally overfussy about unimportant things. I wrote earlier this week that, at the age of twelve, I “hadn’t the faintest idea where the stress accents belonged in the day-to-day living of my life,” and the reader’s comment made me wonder whether I still grapple with — to pursue the musical analogy — the articulation of notes. And so the comment yielded more self-reflection than it intended to warrant, but I landed not far from where I started in the sense that: yes, ironed sheets matter to me. My bed matters to me. Maybe more than it should — or maybe not. Mr. Magpie has a funny quirk when evaluating a new restaurant: if the bathrooms are filthy, he’s generally turned off. “If they can’t get the easy stuff right — keeping a small bathroom tidy — what’s going on where you can’t see, in the kitchen and larder?” It’s enough to make our stomachs turn. The same principle applies elsewhere. If I can’t get the small stuff right, the big stuff feels all out of wack, too.
And so you may or may not scoff at my latest obsession: a box spring cover. It had always lightly bothered me that when my bed was made, you could see, at the very head, where the duvet was folded back, a little bit of the unattractive box spring at the base. It wasn’t a big deal and I let it fall out of my mind. But I was thrilled to find a solution. I have no idea how or where I came across this, but it really does lend a more finished look to our bedroom. The bed now looks like an inviting, frosted seven layer cake and I can’t wait to crawl into it, my frivolity bedamned.
What do you sing to your babies at night? What did your parents sing to you?
My father often — rather curiously — sang me Johnny Cash’s “Ghost Riders in the Sky” at bedtime. I think about that strange choice often. I am confident he sang it simply because he liked it, and nothing more — but there was a rousing narrative and strong visual imagery and I’ve internalized it all and tied it back to my father in many complex ways.
And so I don’t think I’m being overprecious in saying that I often find myself musing over the two lullabies I sing to my children close to every night: “When You Wish Upon a Star” from Pinocchio and “Edelweiss” from The Sound of Music.
I am not convinced I agree with the ethic behind “When You Wish Upon a Star,” as I tend to subscribe more to the Edison quote:
“Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.”
In short: wishing is not enough. Wishing won’t get you where you need to go. Good things don’t happen to good people without good effort. And I think I’d rather instill in my children the notion that they should never grow a wishbone where a tailbone ought to be.
At the same time: they are children. I wish for them unbridled ambition and outsized dreams. One of the most beautiful gifts my parents gave me was the latitude to explore, to tinker, to pursue my interests without judgment. “You want to write? Great! Let’s sign you up for a writing class.” “You want to design clothes? Fantastic. Let’s buy you a sewing machine.” They were endlessly supportive, especially of our artistic ambitions.
And so I return to the song, whose lyrics and melody leave me inexplicably farklempt more often than not despite the frequency with which I sing it, and I think: “Maybe this is OK. Maybe it’s best to send them out into the world starry-eyed and wishful.”
+Our new kitchen has enough space for one of these and mini would die over it. She loves cooking — probably because of how much time Mr. Magpie and I invested in it.
1 // Channeling the street style chic pea above (note to self: must start carrying bag like that, a la Eva Chen), how cool is this leopard puffer from Veronica Beard (currently 25% off in the promotion)? The oversized, boxy look would be epic with black skinny jeans and a black cashmere sweater. Get the look for less with this stylish score. (And if leopard is too too for ya, check out these solid-colored ones. The lavender is perfection and the shape is deliciously Yeezy or Balenciaga or some other urban-cool brand I can’t quite put my finger on.)
2 // Our new apartment is old-fashioned and highly charming — arched entryways, high ceilings, radiator covers with embellishments, chair rails, and even tile in the pantry with hand-painted fruit emblazoned on it. I love everything about it except for the builder-grade frosted glass sconces in the living room. The highly kind super offered to remove them and install sconces of our choice. I selected these. (Runners up: these, these, and these.)
3 // We have a few pieces of furniture we will need to buy and the get-everything-done-NOW part of me is desperate to put everything else on hold in order to order them now. Mr. Magpie is more rational about these things, noting that our current drop-leaf dining table will work, temporarily, in our larger dining room, until we find the right (larger) piece. And that damn old dresser in our bedroom will suffice for now. He’s right. He’s far more patient than I am about waiting for the right piece, but we’ve scored some beautiful finds following his suit: a custom-made console for the foyer, an enormous bull painting (we call him “Augus”) who will likely take up residence in our new, grander dining room, a couch we invested in and have loved over the past six years. But on the point of that couch-we-have-loved: it is now thoroughly destroyed, the cushion fabric threadbare and tearing. I suppose it was not meant for heavy, everyday use, including flailing toddlers, sticky fingers, and a revolving door of guests. We looked into having it reupholstered and were gobsmacked to learn it would be nearly the price of a new, very nice sofa. (We’re talking several thousand dollars.) Even having a slip-cover custom made would be obscenely pricey. And now we are thinking it wiser to donate the old and invest in a sleeper sofa to accommodate guests — one that is slipcovered and therefore easier to keep clean. We are considering this or this — or mayyybe this, for extra seating. Practical, inviting, gracious, albeit not entirely exciting. But that’s OK — that’s what throw pillows are for.
4 // On the subject of throw pillows: Serena & Lily recently sent me a whole mess of beautiful ones and I’m thrilled with how quickly they elevated and changed the vibe of both our bedroom and our living area in our current (soon to be former!) apartment. They were a breath of fresh air. I’ll share pictures next week, but throw pillows are the greatest way to update a room that feels stale — or a couch that has lived beyond its years.
5 // While searching for sconces, I tumbled down a rabbit hole examining chandeliers/ceiling wall fixtures and — this is making all my nursery dreams come true. Can you imagine this whimsical beauty in a little girl’s room, the centerpoint?! It’s too good. I am separately, thoroughly smitten with this modern chandelier for a dining room. I love the modern and judicious use of lucite. Because I was surprised that Mr. Magpie tilted his head and then agreed that we should swap out the sconces in the living room of our new apartment (he is usually fairly pragmatic about things like that — i.e., “let’s not buy something like that for a rental”), I am wondering what else I can cajole him into upgrading. Ha. You give a mouse a cookie…
6 // I was overwhelmed and humbled by the responses I received to this post, in comments and emails and even phone calls/texts from a few loved ones. I must have touched a nerve. Its reception has left me hungry to carve out more time for that kind of writing, which requires a bit more sequestration and focus than I typically have on hand these days. And it also left me pulling up the patchy draft of a fictional work I have been returning to in fits over the past two years. Maybe one day. In the meantime, if you’re looking for more of that kind of reading, consider:
If I can pass it off to Mr. Magpie or — better yet — avoid it full-stop, I will, usually to my own detriment or material loss, in that I end up paying more than I should or under-compensated for one reason or another.
