My friend's five-year-old made a funny request. She repeatedly asked that I send a picture of myself to her mother's phone. I didn't ask why, as I generally oblige when children politely ask for things, regardless of how random the request may be. Like a good-for-nothing adult, I kept forgetting to send it, so after she brought it up for the third time, I pulled and texted this one, the last picture I took of myself from some time ago earlier this winter. I was trashed from little sleep, on FaceTime messing around with the phone, clearly reacting to something that made me uncomfortable.

I should ask that little girl what she plans to do with this. Kids know how to do all sorts of things on iPhones these days. Will she PhotoShop out my mole? Will she crop my head onto a Disney Princess? She's pretty fond of that Disney Frozen movie. We once watched the same four YouTube movie clips on repeat for an hour straight. That is an hour that I will never get back, but if we're going to talk about return on investment, watching her two-year-old brother belt out the movie's theme song at the most random of times is priceless.

It's been really nice to be around children again. That they are my friends' kids is a double perk. They never fail to energize my spirits. They are wonderful little things, busy being honest and real. As lovely as they are, I have been making a concerted effort to limit my time with them and their parents. They welcome me openly in their home, but I quietly straddle that fine line, wary of that one day when they will surely have had too much of me. As all my friends now have life partners and kids, I try to be sensitive to the family unit dynamic, recognizing that life is busy all the time, and that they only have so much time to spend exclusively together. So, I make appearances regularly enough, but make sure to build in breathing room, too. It's been a few days, which means that I'm due for a live musical rhapsody performed by a certain toddler. I can't wait. It's the sweetest thing in the whole wide world right now.

Tiny Man

Philadelphia.
8:51 am. 8 June. 2013
What sound does a cow make?
Mooooo!

What sound does a dog make?
Woof woof!

What sound does a cat make?
Meow.

What sound does Michael Jackson make?
Hee heee!

I gotta hand it to your parents. That one was clever.

:D

I can still see your chubby index finger pointing at the cupboard, your blond head tilted just so, while you earnestly asked, "Coooooo-key?"  "Coooo-key?"  Those stinking, pleading, blue eyes would pull me in every time.  I'd come this close to giving you another cookie, before stopping myself knowing full well that your parents would wonder why you were so wired instead of sleeping when they got home.  When you finally learned the difference between pointing at something and bleating "neeeeeed?" and pointing at something and bleating "peeeeez?," well, that was it.  I was done for.  You had your babysitter, a sucker for good manners, wrapped around your little finger.  It's a good thing I'm Asian and know how to draw the line.  Until, of course, you batted those blue eyes at me again.  Damn those eyes.  If I didn't know that it's genetically impossible for my own children to have blue eyes, maybe I wouldn't find them so mesmerizing, eh?

I don't know you anymore, what with the distance and the time that flies and all, but I still have fond memories of reading you stories while you patiently turned the pages, scolding you for sitting on the cat when you were old enough to know that was bad but couldn't talk yet, and how, even before you held the bottle on your own, you drank that milk with more gusto than any kid I knew.  You were a terrific baby.  Do you know that my sister would stop by to say "hello" occasionally?  She didn't even like babies.  You guys made her nervous with all your wiggling and nonverbal-ness, so it took her a while to become a fan.  But you, she took to you pretty quickly.

If you're anything like your parents, I'm sure your Mad Libs antics are straight up witty.  Your drawing looks just like the city.  It is spot on, little dude.

I'm going to stop acting like a weird old woman now.  I just wanted to remind everyone that babies grow fast.  One minute they're hobbling along like drunken sailors and the next minute they're drawing urban skylines and signing their names on thank-you cards.  And do you see the ":D?"  Crazy.

Lucy

There's a baby named Lucy who lives on the UWS.  I had last seen her mom when she was four months pregnant. I finally met baby Lucy at a barbecue in Brooklyn.  Lucy was eleven months at the time.  One parent Irish and the other Japanese, she was a beautiful child.  Her plump rolls and dimples made her even more darling.

I had heard from friends that this baby was absolutely head over heels in love with herself.  Skeptical of their assessment, I sought evidence.  I plopped Lucy in front of a full length mirror.  Sure enough, when she looked up and caught a glimpse of herself, she smiled widely and crawled up to the mirror, never once looking away.  She pulled herself up and stared intensely at her giggling face.  They were right: girlfriend could not get enough of her own reflection.  She was smitten.  I still didn't believe it, so I pulled her away to play elsewhere.  When we returned to the mirror a half hour later, I tried again.  And there she went off again, wholly consumed by her pretty little face.

