1 // The Tory Burch private sale just started and I’m dying. I feel sometimes this label can be a little bit stuffy for my tastes, but there are so many items I am coveting, namely:
3 // TBBC is running a special promo — $1 monograms and free shipping on orders over $75 with code FALLFUN. A great time to snap up some jammies and put a monogram on them (I mean, these Christmas ones are on sale!!!), or maybe a monogrammed sunsuit for your own micro. I also love giving these sleepsacks as gifts for new moms — and adding a monogram for only $1 makes the gift so much sweeter (and more reasonable for you).
I wrote a few months back about the notion of regret, an emotion largely alien to me because I’ve not had too many ponderous moments of indecision in my life. On further inspection, it’s not clear whether this should be taken as a point of pride, as I had a difficult time coming up with more than one incident in which I felt I was actively choosing a particular path. Life often feels as though it is happening to me, or forcing my hand, or some such trope. Or maybe it’s that I am peculiarly self-assured in my decision-making and have therefore never truly grappled with irresolution? I can’t quite parse it out, but —
I can count major regrets in this life on one hand.
I’d rather not spend too much time dwelling on paths not taken, because, well, here I am and there I am not. And nestled among my daily litany of intercessions? Let me be present.
But.
Something Mary Oliver wrote has been nipping at my heels, in a chapter in which she describes “the responsibility” of living “thoughtfully and intelligently.” She writes: “To enjoy, to question — never to assume, or trample. Thus the great ones…have taught me to observe with passion, to think with patience, to live always care-ingly.”
I am thoughtful by nature, and overly cautious, too. I fret (too much, I think). I do not bear criticism well, though this, in the end, serves me well, as I rarely make the same mistake twice and will carry even the most delicate of reproaches around for years. I remind myself daily to give others the benefit of the doubt when I am too quick to assume or write off or judge. In short, I think I share her idylls for a life lived “care-ingly.” But I realized the other day that I give little thought to “the other paths” I could have taken, the other “mes” I could have been, and sometimes I think this particular lack of introspection (more of a determined aversion, if I am honest, in part owing to my father’s frequent refrain to “keep on moving and never look back” — as he knows I am overly sentimental about the past) is unhealthy.
There are two regrets that surface when I stop to think, and both say a lot about my mindset these days.
The first is my immature, maladroit behavior over the course of the summer prior to my engagement. Oh, how I regret the many opportunities I lost to revel in the young love I shared with my would-be husband and other half that summer. One opportunity in particular stands out, and I conveniently omitted it from my prior post because it leaves me dyspeptic with self-reproach. The night after I threw my purse on the ground and stormed off in the rain, we attended the wedding that had brought us to Richmond in the first place. I was still seething with frustration and hurt. And that night, I would not dance with Mr. Magpie. I still remember the fleeting look of pain and disappointment on his handsome face as I churlishly turned on my heel, leaving him standing alone in his tux on the dance floor. I would give a lot to have that moment back. Because — to be young and unencumbered and in love! And to have lost even a minute of its glory! Shame on me.
The second is a more general feeling of displaced wanderlust. Travel is not in the cards for us for the foreseeable future, and I find myself wistful about the fact that we did not travel together more before we had children, as I now, rather morbidly, think that we missed our traveling prime. By the time our children are in their teens, we will be closing in on fifty, and gone will be the days (I predict) where we are drawn to the idea of traveling on a shoestring, which has always held its own brand of potent and alluring musk for me. I imagine a young Mr. Magpie and I standing underneath the aurora borealis, our breath heavy in the cold night air, or riding on the back of a precarious motorcycle on a frenetic street of Hanoi, or walking, wide-eyed, through a souk. I can already feel my more ambitious readers bristling against these maudlin thoughts: but you can travel with children! but you can still be adventurous in your fifties! but you will find time to travel once your children are sleeping through the night! but, but, but! I pray your counsel prove true and that we surprise ourselves by carving out a week or two of vacation, just the two of us, at some point in the next few years. But I do not think such excursions are likely. Is it pathetic to admit that we could not swing a weekend trip to Charlottesville with some college friends because we found that one month’s notice was too little? O.M.G. But there were long-standing doctor’s appointments, and the fact that we were going to be in D.C. the weekend prior, and the complicated possibility that I should just stay in D.C. during the intervening week while Mr. Magpie drove back up to NY solo so that there would be less car time for the children, but then my parents were scheduled to be out of town and I wasn’t sure I was up to spending a week by myself with the children alone in their house. And and and —
You see? I wish I were more spontaneous and less scheduled to begin with, but children take my overlogisticizing self to a whole new level and I actually stayed up in the middle of one night pondering possibilities to make that Charlottesville trip work. When I admitted this to Mr. Magpie the next morning, he looked at me with bemusement and then said, rather firmly, “Let’s skip it.”
I think we are in the “let’s skip it” mode for some time, something for which other friends have already scolded us, but — this is where we are. And so I regret not traveling more with Mr. Magpie, back when we were (more) footloose and fancy-free.