Negotiating feels like subterfuge and bluff — a dishonest business. Mr. Magpie routinely re-orients me in a different way of seeing negotiation: as a reconciling of two different agendas. And in this sense, it is more about consensus-building than treachery–even, if we are especially bright-eyed on the topic, about achieving fairness in a transaction.
Still, any time Mr. Magpie nudges me to ask a service provider to knock off a couple hundred dollars or follow up with a customer service representative seeking remuneration for a poor experience, I hem and haw and grit my teeth.
He has lots of advice, culled from years of negotiating as an entrepreneur, leading sales teams back during his Groupon days, and serving as our principle home business manager.
1// “Never make the first offer.” Better to have the other party throw something out first and negotiate up, lest you underestimate them. This can be highly awkward in my experience, as more seasoned negotiators will cut in with: “What price are you thinking?” right off the bat. And then finding an elegant way to flip the conversation back over to them takes some maneuvering. Fortunately, words are my trade and I have usually found my way around it. (“Well, as I said, we’ve received a few bids lower than yours and want to understand what sets you apart and whether you can come down to a fairer price. What would you be willing to do?”) Separately, this particular adage is especially true when going to a customer service representative. Don’t ask for something specific right off the bat, i.e., “can you refund shipping to make up for the late arrival”? Instead: “What can you do to rectify the situation?” I have been shocked by some of the generosity of some of the results–sometimes even a full refund on the order!
2// “Counter low, knowing that they’ll probably come back and ask for something slightly higher.”
3// “Don’t put words in their mouths.” This is a tough one for me, as I tend to fill in blanks and presuppose conditions. Something like “I’m sure it would be hard for you to get this done on a Saturday, but…” should be erased from the conversation. If there’s an issue — even one you see a mile away — have them bring it up. And “Since I can’t do x, would y suffice?” should be replaced with: “I can’t do x. What else would work?”
Oh, but these tactics drain me and leave me feeling as though I’m not expressing myself organically, like I’m lumbering around a mine-field with a fifty-pound backpack strapped to me. Meanwhile, Mr. Magpie is alight with a kind of adrenaline-fueled brilliance when he’s strategizing in this way.
It’s a simpler way of thinking about negotiating, and it’s made me feel far more comfortable with the framework. It’s just a question. A harmless string of words followed by the most optimistic punctuation mark there is in the English language. The recipient can rebuff the entreaty, but there is rarely any harm or foul that can befall the transaction.
I now realize that for most of my life, I have been worried that by negotiating, I will be somehow breaking an unspoken rule. And man am I a rule-follower.
“But the proposal says it will cost $3,000. So. It costs $3,000. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. If I go back and ask them to drop the price, I’ll be going against some rubric somewhere, or breaking some immutable precedent, or hurting their feelings, or insinuating that we don’t really need the service, or coming off as cheap, or –“
Where were all these rules and subtexts written?
I think, too, that when I am in a situation where I want something done (i.e., ahem, a lease to be signed), I worry that negotiating will protract and complicate the transaction in a way that imperils my overall objective.
But truly, my friends, everything is negotiable. And most of the time, people expect a counter.
What’s more, I am usually in a position where a service provider is trying to sell me something, and they have a lot more to lose if I walk than the other way around. So my fear of somehow alienating the seller or souring the deal is grossly misplaced.
At any rate, I have turned a corner by thinking about negotiating as an opportunity to ask a question — not make a heated demand. It calms me to think: “They can always decline, but I should at least make known what I would like. I have that right.”
I have been frankly astounded by some of the results I have gotten. With one vendor, for example, I asked, rather baldly and out-of-the-blue: “I’m impressed with your service and would like to use you over some of the competitors we are considering. But would you be willing to drop the price by a few hundred dollars? That would make my decision very easy.” There was a pause. A brief consultation with her manager. And then: “Sure. We can do that.”
Just because I asked. Just like that.
I leave this here because I think (and I hope not to step on any toes here) that women have particular trouble working up the courage to negotiate. Whether it’s your salary or the cut of work you find on your plate or the cost of your refrigerator repair — it can be hard to pony up the energy and chutzpah to ask for the plum deal you want. But try my tack on for size. Re-consider the negotiation as an exercise in question-asking. It’s just a question!
Examples might be:
For salary (I used this exact formula multiple times, to 100% positive outcomes):
“I am flattered by this offer, but would be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t ask whether you can come up in base salary?”
For division of labor at work:
“I’m especially good at x, but would you be able to help with y?” or “I have x, y, and z on my plate and am trying to make sure I’m prioritizing things helpfully. If you need z done sooner, do you want to tackle it yourself so I can get through x and y?”
For things like home repair:
“I’d like to have you do this work for me, but am considering a few other vendors. Can you drop the price a little or honor a 10% discount so we can move forward?”
Of course, none of these are foolproof and I still occasionally find myself shaky with nerves when I go out on a limb. But taking a deep breath and remembering that you’re just extending a question takes some of the pressure off.
+I’d forgotten about this product until I found it at the bottom of my makeup bag — but it is a really, really good highlighting powder that can be used for subtle glow all over your face in order to set tinted moisturizer/concealer/foundation.
I had no idea what a Wellie was until my second year of college, when – all of the sudden – Hunter boots were everywhere, multiplying before my eyes in a rainbow of colors on the legs of every Jane, Judy, and Jill sprinting down the Lawn en route to class or traipsing around the corner at the first sign of inclement weather. Though I bought my first pair in lipstick pink, I’ve thankfully evolved a bit since my college days, when I waltzed around grounds in a cloud of Ralph Lauren Romance, still shopped at Abercrombie & Fitch, and was leaning tragically hard into the lingerie top trend – and thus have settled into a pair of more gallant olive green ones for the past several years.
