I hate doing “touristy” things… especially in my adopted hometown of Chicago. I try to avoid crowds like the plague (except if I’m trying to score a really great deal on December 26… you know I like to shop), and since I don’t celebrate Christmas I can’t help but find that this time of year gets overly bogged down with jingly songs on the radio and altogether too many bad drivers heading downtown to do all those touristy things I try to avoid.
However, since we’re a little Chicago-bound this year because of the newborn, (Although I’m totally regretting getting sucked into flu scare so much to cancel any thought of traveling until the kid is like 15 or something.) I figure I have to bite the bullet and do a few things for my older son that would otherwise send shivers down my lululemon-clad (yes, still wearing it all) body.
Like eating at Ed Debevic’s tonight. Where I found myself honestly saying, “Honey, please eat your chicken finger. Please.” Like it was some sort of vegan tofu patty chock-full of vitamins. I figured it was better than the fries and rice krispie treat presented on the side of it. I even saw some meat in there.
Or, graciously accepting my friend Kim’s offer to go to the top of the tallest building in the Western Hemisphere because I’m not afraid of heights or anything and I thought the little man would enjoy eating a cookie 103 floors up. I was right. And I was so proud he spotted our health club from the top of the Willis (Sears!) Tower. He we is are seriously sheltered.
Look, mommy! The eliptical!
But in all honesty, when you have the time, are a little bored, and have friends that will motivate you, being all touristy in your hometown city can be rather exciting. I even have grand plans to take the kids to the Modern Wing of the Art Institute next week. It’ll make me feel a tad better about having worn a paper hat all night.
Happy Holidays to all!
My worst fears have come true — people are pitying me for having two boys. It’s like a Pavlov reaction when they find out I also have an older son:
- A look of disappointment washes over their face.
- They immediately say something ridiculous like, “oh, you have your hands full!” (Doesn’t anyone with a newborn have his/her hands full?)
- Then the clincher – “so, are you going to try for a girl?”
I didn’t think there was any reason for me to feel anything but joy until someone told me that having two boys is like the worst possible parenting combination. You should have seen the eye roll the woman at the hair salon gave me on Saturday when I told her I just had my second son.
What’s the big deal? So I won’t paint any walls pink. So I won’t know the names of all the Disney princesses. Oh my, what will my life be like without Ariel, Belle and Cinderella? (Oh cool, I do know the princesses’ names.)
I know plenty of moms who have “just two boys” and seem to be doing fine. But I know some people who aren’t fine with it. Like a friend of mine’s wife who cried when she found out she was having her third boy. Or one of my babysitters, who has two boys and insisted I try for that beloved “girl.” Girls are easier, she said. Really? I think easy is based on the kid, not the gender, but that’s just me.
Or what about that recent episode of 30 Rock where Tracy Jordan kept begging his wife for a third baby, a GIRL. That’s the other thing that bugs me, just because you have two boys and want your third child to be a girl, it doesn’t mean it’s going to necessarily work out that way. Well, unless you live on TV.
However other people may feel, I’m embracing my life of testosterone. I’m looking forward to a house filled with scraggly hair, dirty fingernails, bellowing voices and stinky socks. Assuming I’m totally finished having children (which at this point seems like the likely outcome), I’m only really going to feel bad when no one will go with me to see bad chick flicks. But then again, that just means I won’t have to share my popcorn.
My first night out with the ladies since having #2 consisted of a few more firsts:
- The first time I used a breast pump in public. Well, if public is considered in my husband’s car while parked on Belmont. That’s public enough for me. He kept psyching me out that everyone walking out of Potbelly was looking at me. Needless to say, I will not be repeating that first again any time soon.
- The first time I showed up at an event where I was a guest of main attraction. My name looks good in lights, er, on a printed program. (You can see the photo story here, hopefully the video soon, too!)
- The first time I read something I wrote to a public audience. Will probably be the last, but I’m glad at least a few people I know laughed. (Thanks to momtrolfreak for the photo.)
The first time I put on real jeans since giving birth.
- The first time I actually felt like a legit writer. Among already established writers. In a book that I’m proud of and think is absolutely hilarious. (Hint, hint buy it!)