I am fortunate that these two regrets are relatively frivolous in the grand scheme of things, meaning that in both cases, no permanent harm was done. Mr. Magpie has forgiven me on the first count, and I talk often enough about that night where I declined his invitation to dance that I feel I am sufficiently penitent. And while travel would have enriched our lives, such is the concern of a very fortunate woman. (E.g.: “If only I could have seen the Northern lights,” she swoons dramatically, as her blessings pile up around her.)
But on further inspection, as I attempt to “think with patience” a la Queen Mary Oliver, I also realize that these two regrets are in some ways permutations of the same threadbare concern that eats at me on a daily basis: that I have lost an opportunity to spend my days drinking up the beauty and wonder of my loved ones, and in this case, of my primary loved one, Mr. Magpie. I wrote elsewhere that one life with him is not enough, and I now realize that my principal regrets in this life are a manifestation of that lachrymose observation. How much richer would I be had I danced with him that night? How much fuller would our lives together feel if we had gone on safari that summer, or visited Antartica when he had that chance, or driven to see Mount Rushmore when road trips were an easy-to-plan-and-execute affair?
If you are young and in love, please travel. Actually, if you are old and in love, please travel. For that matter, if you are young or old or in love or not, just travel. Travel when you can and as often as you can swing it.
And definitely take him up on the opportunity to dance.
+There are a ton of fantastic Oscar earrings on sale at Neiman’s — these are ideal for a bride, and these are a perfect addition to any gal’s jewelry box for more formal occasions.
+I have a Kayu tote similar to this (on sale!) and I wear it constantly when I’m without the children. I also get a lot of wear out of my Amanda Lindroth straw “Birkin.”
+Was at a loss as to what to send a good friend who has just bought her second home when I realized — I’ll just send her one of my absolute favorite home products, which is this hand soap. Who wouldn’t love a luxe hand soap in a new bathroom?!
+I did for a minute considering buying her this chic cookbook stand and a few of my favorite cookbooks, but she is one of those uber-minimalist people and I don’t think she likes anything on her kitchen counter…
+I recently shared a few favorite pointelle finds. This is another pitch-perfect piece. The unexpected color! The sleeves!
+These are in my cart, a feeble attempt at convincing myself to commit to a running routine. (I’m taking it slow…)
+This shoe silhouette has been everywhere this season. I think it started with Jacquemus’ architectural heels and then trickled down to lots of other brands, but I especially love the color and style of these (bonus: on sale).
I have been insisting that my Goyard St. Louis tote (the smaller one — P.M. size) will continue to work as a diaper bag for two children, and it’s laughable. I constantly have things laying precariously across its (overstuffed) top. A wubbanub is almost always dangling out. It’s hard to get my wallet and keys in and out because everything is packed in like sardines. I want so badly to travel light around the city, but I’m finding it increasingly difficult when one child is still toilet-training (and therefore backup clothes and wipes are essential — and we’ve also been toting this with us everywhere we go) and the other is so young that I actually need things like a burp cloth, a spare bottle or two, formula, diapers. Add to this the fact that mini has grown increasingly daring and I’ve had a regular need for things like neosporin and bandaids — plus ample snacks to soothe and quiet and preoccupy when need be. And always, in these summer months, a swimsuit (currently wearing these on repeat) for a last-minute trip to the splash pad. Blarg!
I spent a lot of time researching a possible alternate. I knew I didn’t want the larger Goyard because I already feel guilty seeing how much damage my smaller size has endured. It’s borderline sinful to plop it down on the sandy playground floor, or the dirty subway bench, but I do it regularly — and its handles are seriously showing wear and distress. I don’t know that the Goyard is meant to accommodate the kind of intensive wear and tear to which I subject it as a diaper bag.
So, I wanted something a little less precious.
On days where I will have the stroller as a home base, I have been loving my Pamela Munson plaid tote. It’s delightfully roomy and DEEP, goes with just about every item in my summer wardrobe, and coated in an easy-to-wipe-clean material that is borderline water resistant. (I also appreciate its under-$150 price tag.) I like to hook it right on the back of the stroller and it keeps everything easy-to-access. (I still keep mini and micro’s items separate in monogrammed wet/dry bags, and it makes it very easy to access what I need to access.) But. The tote is NOT convenient if you will be parking your stroller anywhere, as the handles are too short to fit over your arm and you will have to carry it on your wrists — trust me, not what you want when you are also carrying an infant and wrangling a toddler.
I also already own and love the M.Z. Wallace Metro Backpack in black, but there are times where a backpack is non-optimal, as I often carry micro in his beloved Baby Bjorn Mini, and it would be too much to wear him in the front with a backpack on the back. I’d rather have a tote I can hang on a stroller hook or tuck into the stroller basket.