These afford the impression of excursions to fox or horse
country, even if they will only see the far murkier grime and subterranean
animalia of the Manhattan subway for the foreseeable future.
Still, a good pair of rainboots are a member of the wardrobe
staple elite: a workhorse you need. They
are durable, timeless, and curiously resistant to (or rather compliant with?)
trend and even season, for that matter.
I found them on sale in a few colors here in case you’re in the market for your own pair. I love that boat blue hue in particular!
I have loved seeing mini strut around in her rubber-duck-yellow rainboots, too. (And she currently rocks a TBBC slicker – very lightweight and appropriate for the still-warm weather – though in the past has worn styles from both Gap and Petit Bateau, the latter of which you can sometimes score in very gently used condition here. Have also been eyeing these similarly styled ones – for a fraction of the price! — for micro.)
I’ve written about this elsewhere, but these are hand to God the best umbrellas on earth. They are extremely small and lightweight (you could toss it into your work bag on a daily basis without adding much to your load) but highly sturdy and well-made (i.e., won’t flip inside out at the first gust of wind).
This might be a good back-up diaper bag for rainy days…lightweight, waterproof, not overly precious, and monogrammable. I like it in the army green with that Gucci-esque webbing strap.
When mini visited my grandparents a month ago, she was very into puzzles, which I hadn’t thought she was old enough for. She proved me wrong! Just ordered her these.
P.P.S. Very excited for this to arrive in the mail.
P.P.P.S. Attended a tribute to the late Mary Oliver at the 92nd Street Y last night. Hillary Clinton, Maria Shriver, and Eve Ensler (among others) honored her with moving eulogies and stirring readings of her poetry, and the entire thing ended with a recording of Oliver reading her epic Wild Geese years earlier at that exact 92nd Street Y. It gave me chills.
By: Jen Shoop
There is a Trappist monastery outside of Aspen, Colorado that we used to visit for Lauds (morning prayer) and Sunday Mass a couple of times a summer during my childhood. The service was at 7:30 A.M. and the monastery was a good thirty minute drive away, which meant that my four siblings and I filed out of our condo with unkempt hair and bleary eyes in terse silence, begrudging my parents the early-hour excursion. I remember gazing out the window at the sharp peaks of the Rockies, heavy-lidded and surly in my preadolescence, aware — even at that horrifically self-involved, bad-tempered age — that I was in the presence of majesty.
There was a dirt-and-gravel road leading up to the monastery, and fields that the monks worked themselves lining it, and a sparse room with a couple of rough-hewn shelves showcasing the brothers’ handiwork, for purchase, just inside the main entrance.
The chapel was a humble thing. Wood beams, unadorned benches. Intentions said aloud, volunteered soberly by members of the congregation, in turn, and usually on a first-name basis (“for Jim,” “for Judy again”) suggestive of the close-knit-ness of this remote prayer community. It was always a wonder to me that no one talked over another during this bit, that somehow, despite the free-for-all format, only one voice pierced the silence at a time. And what silence it was. Pin-drop silence. A deep, abiding, roaring silence that seemed to fill the chapel and reverberate against the acres of unpeopled, mountainous land in which we were ensconced. A silence that felt designed to torment a twelve-year-old, whose stomach might be grumbling from the lack of breakfast or whose compulsion to laugh at inopportune moments made Mass here, in this hushed sanctuary, a test of will.
And yet, despite my immaturity, I was often awed into contemplativeness observing the solemnity of the monks, who would enter with a chant at 7:30 a.m. on the dot. I would study their faces, so often an unlikely combination of the serene and the serious. I would wonder whether they laughed in between services — and about what? Was there gentle ribbing? Good-nature sparring? Did they have personal tastes — did Brother Joseph like Red Vines and Brother Matthew like M&Ms, for example? — or were those indulgences too worldly? Had they been forgone with the taking of vows? In short, I puzzled over their humanity. And in doing so, I grasped, for a minute, in a twelve-year-old-way, the meaninglessness of most of my daily, very material concerns. Because who cares about Red Vines? Their evident commitment, their solemnity had a weight that made such predilections seem absurdly petty, even to me, a twelve-year-old who hadn’t the faintest idea where the stress accents belonged in the day-to-day living of my life. (In other words, whether I got the purple shoes I wanted bore an emotional weight commensurate with whether I got along with my siblings.)
Lost somewhere in these musings, with the sun streaming in through the stained glass windows and the faint outline of the sublime Rockies behind them and the monks’ voices lifted in song and the fresh-cool mountain air around us and the plainness of the wood bench beneath me, I would feel something stir. Though there is a passage in the Bible that says, “Wherever two or more are gathered in My name, I am present,” it was always a lot easier to feel God there, in that small and unadorned chapel in the middle of nowhere.
A few years ago, my parents and I returned to that monastery of my youth for 7:30 a.m. Lauds and Mass, this time with my husband at my side. The ride out was decidedly more chipper. But as we drew closer to the chapel, I felt that same sense of hushed reverence I’d experienced as a child settle over me. This go around, with an accrued twenty years of experience, heartache, and points of comparison to reflect upon since my last visit, Mass felt achingly beautiful in its simplicity, and I found myself blinking back tears.
I have attended Mass for most of the Sundays of my life, in places as disparate as the Vatican and Corning, New York and in venues as varied as grand Cathedrals and parish gyms. I have heard Mass in Italian, and French, and Spanish, and once, by accident, in Ukrainian. But there, in that beautiful little chapel at daybreak, I thought the exact same thing I’d thought at the age of twelve: that it was easier to feel God here than anywhere else in the world.
A few months ago, my brother-in-law mentioned that he occasionally pulls up a picture we took after hiking, as a family, up by Independence Pass outside Aspen, on that same trip I visited the monastery as an adult.
“Sometimes I just need to get back to that place,” he said, taking in a deep breath. “It was so peaceful.”
I pocketed this practice of his. In lieu of a photograph of the actual chapel, I started pulling up a picture I had taken from the monastery parking lot (seen above), returning to it with urgency in moments of stress and transition–moments where I need, desperately, to put things in perspective and to put myself in the presence of greater things. Amidst all of the upheavals in my life right now, I have leaned on it especially heavily in the past few weeks, returning to the soul-filling swell of peace and quietude it afforded me.