For this hilarious habit, someone cleverly dubbed her Narcy Lucy.  nar'-see loo'-see.  I love it.

Little Miss Narcy Lucy, as you pass through your id and ego phases, may you always find yourself as attractive and enamoring as you did that summer afternoon so long ago.  Many girls don't find themselves very beautiful by the time they reach adulthood, but you, something tells me that you'll always see your own beauty.  Little girl, it seems as though you came out of the womb knowing what's up.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with that.  Nothin' at all.

Oh, Me

Listen.  I know it's weird how stalkish this might seem given that I don't know this little boy or his family, but let's get over ourselves, shall we?  This is what the blog world has come to be - "getting to know" people who choose to share parts of their stories online.  You might never exchange a single comment or e-mail.  Sometimes, there might be a flurry of back-and-forths.  Sometimes, you might even meet up in real life to find out that the human behind the online persona can be pretty fantastic live and in person, too.  Whatever the relationship, it's fine.

In love with this father's images of his children. {+}

Anyway.  I've mentioned this guy's photos before and I'm doing it again today because my jaw is sore from all the uncontrollable smiling while admiring this shot.  Look at this kiddo.  Just look at him.  What I'd give to be so full of pure joy and glee once again.  What a way to start a Monday.

I Don't Think I Want Children

This post is all over the place, but that's ok, because when it comes to this topic, I'm sort of all over the place.

Father with daughter.  Cutest thing ever.

Madison Square Park.  May 2012.

Seriously.  I've thought about it for almost five years.  I go back and forth on the subject but almost always, I talk myself out of it.  It's that I'm too emotionally unprepared, that I'm too stubborn, that I'm too immature, that I can't even figure out how to have a relationship with my mother, how will I ever manage the humility and grace required of allowing a grandchild to grow a relationship with her grandparents?  Ironically, I know that I am maternal enough; it's the other things that have me wringing my hands (internally, of course, because, um, have we met?).  Admittedly, while I typed the words of this post's title, and now that I see the words on the screen, things are still a little hazy.

There was a turning point for me this past fall.  I was at a work function chatting with someone when, as an aside, she said, "I'm not having children" and then continued on her merry way with the rest of her story.  I looked at her as my brain processed her words.  Her statement was so resolute.  She didn't even flinch.  So finite.  So matter-of-fact.

It was refreshing.

I thought, what personal narrative could this woman, someone my age, someone far more successful and caring, someone whom I thought would make for the perfect mother candidate, have that would bring her to decide so progressively on motherhood?  I had heard of the notion before, but hadn't met anyone who was so comfortable and self-assured with her decision that she openly carried it into and out of conversation.  Part of me was sad, thinking that a mini version of this woman would actually be a gift to the world.  She was completely ok with it.  Just like that, a little magic wand appeared and twirled atop my head.  Was I in the same boat?

The reasons I left Philadelphia were many, but none of them were as compelling as the fact that our baby brother had finally graduated high school.  It was the summer of 2007 and he had been living with me since his junior year.  Ever heard of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air?  It was a little bit like that, only the bad influences were our parents, not his neighborhood peers.  And instead of moving into a mansion with his rich aunt and uncle, he downsized into a small apartment with his modest income twenty-something sister.  Things had spun out of control by the time he arrived at my place.  When it was all over and he had his diploma in his hands, I submitted my resignation to the greatest boss I ever had, sold all my furniture, and moved here.

I learned so much about myself during that time: what true friends did; what loving people did for one another; how good, compassionate people handled trying situations.  It really lit up humanity for me.  Humans are amazing.  Really.  One of my greatest lessons was that I don't have the spine to be a lifelong single caretaker.  It is, to put simply, not for the weak.  And I am exceptionally weak in more ways than one.  I can hold myself up, but only by a thread.  And so I decided, if I can help it, I will never choose the path of single parenthood.

Since then, this line of thinking has morphed into, well, maybe I'm not cut out to be a mother at all.  Coming from the girl who had planned on seven children (four biological and three adopted!) this is a complete one-eighty.  I'm still shocked.  Ultimately, because I don't want to go at it alone, my choice will be navigated by my partner.  I'm not blind to that.  I trust that he'll steer me in the right direction, whether that's with child or without.  Poor guy.  Taking me on sounds like a lot of work.