So, I have been on the hunt for a roomier bag that costs less than a Goyard and won’t show wear-and-tear too readily. I have been thinking seriously about:
+A hand-painted Corroon (“Big Daddy” size, seen above!) — though I worry about whether the color/fabric options will show wear and tear too easily?;
+A Parker Thatch “Big Easy” (the “Lil Easy” looks just a touch too small, but is the Big Easy overkill? It looks cavernous — I don’t want to look like I’m traveling when I’m just park-bound);
+A L’Uniform tool bag (though this is pretty pricey and I worry I’d be entering the same too-precious-for-heavy-duty-use territory I’m already in with the Goyard);
+The MZ Wallace Metro tote. I love the lightweight, easy-to-wipe-clean material that the backpack is made of, and just the other day, I saw a crazy chic woman wearing Chanel flats, black pixie pants, and a black blouse toting one in gold at the nearby Maison Kayser and she looked incredible. I can’t decide whether I’d want the medium or large, as it’s hard to get a sense for proportion from the website…
+Prada Large Logo Tote. This has all of the virtues of the Pam Munson tote (similar in size and shape, and I like the short handles for hooking onto stroller hooks) — but it also has that lovely shoulder strap! My concern is that I’m drawn to the white, AKA the least responsible colorway to buy as a mom.
Votes? Other late-in-the-game entrants?
Post Scripts.
+Stocked up on a bunch of essentials thanks to the current Sephora promotion (20% off with code SUMMERSAVE if you are VIBRouge; 15% off if you are VIB!) Because I have been growing my hair out this summer (it’s longer than it’s been in years!), I am currently obsessed with this detangling, protective mist, which I just repurchased. I have less time for a full-on blow-out with all the products, so my minimalist routine consists of shampooing and conditioning with the Ouai Smooth duo (love love love these products, scents and all), spraying all over with Prep Rally, combing it out, letting it air-dry for an hour or two (I have so, so, so much hair — it is fine, but there is a lot of it, so it takes hours and hours to fully dry), and then blowdrying it at the very end. This routine makes sense for my currently frenzied lifestyle since I can break up the showering and blowdrying process into chunks and squeeze them in whenever I have time over the course of a few hours. I also, of course, stocked up on my beloved facial cleanser.
+Very intrigued by this chic high chair. I have no complaints with mini’s, whose main virtue is how easy it is to keep clean), but I far prefer the styling of the Lalo…
+These have saved my life more than once. I’m in the throes of dealing with spit-up, pee, poop, yogurt, boogers, all day every day. These are helpful not only for their intended purpose, but for housing soiled items.
P.P.S. I am heading to D.C. this weekend with children and the dog and I will admit I am not particularly excited about the five-hour car rides, but — had to revisit this post after my trip to the Hamptons to remind myself of the small joys that come in any trip with little children.
The other day, I was sprinting along an alleyway that cuts through a city block between 63rd and 64th streets, attempting to shave off a minute or two of transit time as I hastily ran errands in between nursing my son and writing. The alleyway is home to the side entrance of an apartment building on 64th, and there was a car stalled in front of it, occupying nearly the breadth of the alley. I noticed a woman about my mother’s age sliding into its backseat, looking wistfully over her shoulder. On the curb stood a young mother cradling an infant who couldn’t have been older than three or four days. And that young mother was weeping.
I knew, in an instant, what was happening:
This new mother was saying goodbye to her own mother as she set out to care for her newborn daughter on her own.
My heart constricted. Her tears and the need and concern and helplessness I saw in them felt like well-worn grooves in a track I used to travel. I had the decency to avert my eyes, but I longed to say something to that new mom, to that echo of my former self.
New motherhood is dizzying. It is a glut, a surfeit of — well, everything. There is so much — too much — to keep track of and experience all at once. It’s like running a marathon while reading a book and solving a math problem and balancing a ball on your nose and often while attempting to make it look effortless and beautiful. Drink enough water. Vitamin D drops. How much did she eat, and was that at 2 pm or 3 pm? I can’t remember when she last pooped. Doctor’s appointments. Should I be reading to her? Medication schedules. Sterilizing bottles, washing them. How long was her last snooze? Can I give her a pacifier or is that a no-no? Must order more diapers, a size up. Is it OK that she made that noise?Judy is taking her daughter to music classes already? A whole day went by and I don’t think I sang to her once. The Smiths are stopping by at 11. Should I pump now, or wait?Nanny interviews. Is it normal that I am still passing clots? Swaddling. Re-swaddling. Is she too hot or too cold?2 scoops formula for every 60 oz of water.Shouldn’t I have lost more weight by now? Birth announcements. Pain in my left breast — what is mastitis again? Did her SSN card get lost in the mail?40th percentile of weight. Google “jaundice.” Can a baby choke on milk?
My mother carried at least half the burden of these frets during my inaugural two weeks as a mother myself. She taught me many things during those early days, but above all reminded me, in her every word and gesture, of the high standard for motherhood she has modeled my entire life — one to which I continuously and assiduously aspire, even and especially now, two and a half years later — and that standard is all above patience and love.
“This too shall pass,” she said to me, on many occasions.
“It’s a phase,” she would remind me.
But also: “Isn’t she perfect?” and “Ohhh, how sweet,” and all of the tenured mom cooing and crooning that at first felt performative when it came out of my own mouth but that I now find myself reflexively echoing with my second child, all on my own, without her here to model them for me.
But mainly — above all the fracas of infant care, said directly to me —
“I love you.”
How do we survive new motherhood without our own mothers, be they near or far, in this world or the next, down the street or across the country?