I thought I might share this practice in the event that you are navigating rough waters and need a quick pick-me-up or escape from the details of whatever is happening in your neck of the woods. Or maybe you might just piggyback on my own photo of that monastery in Aspen because, well, there’s more than enough splendor in it to go around.
We’ve officially transitioned mini to school and she loves it. We were pleasantly surprised at how smoothly it all went. The only hiccup so far has been figuring out pick up in the afternoon. For the first few days, I dropped her off and picked her up alone because she had such odd hours (i.e., one hour from 10:05-11:05 one day, then two hours from 9:30 to 11:30 the next day, etc.) and it would have been impossible for Mr. Magpie to handle either end given his work schedule. I would usually just post up in a nearby coffee shop and get some work done, but it was a pretty disruptive week, especially coordinating breastfeeding around it. Then we transitioned to more of the expected routine: Mr. Magpie drops her off in the mornings on his way to work. I had intended to have our nanny pick her up in the afternoons so I could stay home with micro for breastfeeding purposes, and so after I felt we had the morning routine down pat, I decided to bring our nanny with me to pick mini up so I could show her the ropes and pass the baton. When mini saw our nanny first (before seeing me), she dissolved into tears. I had given her a heads up that our nanny would be there, too, but I think she was upset that I wasn’t the first face she saw (the best part of my day has been seeing her beaming face when I arrive at the door — “there’s my mama!” she shrieks). The school had warned us about this, noting that kids can be very thrown off by disruptions to routine, and encouraging us to stay consistent with who drops off and who picks up. Now I know why. Mini was apoplectic and close to impossible to maneuver home (i.e., refusing stroller, refusing to walk, laying down on the subway floor — oh.my.GOD). After that incident, I chatted with her teacher and we decided that I should continue to handle pick-ups for the next few weeks before introducing our nanny into the mix — just too much change for that little one. Besides, I hadn’t anticipated it, but our little pocket of thirty minutes on our way home is nearly always the highlight of my day. I love hearing about her day, smothering her with kisses, holding her little willing hand as we walk towards the subway stop.
And so this whole transition to school has been relatively smooth all things considered but still quite a change for everyone. Routines in the morning are planned down to a millisecond and I’m busy getting that little one fed, toileted, dressed, brushed, and out the door by 8 a.m. Gone are the leisurely mornings nursing micro in bed! And then — oh! The apartment is deafeningly silent in mini’s absence. She is a whirling dervish at home, flitting from activity to activity in constant chatter and singsong. I have found myself straining to hear her on multiple occasions, my heart in my throat. Changes all — most of them welcome, some of them…skeptically accepted.
Meanwhile, the apartment hunt continued. We saw at least fifteen units all up and down the West side of Manhattan, a few spots on the UES, and one in DUMBO. It was exhausting, in large part owing to the underhandedness of the broker situation. There are so many misrepresentations in listings — “3 bedrooms!” is often “2 bedrooms but you can split the second to make a third with a partition” or “2 bedrooms plus a closet with a questionable window that could be a nursery” or “2 bedrooms plus a dangerous loft where no child should ever sleep.” And then there are things like “washer and dryer in unit!” — only you arrive and find you will be responsible for purchasing the washer/dryer, though there is a hook-up available. And “available immediately!” only you arrive with your baby in a carrier and your toddler wrangling out of your grip and find yourself in a construction zone, sawdust coating our lungs and electric saws buzzing inches from our faces (i.e., decidedly not available immediately). There’s this shadiness, and then there’s the fact that the NY rental market moves at the speed of light — aka a frenetic pace ill-suited towards families with small children and lots of moving parts. New places are listed daily and are often gone within a day or two, and you are meant to move in within a week — and if you aren’t planning to move in immediately, you’ll probably be passed up as an applicant for the unit because brokers don’t want to sit on a vacant unit. They’ll just wait another day or two for someone willing to move in sooner.
I mean, can you imagine?! It’s too much pressure! How can you expect a family to find a place and move within a week?!
At any rate, after seeing fifteen places, we put in an application on a unit with about a month left on our current lease and were passed up because the landlord’s broker pulled a weird stunt on us, using our application offer (rent is almost always negotiable in NY) to go back to another applicant that had been interested in the apartment to get them to counter with an earlier lease start date and a slightly higher rent offer. The brokers hadn’t made this information known to us, of course (we would have happily matched the offer), and had instead more or less counseled us to submit the offer we did (“I’ll encourage the landlord to accept it,” stated the broker — grrr) to push the other couple to sign immediately. And so we suddenly found ourselves back at square one, with no apartment lined up and the clock ticking. When we heard the news, it took every ounce of my personal resolve to avoid bursting into tears. I had loved the unit, but more than that — I had loved the idea of being done with the search and able to move forward with next steps. The night we found out, I woke up at 3 a.m. shivering uncontrollably — my teeth were actually chattering! — and aching all over. A few hours later, I woke up and had sweated through my clothes. It went on like this — sweats, chills, achiness, splitting headache — for several days. I eventually went to see the doctor who confirmed I had picked up some kind of virus but I’m convinced that my shock and stress level at discovering we had no apartment with less than four weeks to go had triggered it, or left me in such a state of weakness that any old virus could have shut me down.
I somehow managed to muscle through last week, sick as a dog, visiting a new battery of listings all over the place. We also had a bizarrely busy social schedule (we’re normally homebodies), with two receptions and a cocktail hour we hosted — and then there was mini’s meltdown owing to the nanny’s pick up at school right smack dab in the middle. During that epic tantrum, I’d had to carry mini by her arms up the subway stairs while I also had micro strapped to me in the carrier. She had turned into a jellyfish and would.not.climb.the.stairs and also would.not.let.the.nanny.come.near.her. I had no choice, after attempting to reason with her and cajole her for about five minutes while no-nonsense, in-a-rush New Yorkers trampled us at the foot of the steps, but to pick her up by her arms and carry her up the steps in front of me, like a noodle. That debacle led me to pull a muscle in my abdomen which in turn made breathing hurt for a couple of days — though at the time, I wasn’t sure if the pain in my side was related to the virus or something more serious, and so the doctor ran a gamut of tests, had me x-rayed, etc. (It all turned out clear — just a strained muscle from trying to carry forty-five pounds of children up the stairs in the most awkward maneuver known to womankind. Go figure.)
