Labor of Love

Why My House Has Gone to the Dogs

I thought I had been forewarned about everything that would change after having a child.  I knew about the sleepless nights, Mommy brain, the inability to travel light.  I knew that I would have to give up control over so many parts of my life in order to ebb and flow with my newborn.  But nobody warned me about what would happen to my house.

At first, it was hard to tell that there was an infant in the house.  I tried to contain all of Ayla’s gear to her tiny room and the closets.  But soon, the baby sprawl spread.  And spread. 

It started at four months when Ayla was learning to sit upright.  For that reason, we acquired red, blue and yellow playmats and put them in the living room beside the Persian rug.  Soon after, Ayla learned to crawl (off the bed) and since we co-sleep, the “family bed and boxspring” had to go.  Instead of a reasonably elegant bedroom, it is now a mattress on the floor with kid-proofed side tables.  To be clear, the bedroom is now ugly, but safe.

As Ayla’s motor coordination developed, we needed toys—for the bath, for bed, for the stroller, and for everyday play.  On top of the piles of toys, I added books (after all, I’m a writer!)  And because I need some time off to write and cook, we acquired a bouncy chair, then an Exer-Saucer.   Suddenly, primary-colored objects outnumbered the neutral-toned furniture in the living and dining rooms.  Whatever design scheme we might have had was now a memory.  The house was officially kid-themed, rather than Urban Zen or African Naturalist.

But the kid furniture, toys and accessories are only the half of it.  The mess is the part that I find hardest to bear.  After Ayla gained mobility, she spent all day pulling stuff down.  Some call this phase “gravity-testing” because anything that is up will eventually be brought down.  This can happen six or seven times a day. 

I began cleaning the house with a fury, once, twice and eventually three times a day.  I would pick up all of the fallen objects and put them back in their rightful place.  I would vacuum the floor.  Then mop it.  I would dust the counters, scrub the tub and pull all remnants of Ayla’s meals from the floor, carpet and nearby furniture.  The house would stay clean for exactly ten seconds.  But before I could stow the mop, I would hear the crash of Ayla pulling everything down again.

I didn’t know that in addition to giving up my time, my brain, my body and my personal hygiene, that having a baby also required giving up my house.  I’ve been fighting it for ten months but I’m finally ready to retire my broom. 

Why the change of heart, you might ask? 

I recently visited the home of a couple with an 18-month old who just learned to pull the cap off a permanent marker.  When we got home, I turned to Ayla and put our house keys in her hands.  "I give up," I whispered to her.  "It's all yours, baby."  And then, for effect, I dumped out my purse and scattered its contents all over the floor!

Musical Note: My sister introduced me to this hauntingly beautiful version of the song, Ooh Child.  When I listen to it, it actually takes  away the sting of a messy house...

Ooh Child

The First Note is the Sweetest

So it happened.  My daughter revealed to me that she’s a musical genius.  No, really.  I mean it. I know she’s only seven months old.  But I swear it’s true.

Ayla was sitting in her high chair and I was feeding her pureed sunset squash (which I highly recommend…it’s the best tasting squash in the world).  We were looking out over Lake Ontario and the overwhelming expanse of blue fringed with white surf inspired me to sing.  For some reason, I wanted to listen to my Labor Playlist (oh the nostalgia) and let it rip on our SoundDock.

“Ek ong gar”—I sang out.  Since those are basically the only lyrics to the song, I must have sounded like a pro to Ayla.  “Ek ong gar”—I repeated.  It’s a mantra-slash-song—so you just keep singing the same thing over and over.   Then Ayla joined in.  First, she squeaked.  (She was just warming up.)  The she screamed (I call this part, the “opening” of her voice.)  And then, she did the unthinkable.  My seven-month old baby modulated her voice until she could squeal in the same key as the song!  I sung out—Ek Ong Gar. And she joined me at the end—Gaaaarrrr, she sang.

Visions of American Idol—and Ayla as one of the final three contestants—flashed before my eyes.  Then I realized she was too good for pop music.  She would perform at the Metropolitan Opera—Carmen or, even better, Tristan und Isolde.  Or sing an Italian aria with the Los Angeles Symphony Orchestra in front of a sold out crowd.  She would become a musical sensation, bigger than the “big three” in America. She would have the force of Whitney, the range of Mariah and the emotion of Celine. 

The Fetus & the Trumpet Man

It was the beginning of my second trimester—the golden trimester—when the dry-heaving is done and you can walk upright, keep your breakfast down and toss the half-eaten package of saltines into the trash.  I was doing just that when I happened upon an old, scratched up Louis Armstrong CD beside a garbage bin that looked unplayable.  It was a bit dirty and the cover was cracked and yet I couldn’t resist that darned CD. 

1-2-3: DISCO!

One of my fondest memories from childhood is the pre-parties that my parents convened in our formal living room.  It was mind-blowing that my mother actually allowed us in this forbidden part of the house.  But that we got to do something in the formal living room, without fear of getting an arm-pinch as punishment, well it seemed a little too good to be true.  The pre-parties were my mother’s invention.  She loves music and dancing.  And when my parents went to a “dancing party,” she wanted my father to warm up a little so that he was mentally prepared for a long, long, long night of boogie-woogie.  For my sister and I, the pre-parties were the closest we’d get to an adult party for at least a decade. 

Labor of Love: The First Birth

When I quit my design job in New York City to start up a non-profit organization for homeless children and youth, little did I know that I was embarking on an act of creation that was not unlike childbirth.  

It was 2004.  New York City was still reeling from the aftermath of 9/11.  We were still at war.  The election was just around the corner and it seemed that Americans were still divided along red/blue lines.   The mood in the country was somber.  I had just returned from coaching a group of homeless youth at a local shelter and was dining with my dear friend Adam Bucko.  Over spicy curry and rice, we hatched a plan to jolt us out of our extended funk.  We would do something bold that brought people together to be creative and to serve humanity, we cried out!