I am an extension of my mother’s gestures: her expressions, her instincts are folded in with my own. And I lean on her and all I have inherited from her every day, often subconsciously, often without acknowledgement. Witnessing this tender moment of intergenerational exchange between strangers — one mother’s departure so soon after the arrival of new daughter, one generation removed — and observing the unguarded overflow of love between them brought this to the foreground.
+Loving this double-breasted trench dress situation. I actually have a similar one in heathered navy tweed by Veronica Beard that I like to wear with black tights, black turtleneck, and black pumps in the winter. Tres chic ca.
+These collapsible fabric storage bins have been my BFFs for years now. The greatest way to organize out-of-season clothing in a closet, if you have the space. In my old Chicago home, I bought a dozen of these and had them all lined up on the top shelf, and I’d use a few for sweaters, a few for jeans, etc. So easy and tidy.
+I absolutely love this hand wash. We have it in our guest bathroom and I purposefully use it to wash my hands just for the soap. I’m also drawn to the medicinal-style branding. (This is also chic for a similar masculine aesthetic — for about half the price.)
I wrote about mini’s upcoming enrollment in a twos program and all of the related supplies in a post not long ago, but wanted to share that I ended up buying one of the Oh Mint seersucker lunchboxes from Saddle Stitches (seen above, alongside a Cecil & Lou dress I bought last year but that still fits mini — they run BIG; similar here), a boutique that does the most incredible monograms on the Internet. Stunning, and with infinite permutations!
You’re Sooooo Popular: The Tropical Dress.
The most popular items on the blog this week:
+The tropical dress I wore to our nine-year wedding anniversary dinner at Rubirosa, one of the best pizza joints in NYC. It’s not a fancy spot, but I felt like getting dolled up and so I went for it. (More on this gorgeous label here!)
I had an interesting conversation with my sister, husband, and brother-in-law the other day: What is the biggest turnoff in a member of the opposite sex? Provocatively, Mr. Magpie and I essentially said the exact opposite of one another. (What does that mean?)
Occasionally, there is a chasm between the books mini loves and the ones I do. I tire quickly of most of the Mo Willems books, for example, though mini could listen to Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus ad infinitum. (As a side bar, I’m not a huge fan of some of the messages in his books.) Even clever books with interesting rhymes — ones likePout Pout Fish and Little Blue Truck(both definitely worth owning!) — can occasionally fill me with dread. Both of them run about two or three stanzas too long for my taste, and, if mini weren’t so observant, I’d happily skip a section or two — but she will inevitably point out my “forgetfulness.” Below, I thought I’d share the handful of children’s books I reach for time after time when mini permits me to select a book for our bedtime routine. Note — importantly — that all of these books are great for little children; none last more than a few minutes and most are heavily illustrated. (Who else has tried to read a book with too much text only to have a little paw reach up to turn the page?) Also note that all of these are ideal bedtime books in that most have soothing rhythms or messages about sleep.
Nancy Knows by Cybele Young — a beautifully illustrated book (using hand-folded origami!) that creatively explains memory to children. The writing is lyrical.
The Going to Bed Book by Sandra Boynton — when I misplaced this book, I ordered a replacement copy within hours. This book is blessedly short, covers the basics of bedtime routine, and somehow puts me right to sleep with its closing line: “Rock and rock and rock to sleep…”
Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans — a classic, for a reason. Mini knows this book so well that when I skip a word and look at her expectantly, she fills in the blank. We both love the line about saying pooh-pooh to the tigers at the zoo.
The Rabbit Listened by Cori Doerrfeld — I love how this book explains grappling with emotions and empathy.
All the World by Liz Garton Scanlon — soothing rhymes, beautiful illustrations, and an interesting approach to explaining the vastness and diversity of the world.
Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. Absolutely love the imaginativeness of this book. Mini and I dance and sing together during the multi-page “rumpus” interlude, where there is no text. Plus, the message at the end! It’s a beautiful book in all ways.
Jamberry by Bruce Degen. No substantial message here, but the rhythm is catchy and mini loves the illustrations (and also loves berries, so this is a big hit).
Jesse Bear, What Will You Wear? by Nancy White Carlstrom. This book is quiet, soothing poetry that helpfully paints the picture of the cycle of a day. I love the ending, as Jesse Bear lays in bed: “What will you wear at night? / Sleep in my eyes / And stars in the skies / Moon on my bed / And dreams in my head / That’s what I’ll wear tonight.”
Goodnight, Moon by Margaret Wise Brown. Something about the words “hush” and “mush” puts me right to sleep. My mother used to read this book to me a lot; I absolutely adore it and its epic illustrations.
When I’m feeling a bit more ambitious, we also both love Drum Dream Girl (incredible illustrations and beautiful writing) and Rosie Revere, Engineer — both books with strong messages of female empowerment, and both slightly longer than the others listed above.
What are your favorite bedtime books for toddlers? Please share in the comments! Always looking for new additions.
Post Scripts.
+Absolutely DYING (!!!) over this rug. I think it needs to go into micro’s nursery.
+Speaking of micro’s nursery — dream of wallpapering it with this.