Somewhere along the way, micro picked up whatever virus I had and suddenly my world was literally collapsing on itself. There were a few nights where I was up with poor micro every hour of the night. It got so bad that I had to ask Mr. Magpie to split shifts with me, but even then it was impossible to sneak in a stretch of sleep because we are all about two feet from one another. The baby was running a fever and battling an upset stomach and so we were covered in baby vomit, shivering/sweating together, and mind-numbingly exhausted. And did I mention that while I believe I hold or can reach a sense of perspective in most parenting-related matters, when it comes to ill children, I lose my bearings?! I worry myself sick, wondering if I’m overlooking a symptom and what I believe to be a run-of-the-mill cold is actually something more nefarious. I clutch them in my arms and cry over them. It is physically painful for me to see my babies unwell.
Then, on Friday, I woke with the worst migraine I have ever had in my life. I could not see straight. I could barely walk. Turning my head to the left or right was shockingly painful. I was so sensitive to light that I had to stay in my bedroom with the blinds drawn. I could not rally myself to put on clothes and pick up mini from school — I had to call Mr. Magpie and ask him to leave work early to get her.
On top of it all, micro was scheduled to be Baptized two days later and I had my parents coming into town, with fabulous dinner plans to boot.
I was defeated.
That was the lowpoint. The lowpoint of this year (fingers crossed), and in fact the last two years — since the last botched and stressful move, come to think of it.
But as quickly as everything had spiraled out of control, it all came back into focus. We found another — better! — apartment, this one a “classic prewar six” in Manhattan terms. (A classic prewar six refers to an apartment configuration with six rooms — three bedrooms (one smaller, typically referred to as a “maid’s room,” perfect for a nursery), living room, kitchen, formal dining room — in a building constructed before WWII, and therefore likely to be rife with traditional charm. You won’t find open concept floor plans with a classic 6, which Mr. Magpie and I rather like. These buildings also tend to be very well-constructed — i.e., “they just don’t make them like that anymore.”) When we went uptown to sign the lease, the broker walked us through the unit and something inside me relaxed. I could instantly see the wonderful life we would have there, withmuch more space, a dedicated nursery for micro, a larger kitchen, and a bedroom for mini that is large enough to accommodate all of her toys, her activity table, her dollhouse, and all the other bulky items that currently reside in our living area. I’m sure her toys will still find their way into our living room, but no longer will it be their primary home, praise God. A friend of mine recently said that “a cluttered house is a cluttered mind,” and I think this, too, is why this stretch of the last few weeks has been so overwhelming. We are busting out of this apartment as micro grows and has new needs and more clothing and bigger diapers and all that jazz.
Micro and I both overcame our ailments (for the most part) around the same time and managed to enjoy his Baptism feeling more like ourselves. (I wore the dress mentioned here.) We had a beautiful morning with friends and family, enjoying brunch after his Christening smooshed in like sardines around a small table at Cafe Luxembourg, whose boisterous environment matched the general ebullience of the moment.
I looked around the table at one point and thought how lucky I am, and how insignificant all my travails of the previous week were in the grand scheme. I mean, let me be real: everything is horrible when you feel sick, and everything is doubly horrible when you feel sick and are caring for an ill infant while going on four months of sleeplessness. And moving is stressful, full-stop. But there we were, closer to the other side, with the happiest occasion in front of me. A happy and newly healthy baby, welcomed into the Church, the presence of my loved ones, the promise of a new, more spacious beginning on the Upper West Side.
+Expect some more home decor related posts soon, as we need to purchase a number of pieces of furniture. I am already eyeing a couple of rugs, and Horchow has such a great selection (on sale) — love this for mini’s room, or maybe this. Although I’ve been chastened — probably not good to have a light colored rug in a toddler’s room. May need to explore darker/more patterned styles.
+I ordered one of these tags for mini’s stroller, which we store at the school during the day since Mr. Magpie drops her off and I pick her up. It’s perfect! I was impressed with the quality and speed of design/shipping. Going to order some more for her bags. A cute add-on to a gift for a little one, too.
+I love these for keeping my phone free of fingerprints.
+A good dupe for those Paris Texas snakeskin boots that are all over the place.
My Latest Snag: The Dress I’ll Wear to Micro’s Christening.
If you follow me on Instagram, you’ll know that I have purchased and returned probably half a dozen dresses (several listed here) as potential contenders for micro’s Baptism (tomorrow!) and had planned to re-wear a Self-Portrait while lace dress I’ve had for a few seasons. Then I found this $60 steal and it was case closed. Very excited to wear it with my pearl headband for a Duchess Kate moment and, because it’s supposed to be warm, these past-season Tory Burch pearl mules (gently used), which — interestingly — I bought and thought, “These are so loud, I’ll probably only wear them a handful of times, but I LOVE THEM” and yet have worn them at least once a week this summer. If it’s cooler, I’ll probably wear them with my ivory rockstuds (still wear these a ton).
You’re Sooooo Popular: A Sleek Black Dress for Fall.
I have spent (and will spend) a lot of time shuttling back and forth from mini’s school the past two weeks, especially during her phase-in schedule, where some days, she was only there for an hour! Navigating the subway twice a day with a toddler has been interesting. I know it will become routine, but I’m always vaguely anxious about how crowded the trains will be, as sometimes it means I should fold up the stroller and ply a stranger to give up his/her seat so she can sit down while I hover over her with the stroller folded and slung over my shoulder — and other times, when the trains are gloriously void, it’s easier to just wheel her straight onto the train in her stroller. Only — it’s never quite that simple. I have to take her out of the stroller to get her down the stairs of the subway stop to begin with unless I want a slightly longer commute (accessing the elevator to the stop adds at least five minutes, and even then is not great because I still need to get her through the turnstiles, which usually means leaving her in her stroller outside while I rush through myself and then swing open the service door to wheel her through — something I hate doing during the busy morning rush hour). At any rate, I usually just get her out and have her walk down the stairs with me, but then she often does not want to get back in and I’m left negotiating with her, which can occasionally backfire if the train is crowded and I need to take her out yet again. Usually, I just keep her out of the stroller full-stop, but then there are always the concerns of keeping a grip on her, keeping her hands off the grimy poles (and then out of her mouth), keeping her in a place that makes it easy for us to get off the train when we need to get off.