Prime

Get outside. Right now. Put down that contract, minimize that Excel spreadsheet, set your office line to voicemail. Do it.

I just stepped out of my office and it is fabulous out there, people.  The wind is a spot chilly, but the sun is beating down. Sunglasses are a must. I'm wearing cashmere and jeans and it's all almost too much, this perfection. What we have here is prime Julia weather.  Prime, I say!  I'm a little bummed that I'm scheduled to be indoors until sundown today, but you can't win 'em all. No big deal.

Also, what is it about little Asian babies that make them look like 90-year-old grandpas?  The crusties under his nose are classic.  Sorta.

Philadelphia. September 2011.

My Heavens, Twins

The caption to this photo is "Five seconds later, skepticism turned into crying." Does this make anyone else want to giggle and find a baby to hug at the same time?

I don't know who this dude is behind Humans of New York {+}, but he has been making me smile at least once a day for the past week. His work screams funny, engaging, and kind - three of my favorite traits in a person.  Love him.  Wanna meet him.  Note, by the way, that I have no idea if the author is male or female.  Ha.

Also, um, his kid shots make me ache just a little bit all over...I miss children.  I know this sounds supremely cheesy, but they truly are the sweetest things on earth.

Image from {+}

Dance, People

I was so pleased when the berth across the way cleared out leaving a nice empty space to admire through Pablo. Then this guy came waltzing through. Instead of walking through and out of my frame, he had a little dance party right smack in it.

Bring it, guy.

I envy those who can get lost in the music wherever they may be.  You know how people say "I can't dance?"  Not true.  Observe any one-year-old.  Turn up a tune with a heavy beat and watch.  Their little body will bop.  It might not be so obvious, but keep an eye on their head, or their hand.  It won't be to the beat, but it will be there.  Then do the same with a toddler who's learned to walk, but maybe hasn't quite mastered their trot quite yet. Watch how they are clearly hearing the beat, feeling the beat, just haven't quite yet figured out how to move to the beat. Their little tush will stick out just so.  Some limbs will wobble.  There will usually be some leg-stomping or knee-bending.  There will surely be some seemingly random, awkward bops of the head. They might even lose their balance.  The child might remind you of Elaine on Seinfeld.  It might not be easy on the eyes, but they're dancing.  Because everyone can.

Brushing Teeth Can Mean A Lot of Things

A Year

My last night was the night before Thanksgiving.  It was frigid, about forty-some degrees, but the other nanny insisted that we bring the kids down the street to admire the balloons being inflated in preparation for the next day’s parade.  [Yes, there were two of us for two children.  I thought it was unusual and odd at first, too, but with the schedule the children kept, it was helpful to have a nanny dedicated to each child.  A privilege, for sure, and some might even say excessive, but if you had the resources, wouldn't you consider it?]

Nanny number one took her favorite kid (it was so obvious, her awful preferential treatment, that I'd frequently catch myself feeling very embarrassed for her) and I took the other.  We hustled down Central Park West and jammed ourselves in the flood of people patiently following the route along 77th and 81st Streets.  As I had anticipated, we got separated pretty quickly.  So, for most of the time, it was just me and my charge.  I carried her, the almost-four-year-old, in my arms.  This way, she wouldn't miss Snoopy, Hello Kitty, and SpongeBob.  Plus, there was that small possibility that she might have been trampled.  It was terribly crowded.

Our employers, the parents, were taking the kids out to dinner sans hired help that night; a super duper special treat for the children, which meant that we had to rush home, bathe, dress, and coiffe the kiddos before the parents picked them up.  The toddler kept untucking his button-down from his pants.  He wasn't too keen on his suspenders either.  His sister insisted on a pink dress because she had received the memo that pink was the new black.  Any other color?  A tough sell.  Then there was the lunch bag we had to fill with their miniature utensils, organic milk, vegetables, and fruit.  Not that the parents were able to get the children to touch vegetables or fruit when their nannies weren't around.

Tonight, on the way home.

9:48 p.m.

There are plenty of days when I miss being around children.  I miss the chattiness of the little girl I nannied.  Accustomed to having a companion at all times, I'd send her to the bathroom to do her business alone to try to break her of this habit.  I'd inform her that I'd be over in just a little bit.  After settling atop the toilet, just seconds later, she'd call, "Julia?"  "Yes, is everything all right?" I'd ask.  "Yes, but do you think we can chat a little?"  That cracked us adults up every single time.  I hope she's learned to use the bathroom alone by now.