I’ve now had ample time to reflect on both of my children’s births via c-section (the above picture was taken exactly a week after micro was born, and now I am closing in on three months; miscellaneous dispatches from the trenches here), and thought I’d share a few things that surprised me about the experiences, as I know there are many (!) expecting moms reading this blog, several of whom have written to say that they are anxious about the imminence of a birth via caesarean.
A caveat, of course: everyone experiences birth differently. I have one friend who claims the c-section was “a breeze” (insert bulging eye emoji) and that her recovery felt easy. I have another friend who cannot even talk about her c-section without tearing up, even now, over two years later. I fall closer to the latter camp; I found both c-sections emotionally difficult to muscle through and the recoveries, frankly, brutal — but the second one was far, far easier, in part because I knew what to expect, and in part, I think, because my body understood what was happening. (Maybe there was some muscle memory?)
At any rate: 8 things that surprised me about having a c-section.
1 // You lose sensation for inches around the incision because the doctors cut through nerves, and you don’t get it back for months. No one told me this and I worried that something had gone wrong the first time. “Is it normal that I feel…numb? Like, for a huge section around the scar?” I finally asked my doctor. Yes. And it takes months and months to regain feeling incompletely — even up to a year.
2 // One side of the scar can hurt more than the other. This happened with both of my c-sections and the doctor assured me that it was totally normal. I have no idea if this is true, but my sister-in-law (three-time c-section veteran) and I both think it tends to hurt more on the side the doctor stands on because she pulls harder/stitches more tightly while pulling towards where she is standing. At least, this was the case for all of our surgeries — the side the doctor stood over tended to hurt more.
3 // You might shake uncontrollably. For some reason, this aspect of delivery was the most upsetting during mini’s birth. I was shaking so wildly that I felt out of control, and could not have held mini for the life of me. I even had a difficult time clutching Mr. Magpie’s hand. Before the second c-section, I spoke with the anesthesiologists and nurses about this multiple times prior to entering the OR, and they were incredibly kind — they suggested draping warm blankets over my body to minimize the shaking and also taught Mr. Magpie that he could apply pressure to a point on my wrist to help with it. Both did help, to a certain degree, but, as they’d warned me: some of it is inevitable owing to a potent combination of medicine and the shock of enduring surgery. When I did start shaking this time around, the anesthesiologist looked at me with the kindest eyes and said: “Oh SHOOT, Jen. I was hoping we’d avoid that. Here, let’s get more heat on you.”
4 // Related to the above: you can advocate for your own preferences during the c-section. Because a c-section is a surgery, for mini’s birth, it felt to me as though I had to just go with the flow and endure what I needed to endure. With micro’s birth, I realized that I could explain my biggest concerns — that I was anxious about the uncontrollable shaking, and that I wanted desperately to be able to hold my baby the minute I could — and that they would work to help on both fronts. Holding micro to my face just after he was born made the second c-section a million times more bearable. I can’t emphasize enough how big a difference this made and strongly recommend you make the same preferences known!
5 // It doesn’t hurt, but it feels bizarre. I was surprised, during both births, that I had no awareness as to when they had started the surgery. You feel absolutely no pain. They could have been caressing my stomach for all I knew — at least at the start. Then, once they are actively helping the baby out, there is a lot of tugging and pulling happening beneath the blue sheet, enough that sometimes it feels as though you might fly off the table (!)
6 // Your husband is not permitted to be in the room while the anesthesiologists place the spinal. During my first c-section, I was distraught over this. I remember feeling so very alone as I shuffled into the OR with my weird baggy socks and my oversized belly, wondering how long it would take before I could see Mr. Magpie again. Even though the room was crowded with doctors, nurses, anesthesiologists (literally 8 or 9 people attended both c-sections, I think!), I remember staring at the wall of the room with tears in my eyes, willing him to appear at my side. A doctor finally asked — “Did it just become really real?” I nodded vaguely, although it was more that I felt completely isolated during one of the most intense moments of my life. I was better prepared for it this time around and found the nurses much more attentive to my emotional state anyhow — one held my hands and asked me all kinds of questions that I barely had the wherewithal to answer. In fact, I had a protracted conversation about this blog with one of the nurses while the anesthesiologists were placing the spinal! I have no idea what I said. Probably mumbled something about Amazon caftans and called it a day.
7 // You will be asked to drag yourself from the surgical gurney to your hospital bed when you are wheeled up from recovery to your hospital room, within hours of the c-section. I was…astonished that I was being asked to do this because I had just barely regained movement in my legs as the anesthesia wore off, and I was beginning to feel that burny-sharp feeling radiate through the painkillers. But you can and will endure this first step in recovery — the first of many relatively minor though temporarily overwhelming physical challenges as you recover. This, and the fact that the nurses threaten to re-catheterize you if you cannot urinate on your own the first day, loomed large over me as they wheeled me upstairs.