And that’s only for getting ON the train. The whole thing repeats when we arrive at our destination stop ten minutes later.
But, it’s not as bad as it sounds. The subway is fast and reliable, for which I am eternally grateful. And, bizarrely enough, I kind of enjoy our commute together. I am squarely focused on her; there’s not even an option to do anything else, as my hands are full and I need to be alert to our surroundings. What’s more, mini notices and learns a lot on the Subway, including numbers — she loves reading the numbers of the train we are on! It’s a special little pocket of time for us to chat and observe the world together. (Plus, I’m getting a crazy workout carrying a stroller and occasionally a toddler, and balancing it all on a moving and jerky subway is a great core workout — ha!)
Still — on the occasion of a toddler meltdown on the subway floor (ew ew ew OMG OMG OMG — can I incinerate her clothes?) or the sight of something disgusting en route (will not deign to disgrace this blog by sharing some of the horrific things I’ve seen on the subway), I think, “Oh Lord, why are we here? What am I doing? Am I insane?!”
One recent morning, on my way to school with mini, I was doing the usual song and dance and mini and I were pointing out all of the colors we saw on the train. “Ozinge seat,” she said. (Ozinge = orange.) “Red number 1. Black stroller. Brown floor [ed. note: EW].” We were engrossed in this game for a minute or two and then I gave her a heads up, as I always do, that at the next stop, we would need to get off really, really fast, a directive she curiously loves and takes very seriously. As we were scurrying off the train, a construction worker who had been sitting across from us stopped me and said:
“M’am, you’re supermom.”
I was so flustered with sudden emotion, I could scarcely squeak out a “oh, thank you–!” as the doors closed and the train departed the station.
As I held mini’s little paw in mine and we inched our way through the turnstiles and up the filthy stairs, and then got her situated in the stroller at the top, dodging angry humans and disgusting debris, I was choking back tears and positively beaming. This kind stranger had given me the boost I needed to realize I was doing a good job. I was getting it done! I was doing it! Such a seemingly small task — getting a child to school — but I clutched his encouragement to my chest. I so deeply valued the fact that I was being seen, recognized, rewarded for my admittedly puny though somewhat convoluted achievement.
I say all this not because I think I am supermom. (I am not. She is.)
I say this because this random act of kindness has inspired me to pay it forward — to stop a stranger to pay her a compliment, to take a minute to thank our family’s nanny for her incredible devotion and hard work, to pause and thoroughly acknowledge the doormen and porters in our building who are so kind and accommodating to me in helping me live my life here.
And to that man on the downtown 1 train carrying his “ozinge” construction hat: thank you, thank you, thank you for making my load a lot lighter that morning and the many mornings following.
+A great price on a classic area rug. Only I don’t know if I can handle a cream carpet with two little ones…mini is slowly but surely destroying everything we own with yogurt fingers, accidents, etc.
+I’ve been a little under the weather lately and have been drinking a ton of my favorite tea. I get this shipped to our apartment regularly.
As an anticipator, I’m already strategizing about Halloween for the little ones and I kind of think it would be epic to do a major balloon garland…but still debating on whether it’s worth the hassle of carrying all of those balloons to a Duane Reade to have them filled with helium and then strolled back through the UWS. (#NewYorkProblems.) I knew immediately, however, that mini would either go as Cinderella or Woody from Toy Story as she loves both movies something fierce and spends a good portion of her days talking about them. (I gave her this Cinderella set as a surprise on the car ride down to D.C. last month and she plays with it daily — and this Woody doll was a fantastic gift from her aunt and uncle and has proved a long-term, well-loved fixture in our home. So much so that we had Hill “give” her this gift when she visited him in the hospital. And P.S. — highly convenient that nighttime pullups currently come in Toy Story and Cinderella designs, especially because she can be resistant to wearing them at night, asking for underwear instead. But we’re not there yet. We’ve had enough changing-of-the-sheets during test runs at naptime…but I digress.)
I decided to go with this Cinderella costume, which I anticipate will get tons of use during playtime afterward, and this accessory set. I might also need to surprise her with her own Gus Gus. She already owns a pair of dress-up shoes with the Little Mermaid on them that she calls her “glass slippers” but I’m already trying to mentally prepare for how I can avoid her wearing them out of the house on Halloween, as she always trips and stumbles in them. Anyway, a couple of other costumes I considered:
So precious. At the end of the day, though, I know she will FLIP with excitement dressing up as her favorite character, so that was that.
I had intended to dress micro in mini’s hand-me-down giraffe costume, which was ABSOLUTELY adorable on her, but Mr. Magpie scoffed in disgust: “He needs his own costume!!!” Spoken like a true only child — ha! So we strategized for a minute and decided it would be SO cute to have him dressed up as a pumpkin to accompany mini. A lot of the pumpkin costumes I found had weird jack-o-lantern faces embroidered on the front, but I finally found this one, which seems to be the winner. (Note the bad reviews relate to the fact that this costume fits a size 6-12 mo, not a newborn, FYI.)
Mini dressed up as a bee last year (and I went as her beekeeper) and OMG. Her costume was amazing. So beautifully made and so freaking adorable. I had seen a girlfriend dress her daughter in a similarly textured lamb costume a few years back and sought out the same look. Absolutely adorable.
*Note that they are shown on the site in a hideous curlicue font but have a bunch of more traditional monogram lettering options. I picked the scalloped monogram with the pumpkin topper. It turned out so cute! Bonus that it folds flat for easy storage.
**Have I raved about these sets from Little English yet? Micro has already outgrown his 3-6 month sized one and I’m debating on which one to get him in the size up. They are super soft cotton, hold up beautifully in the wash, and I love the trim and collar details. A great option for cooler days, too, when you went to bundle him/her in bunting on top, as it is easy to layer. (You can get the look for a little less with this.)