8 // You will get through it–and forget about (most of) it. If you’re anything like me, there will be a day about seven or ten days into recovery where you think, “Oh my God. I will never ever feel normal again.” The recovery feels endless and even though you are making progress, you long for the days when you could laugh or cough without wincing and not have to think for a minute about whether or not you feel up to stooping to pick up your toddler’s toys. I learned to look for the minor milestones: I remember celebrating when I felt comfortable enough to lay on my side in the hospital bed. And then, one morning, I temporarily forgot about the incision. “I didn’t even think about the c-section for the past few hours!” I exclaimed to Mr. Magpie. And we cheered. I turned a major corner at five weeks on the dot. Just the week prior, I had been running around the Hamptons, lifting my toddler when I shouldn’t have, and I felt absolutely awful. I felt so badly, in fact, I thought I might have torn a stitch or something. I told Mr. Magpie I felt I’d regressed to how I’d felt a week after surgery and had to take Advil to cope with the burning. But then, as if by magic, at exactly five weeks out, I felt normal again. And now, at almost three months out, a lot of the details feel blessedly hazy and remote.
But the main thing — the most important thing — the most clicheed thing, but the most true thing — is that
9 // You are able to cope with the unpleasantries of a c-section and its aftermath because you are so wildly in love with and distracted by your perfect baby. There is no better medicine than laying in bed, cradling your squishy newborn. I am weepy with nostalgia when I reflect on those early days with both mini and micro.
Post Scripts: Things that Help with Recovery.
If you are preparing for a c-section or have a girlfriend who is, a couple of things that would be good to have on hand:
+High-rise underwear. I absolutely loved these and especially their soft and forgiving waistband. (Also, not hideous!) You won’t want anything low-rise for awhile…
+Nursing nightgowns. I hated anything that pressed against the incision; loose nightgowns were far more comfortable for me. I love these ones from Gap and actually wore them through much of the third trimester, too.
+Text check-ins from girlfriends. Nothing helps you through the recovery like an empathetic friend.
+Milk of Magnesia, colace, and GasX. Having any major surgery stops your digestive system and it takes awhile to get back to a place of normalcy. God willing, you’ll be right as rain in no time, but I’d have all of these stocked in your medicine cabinet just in case. But my God. This second time, the gas pain was worse than the incision pain at some points. Horrific.
+Chic mules/slip-ons for the first few weeks, when you won’t be able to bend over and tie your shoe with ease. These are so adorable!
+I am so loving pointelle right now. I ordered one of these for mini, am coveting one of these (the prettiest color) for myself, and am contemplating one of these, which has such a delightful innocence to it.
+I had one of these bracelets made for mini as a gift for her when she goes off to school in a few weeks, but how fun would it be to have one of these for me and one made for mini, saying something like “mama” and “mini” or some other personal message?!
+This is marketed as a laundry bag, but I saw it and thought it’d be ideal for a car trunk. We sold our car earlier this year, but I always had random bags and miscellaneous items rolling around the back. What a great way to keep things organized.
Though I ragged on The Falconers in my latest book club post (yikes), I did enjoy the descriptions of New York. Like a true New Yorker, the protagonist vacillates between romanticizing its energy and history and despairing of its endless movement and occasional grotesqueness. At a low point in the novel, the protagonist projects her angst onto the city, writing:
“The world is indifferent and uncaring and New York is its agent of apathy. New York doesn’t give a damn. New York sounds like a choir conducted by the devil. And that’s on a good day. New York will take all your money and all your kindness and all your love and will keep it for itself. There is no return on your investment…New York is an orchestra in a constant state of warming up. It never, ever finds its tune or any semblance of melody.”
I see in this portrait some of the vitriol I have occasionally let fly on particularly bad days, when the worst of New York tends to surface, as though the city has some sixth sense: Aha, she’s having a toughie. Let’s show her our worst, gang. Or, the opposite: when you’re waxing poetic about the city, New York will be sure to serve you up something disgusting. That’s a little too Pollyanna for our taste, lady. Try this instead. On days of either extremity, weird subway juice drips from the ceiling onto my brand new dress, or a cockroach lands on Mr. Magpie’s back, or — as happened a week ago — I witness three strung-out teens shooting heroin on one of the gently sloping hills of Central Park, while children blithely kick a ball to one another just a few yards away. I called Mr. Magpie, distraught, not sure what I should have done. Do I keep moving? Call an ambulance? I had noticed one of the teens was wearing a hospital bracelet — a detail that has haunted me and left me wondering over his wellbeing ever since.
This is New York: the hideous and obscene and disturbing abutting the overwhelmingly romantic and stately. Just head to Midtown: it’s desolate and overcrowded, overcluttered with chain restaurants and filth–but then you’ll catch a glimpse of the Empire State Building or find yourself in a weird state of inward content as you watch the world pass you by, and it feels like magic, or poetry, or something ethereal and out-of-body you can’t quite put your finger on.
Mr. Magpie recently asked me whether I felt more at home in Chicago or in New York. New York was an easy, at-the-ready answer. I loved our home in Chicago but it felt distant from everything I knew: a plane ride away from family, a subtly though distinctively different culture and mentality. Even its landscapes felt foreign: endlessly and expansively flat. I always felt minuscule there, like a tiny pin-dot on a map, the corn-fields and farmlands extending into oblivion over and around me. New York feels narrower and easier to wrap my head around, and the rolling hills that met us as we approached the East Coast for the first time on our pilgrimage here felt like home.
But there is something else, too: in New York, I travel everywhere by foot, and most of my life is spent within a 10 block radius of our apartment. Because of this intense pedestrian-ness, I know every nook and cranny — the spots I am likely to run into dog poop, the stinky trash corners to avoid, the intersections I hate. I know where I’ll be heckled by folks pushing a political agenda or asking for donations, when to stop by the grocery to avoid lines, how to order at Bouchon Bakery in the Time Warner Building (it’s an odd layout). I know my neighbors and the doormen and the barrista at my coffee shop and the cashier at my local Duane Reade and the “regulars” at the playground and the nail technicians at my salon by name and I interact with them all so frequently that I feel braided into the community here in a way I never did in Chicago. We have deeper roots here, too: siblings and cousins and an expansive network of friends and acquaintances I never had in Chicago. Beyond that, blessedly, my parents are now an easy three-hour train ride away.
Still.
I don’t know if New York will ever feel like “home.”
D.C. continues to occupy that spot in my heart and head. If someone asks when I’ll be going home, I reflexively think of my parents’ lovely home in Spring Valley, D.C., and have to do a quick mental shimmy to acknowledge that New York is, in fact, my home at the moment.
Will this change with time? If I stay in Manhattan for, say, a decade — will it then become my home? Home-buying did not transform Chicago into “home,” although I felt comfortable and secure there for a time, so I don’t know that it’s tethered to property ownership. Maybe watching my babies grow up here, plugged into schools and activities and budding friendships and soccer on Saturdays and donuts after Church on Sundays will make this city feel more like my own?
On the flipside, spending a week in the leafy, Suburban-esque bliss of the Hamptons earlier this summer left me aching for space and nature, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I will slowly emotionally alienate myself from the concrete jungle of New York, longing instead for cricketsong and the normalcy of an American youth for my children.
I don’t know. But I can tell you that I feel that life has brought me here for a reason — that there is something brewing here, something important — and that Mr. Magpie and I are determined to take advantage of this incredible town for however long we stay here.
So two years in, I continue to tango with New York, loving it on the good days, telling myself “if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere” on the mediocre ones, and wondering how impractical it would be to up and move our family back to the nostalgia-lined mid-Atlantic on the tough ones. Somewhere in that dance, my two year old daughter informed me, rather haughtily, that we were “in a taxi, not a car” as we zoomed up Broadway to visit a girlfriend; a stranger helped a man up after he tripped over a curb in Union Square; I was nearly run down by one of the furious and insane cyclists in Central Park who are always, apparently, in the midst of racing the Tour de France and have no time for pedestrian walkways; an old woman shoved me out of the way as I attempted to board the Subway; and my manicurist made a point to ask after my son, noting, with accuracy, that “he is two months, right”? It’s a weird thing, the swell and give of this city, the small kindnesses against the unseemly rudenesses, the poignantly personal against the inhumane, the dingy against the magical. At the end of the day, it’s a city of extremes, and, as a moderate in all things, I don’t tend to like living in the poles.
But New York may prove to be the exception.
Because even though New York will knock you down a peg when you’re feeling too good about it, it will also always finds small ways to make it up to you. A conductor holding the door of the Subway car open for you as you race through the turnstiles. The quiet of Central Park on a weekday morning. The elegant stateliness of Lincoln Center, the hush of its fountains temporarily suspending you from the din of the city. The knowing look of a fellow New Yorker as you edge your way around a clump of tourists. The proximity and urgency and thrill of it all.
+I had a lot of questions about a dragonfly mug I posted on Instastory not long ago. It was from our wedding china, the June Lane collection by Kate Spade.
I have a personal shoe addiction. I usually think of myself as a dress splurger, but when I look at my major investments over the past few years, I’ve principally splurged on footwear. Right now, at the top of my list:
Separately, this happens to me routinely: all at once, usually in the middle of a season, mini cannot fit into any of her shoes. And suddenly she’s wearing one threadbare pair day after day as I pretend that we can survive until the end of winter/spring/summer without reinvesting in her shoe wardrobe. Does this happen to other moms?! I’m in the midst of re-upping her shoe situation and thought I’d share how I approach this.
+Fun shoes: I usually have at least one pair of frivolous shoes for her, whether they are in a funky pattern or an unusual style like an espadrille. This season, I had to buy her these because she’s borderline obsessed with Frozen (like every other toddler girl), and I just added these to my cart in the navy. Also, how adorable are these snakeskin t-bars?!
One bonus to a lot of the shoes above is that they can be dressed up or down. I routinely have mini in a dress and a pair of her canvas sneakers — it’s a darling look! — but they can also be worn with shorts or leggings without looking out of place. The same goes for her sandals and even her Mary Janes; I feel like these are versatile footwear that can be worn with nearly anything!
Shoes for Baby Boys.