P.S. Getting increasingly excited about decorating micro’s nursery. One consideration I need to contend with: we intend to eventually move mini and micro into the same bedroom, once sleep cycles are more synchronized, and I want to be forward thinking about what I buy so that the furniture isn’t a mish-mash down the road. Will need to put some thought into that…
A: I love this question! I was just thinking earlier today that I am already excited about playing Christmas music — ha. Below are a few of my favorite Christmas decorations:
Q: I work at a small historical society and each year we have an annual banquet when we present the year’s honorees with a medal. This year, we are honoring two people I greatly admire and I would really like to make a good impression. I will be meeting with them in early October to conduct an interview for our magazine and don’t know what to wear! My style is definitely classic preppy, so I’d prefer to stay in that general sartorial area. Thank you for your help!
Finally, I recently bought my first HVN dress and OMG. Absolutely obsessed with this label. The dresses are exquisitely made and fit like a dream. I also love the retro vibe — these will stay in style for decades. You can find them gently used here.
Q: What is your favorite holiday to dress for?
A: Christmas! I have a couple of tartan dresses I’ve owned for a long, long time (some are over a decade old) that I nearly always trot out. One is by Ralph Lauren and is absolutely timeless — black watch tartan wool! — and I am hoping I will continue to be able to fit into it over the years. I just update the accessories — i.e., a big headband, a satin handbag, or new earrings.
Q: How did you handle waiting to become a parent? Struggling with being patient.
A: Ugh. I am so sorry you are going through this. It is frustrating, highly distracting, and often agonizing. (I wrote a little bit about this here.) I dealt with it very privately, only leaning on Mr. Magpie, because I couldn’t bear the thought of other people checking in on me or telling me unhelpful things like “once you stop stressing, it will happen!” (How many other women have heard that advice?! I’ve had about a dozen friends chime in to say they’d heard that exact “sagacity” from well-intentioned friends, which helps no one, only makes us feel guiltier — am I causing the delay?! — and is honestly untrue in the case of women struggling with infertility.) I also had a lot of people ask me when I was going to have a baby and/or make unintentionally callous comments like, “Jen — you guys are smart. Don’t have kids. Your life disappears.” This is all extremely difficult to swallow when you are squarely focused on starting a family. I remember sobbing to Mr. Magpie one Mother’s Day, feeling surrounded and suffocated by all of the messages of motherhood, and it was all I wanted!
Anyway — all that to say — I completely empathize with you.
My best advice would be to find your one person — whether it’s your husband, your mom, your sister, a close friend, a colleague — that you feel you can lean on and who will let you vent when you need to. I’ve had a few friends go through IVF or miscarriages together and I can imagine that would be a wonderful support to have; maybe there is someone else in your life in a similar position?
I will also say that I occasionally liked reading random blogs/forums about women going through similar issues — it made me feel less alone. Because you are not alone. I can scarcely think of ONE friend in my life who has not had some trouble getting pregnant, staying pregnant, or delivering the baby. Sometimes those forums were on the bitter side, and I kind of wanted to hear that — kind of wanted someone to say what I was feeling and to make me feel less weird for having the impulse. Sometimes they were encouraging. Sometimes they included helpful thoughts or suggestions.
Finally — other big piece of advice! — fill your life right now with things you love doing. Be selfish. Sleep in until 10 a.m., stay out for that extra cocktail, pick up a hobby like golfing or needlepoint, invest in a long TV series, travel if you can — put yourself and your own happiness first. I say this for a few reasons: first, distraction can be a powerful antidote and second, you won’t be able to do a lot of those things once you are pregnant/have a baby!
Sending you all of my best. Trust me when I say that you are not alone — I am guessing half the readers of this blog have been in your shoes. We’re rooting you on.
Q: I had a question which you may have already answered. A classic white shirt – where do I start! I wanted one that is a good buy but also can’t spend a fortune on a white shirt. I am trying to be more mindful with purchases and focus less on quick fixes and this is item number one.
A: Love this. Depending on style:
+My Polo oxfords have held up for close to two decades. I first bought most of them in high school / college and they’re still hanging in there. A classic white one looks fantastic with jeans, skirts, shorts. (Also — proof that a classic RL button-down is eternally chic.)
Q: Did you make a decision on your new diaper bag?
A: No! Now that mini is in school, I’m finding my Goyard is sufficient, since I’m usually only with one or the other child. Still, I am on the hunt because I am completely destroying the Goyard with every passing day. There were so many good points and suggestions made in the comments of my post on the subject that I went back to square one and re-started the search. A few late entrants:
THIS ST. LAURENT TOTE (A MOM AT MINI’S SCHOOL WEARS THIS AND IT LOOKS PRACTICAL AND ROOMY)
A few people have also raved about this Dagne Dover bag. A friend of mine and I were texting about it — neither of us are super into the style (it looks like luggage to me) but are attracted to its features, especially that cell phone pocket. I swear I spend half my day looking for my cell phone in my bag…
Q: I have a black tie wedding in a barn, upstate NY, mid-October. What do I wear? I can be bold!
A: My first thought was something dramatic like this pleated jumpsuit, which I’ve been ogling for some time. It’s formal but FUN. Big red lip, high heels?! You’d slay in it.
+Zara has some fun, fashion-forward styles, like this.
+Alice McCall always has super fun pieces — something like this?
+Zimmermann is one of my go-to labels for eveningwear, and they’re having a great sale. This?
+This dress takes some guts, but it’s a dead-ringer for Markarian, my ultimate splurge pick (I mean…!!!)
Q: How has living in NYC changed your fashion (besides the obvious, like weather and walking)?
A: I am more fearless. I never worry that what I’m wearing will earn me sideways looks or arched eyebrows. To wit: I wore this statement dress (now on sale!) to a casual but special anniversary dinner at Rubirosa and no one batted an eye. You can wear anything here and feel great. NY is style-centric and fashion-diverse, and I’m much more game to try trends than I ever was before. I’m also finding that while I tend to gravitate towards the feminine, I now occasionally try out edgier styles and lots of black — for example, this sweatshirt, this boxy jacket, and a pair of cowboy boots are on my lust list for this fall. And belt bags are my jam.