Finally, micro’s still in the socks-or-bare-feet phase (I love these booties for home — they are the only sock/shoe that ever stays put!), but I am loving these for him as he moves toward official footwear:
+Ralph Lauren — extra 40% off sale with code STYLE. Picked up a few polos for micro ($10 with code) and mini, some leggings (trying to stock up on fall clothes for school), and some sweaters (<<marked down to $34 with code!).
+Gap — great time to stock up on fall basics for little ones. Mini had to have this vest and this jumper (cute over a Peter Pan collar shirt with tights), and micro had to have these overalls!
P.P.P.S. Speaking of good buys: this Doen dupe is a must. Been wearing it constantly!
By: Jen Shoop
I was moved by Erin Gates’ recent post on turning 40 and then — in the fortuitous way in which reading fortifies and amplifies life — found myself reflecting further on aging as I indulged in Mary Oliver’s book of essays (this month’s book club pick). Erin’s struggle with fertility throughout her 30s has been heart-aching to follow. I have many friends who have walked a similar, lonely road and I have seen first-hand the way IVF, miscarriages, and the agony of waiting for a child entirely consume the hearts and minds and bodies of so many women. In her book of essays (at least thus far), Oliver speaks only obliquely about her personal life and often through the prism of the natural world, and we are left to guess at the private heartaches and tragedies she has endured. But she writes from the end of a life satisfyingly well-lived, one with which she has made a deep and abiding peace, and Erin writes from the middle of its busiest season, when some of the biggest struggles of her personal life gape open like wounds.
Reading Erin’s post left me in a state of melancholy contemplation for some time. Even though I cannot possibly imagine the heartbreak she has endured, I felt deeply for her. But I also felt uplifted by her determination to make the most of her 40s — to enjoy herself a bit more as she slopes towards middle age. Her list of resolutions alongside Oliver’s wise reflections as an aging woman made me think about all of the things I want to know more about in this life. Below, a few of them, some serious and others decidedly less so:
+Impressionist artwork. I love artwork from this period but know only the bare minimum about it. I dream of auditing a college course on this. In the interim, maybe I’ll make a point of attending a lecture at a local museum or picking up a book on one of my favorite artists from the era.
+How to unplug. I have tried this in small doses and with middling success.
+Spoken French. I’ve been wanting to take a conversational French class for years and years, and somehow always make up an excuse as to why it’s inconvenient or not worth the price (I was surprised to see how expensive some of the classes were at L’Alliance Francaise!). I was briefly, highly motivated by Jhumpa Lahiri’s decision to learn Italian and write a book in it — just because of the intellectual exercise it presented. While in the Hamptons last month, my friends and I spoke to one another in French all evening (to the best of our abilities) and — yes. I need to continue to exercise the language I spent so many years learning.
+The American South. Mr. Magpie and I occasionally talk dreamily about where we might live if money and careers were no object. We have often mused about trying various cities in the South, drawn to the pace of life, the warmer climate (especially after those five damned Chicagoan winters), the rich history, the vibrant food culture. We recently decided that we would like to explore more cities in the South over the next few years on family vacations as a kind of litmus test for livability. Could we be Charleston people, for example, at some phase in our life? Are we through-and-through Virginians?
+Baking. I’m a passable though ambitious baker. I’ve been known to take on a meringue, an angel food, a souffle — to occasionally wonderful and often mediocre result. But I would like to elbow into this a bit further in my future years.
+Wine. I drink enough of it that you’d think I know more than just “this tastes good, this tastes bad.” But such is the extent of my prowess. I’d love to embark on a more formal wine appreciation program. (A thinly veiled excuse to drink a lot of wine.)
+Whether expensive skincare is really worth it. (I keep going back and forth on this.)
+How to raise happy, healthy, curious, well-mannered children. Currently in a crash course called motherhood but could use additional support.
In short, and in the words of the one and only Mary Oliver:
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
Post Scripts.
+Shoutout to Nicki for reminding me of the Oliver quote above.
+Loeffler Randall has a fantastic end of season sale running. I insist you consider adding these block-heeled mules to your wardrobe. They are perfect (!) for outdoor weddings, can be dressed up and dressed down, and are surprisingly comfortable. I wear my similar Tory Burch Tatiana mules (now only available on eBay) CONSTANTLY. Like, at least once a week. They’re the perfect way to transform a day dress to an evening one and are so easy to walk in.
+Loeffler Randall has a fantastic end of season sale running. I insist you consider adding these block-heeled mules to your wardrobe. They are perfect (!) for outdoor weddings, can be dressed up and dressed down, and are surprisingly comfortable. I wear my similar Tory Burch Tatiana mules (now only available on eBay) CONSTANTLY. Like, at least once a week. They’re the perfect way to transform a day dress to an evening one and are so easy to walk in.
+Also love these and these (I own and adore the latter).
+Mini is going through a major princess phase — she only wants to wear “pretty nightgowns” to bed (just added this one to my cart) and always wants a “pretty dress” during the day. She’s often seen clunking around in these dress-up heels, which I think every girl ever has owned a pair of.
+PSA: Yoox has an incredible collection of baby/toddler Supergas in the cutest patterns and prints (difficult to find elsewhere!) Mini had asked me for a pair of red sneakers, and I finally found a pair in her size here. Also love these and these!