Also, to your point: I almost exclusively wear flats or kitten heels nowadays. I walk everywhere! Even when we go out in the evenings, we nearly always take the subway (faster and easier), so I’m loathe to teeter around in heels.
Q: Best advice for new mothers? I am doing this alone and am terrified.
A: First — you are NOT alone! One of the most beautiful parts of matrescence is finding a strong, willing, and easy bond with other mothers the world over. Just in the past few days, I’ve consoled a new friend struggling with motherhood issues, compared notes on baby products with another mom friend, helped a mother carry her stroller down the stairs, and exchanged knowing looks with other mothers at school pick-up. There’s a strong mom tribe out there for you, even if it’s virtual — I mean, check out these comments!!!
Second, the best piece of parenting advice I ever received was to trust my own instincts. You are the mother. You will intuitively know a lot more than you expect to. A NICU nurse was recently saying that moms always know and anticipate when something is off with their children — even before there are consistent symptoms. She said that she always looks to and listens to the mother, who has a sixth sense about these things. All this to say: trust yourself. You are going to love this baby more than anyone else in the universe and have his/her best interests in mind; you are going to do great things with great love.
Third, make a lot of space for yourself and your emotions. There is a lot going on those first few weeks (I wrote about some of them here) and some days will feel overwhelming, and that’s normal. I was totally baffled by the mix of confusing emotions I had after mini was born in particular — I was upset by her delivery (I could not even think about the c-section without crying), I was overjoyed, I was exhausted, I was strangely nostalgic for life beforehand, I was frustrated by breastfeeding, I was relieved that the delivery was behind me. Make a ton of space for yourself. Be forgiving. Give yourself the grace to cry or vent if you need to.
P.S. My last Magpie mail — keep the questions coming! (You can always email me at jennifer@thefashionmagpie.com.)
The form of the epistolary novel (a novel written as a series of letters or documents) gained popularity in the 18th century, especially among female authors and readers — a phenomenon I studied in graduate school in a course that examined the intersection of literary form and feminism in 18th century novels. I was thinking about this the other day, about the way we’d discussed epistolarity as a means to create a uniquely intimate and largely gendered space, one where a (often female) protagonist can speak directly to a specific, named audience, and usually in informal terms, by invoking shared points of reference and the personal lexicon one cultivates with dear friends. Women authors, readers, and protagonists tend to be more heavily represented in this form because women (for complex reasons) have historically tended to find themselves drawn or relegated to private, intimate, “inside” spaces, be it the home or the venue of the letter.
I think, too, the form of the epistolary novel makes visible the process of self-creation — that is, the way we as humans are always and forever engaged in the process of defining ourselves — because we see the protagonists in these novels at work, demonstrably putting pen to paper, in their self-presentation to another. What the protagonist chooses to include in her account, how she chooses to explain her reactions, why she leaves something out: all of these decisions force us as readers to inspect how she is defining and sharing herself, how she is shaping her identity for her reader’s consumption. And so, as readers of epistolary novels, we are asked to grapple with multiple layers of mediation, as the narrative arrives filtered through the voice of the author, the voice of the protagonist, the implied voice of the intended recipient of the letter. In this sense, the epistolary novel inherently interrogates the stability of identity as the form calls attention to the complex ways in which we veil and unveil ourselves through various signals, silences, and expressions.
Whew.
That’s a lot for a Tuesday morning and I apologize for my regression into an academic patois. The phrase “makes visible the process of self-creation” brought me straight back to the stacks of Georgetown University library, to a kind of stick-straight, awkward-in-the-mouth jargon I adopted to keep pace with classmates and professors and the critical writings we were reading together.
But I felt compelled to foreground what I am about to say in a literary tradition because–
Sometimes I sit here at my laptop and reflect, with some measure of seriousness, on what I am doing. On one level, this blog is a creative space for me to configure and organize beautiful things with the ambition of designing a mindful, efficient, aesthetic-conscious life and sharing my findings with like-minded women. On another level, this blog affords me the room to engage in self-discovery — to write to know what I think — as I reflect on the various phenomena in my life. But on yet another level, this blog seems to me a nonfiction adaptation of the epistolary form. It is a uniquely intimate space designed by one woman for many other women (and maybe a few men? I see you, Eric.), and in the form of a series of digital letters. It is me, writing to you. Soliciting your input. Intuiting your reactions, and — occasionally — your opprobrium. Every comment and email I receive shapes the evolutionary form of this blog, providing me with authorial guardrails to grip (“ah, yes, they will like this!”; “no, they’ll slap me on the wrist for that!”) and enriching my own perspective in the wildest of ways. I have learned so much from so many of you, often on the topic of rearing children but also on subjects like what to read next and how to approach meal-planning and why we must cling to our mothers and words to strike from my vocabulary (thanks to you, will never use the phrase “forgiving to a postpartum figure” again — what’s to forgive?! — and now know I’ve been grossly misusing the term “coparenting” for some time). (I implore you to read all of the comments!)
Yes, when I sit back, I like to think of this blog as a string of letters to a tribe of super smart, highly motivated, extraordinarily empathic women who are navigating all the complexities of adulthood right alongside me, cheering me on, chastising me when I need it, passing along a gentle suggestion or a fervent tip — but usually head-nodding gamely and reminding me that I am not, ever, alone. Even if I don’t hear from you in the comments or via email, I feel your presence and think of you always when I am sitting down to write. When I edit my longer-form pieces, I read through the prism of your anticipated reactions. “But what would someone going through x think of this?” and “But if I were to play devil’s advocate here, what…?” It’s in a sense a peculiar way to understand myself and the world around me — sort of like journaling, in public — but it always, without fail, affords me perspective I desperately need as I engage in the serious work of self-definition as a 30-something woman, with all the roles that label entails.
+Similarly, I saw a lot of “high-necked” ballet flats, i.e., ballet flats that don’t show any toe cleavage. I am not sure how I feel about the shape, but they are very on trend. I’m intrigued to the point of considering these Mansur Gavriels, which you can monogram with the coolest shadow lettering!
+This gown is $128 and SO CHIC for an autumnal evening affair.
+At the opposite end of the spectrum: this gown is also SO CHIC for an autumnal evening affair, but will set you back a cool $825.