I miss her little brother chanting my name when he woke up in the mornings.  "Joooooooleeeya, Jooooooooleeeya, Jooooooooleeeya!" which would eventually clip to a more succinct, "Jooleeya, Julia. Jooleeya?  Julia?  [Brief pause.]  Julia?" when I wasn't there to respond.  It was like music to our ears to hear him so clearly enunciate any word.  It took him a long while to start talking.  His vocabulary consisted of less than ten words, of which none were the other nanny's name.  I don't think she liked that.

Which brings me to the fact that there are plenty of other things that I don't miss about nannying: the chapped hands from handwashing dishes and bathing every night were one thing, but the troubling uncertainties I carried home with me every night were another.

Tonight, instead of leaving farewell gifts (books, of course) for children that made me laugh, and fret, and smile, I filed some manuscripts away, turned off the lights at my desk, shut down my monitor, and left the office a little early.  Funny how things can change in the span of a short year.

Keeping On (I Could Have Made A Baby In This Time)

I am nine months and sixteen days into my tenure with my current company.

When I gave an UWS mom my two-week notice last winter, I had no idea what was next.  It was almost absurd, the situation I was creating.  It wasn't just that I had turned down a salary and benefits (as wild as it may sound, the niche private domestic industry in Manhattan offers fair income potential for career nannies), it was that I didn’t know exactly for what I was leaving the security of a paycheck behind.

My brief parlay into the world of Manhattan nannying?  It reminded me of just how much I missed children.  They are punchy, they are raw, they are wise, they are delicate, they are in-your-face reminders of nothing less than the complex human condition.  Taking care of little ones is exhausting, eye-opening, and profound.  It's serious business.  But these children were not mine and a year from then, what would I do?  Keep nannying?  Where would that bring me?

I remember thinking, so this is what it feels like, to bury my practical sensibilities for the glimmer of hope that there is something out there that is better for me even though I have no idea what that might be.  I didn't doubt for a second that it was the right thing to do, to end the nannying gig, but accepting the unknown was hard.

I couldn't shake the ego-bruising thoughts.  Was I dooming myself to a land of temporary receptionist work?  Would I be content with free Pinkberry if I were to join the lucky ranks of teenage frozen yogurt servers?  Would I inevitably move to some commune to lead a simpler life that didn't require income?  Would I be stuck forever in this maddening limbo?  No, I told myself.  I simply could not allow that.

Somehow, exactly one week to the day I had worked my last hour with the kiddos and said goodbye to their Central Park West doormen, I started with my present employer.  I had my own e-mail account.  I set my ergonomic chair to the lowest setting to accommodate my short legs.  I received a recycled security card.  I was Ron for a few weeks while the system took its sweet time updating its records.

After days bursting with children’s songs, indoor pools, play dates, and playgrounds, reverting back to a cubicle setting with fluorescent lights and humans taller than three feet - it was truly comical.  But it worked for me.  The work suited my detail-oriented nature, my Excel skills benefited me greatly (even in publishing – didn't see that one coming!), the environment deemed jeans appropriate, and most importantly, the team was pretty swell.  I worried that I wasn’t learning much per se, but I was, at least by way of familiarizing myself with the industry’s products, acquiring some new knowledge.  The work never ended.  There was always some deadline to meet.  I practically skipped to work.

So here I am reporting nothing remarkable, just ordinary and common.  On those days that I feel low for having joined a new industry in an entry-level position just shy of my 30^th birthday as so many people around me have blazing careers, start families, take vacations on a whim, and buy million-dollar apartments, I have to work at keeping it real.  It's hard, but I stay the course.  I refuse to take for granted all that's transpired since last winter.  It's a bit of a privilege to have this kind of humbling experience, I'd like to think.  In the end, I'll be a stronger person.

Nine months and sixteen days into it, I'm keeping on.

For Brooklyn

I was nothing but unimpressed when celebrities started naming their kids after New York City boroughs.  Thanks to the trend, if I ever have triplets, I might have to name them Prince, Edward, and Island.  That Anne, after all, was one of my all-time favorites.  Was.  Well, not exactly.  My face still kind of lights up if anyone brings up Gil or Diana.  Or raspberry cordial.

Children's names are on my mind because there's a brand new little girl in this world and her name is Brooklyn.  No, not Brooklyn because it's a hip borough; Brooklyn as in her parents lived in Park Slope for years before moving to a white picket-fence house in one of the fairest suburbs of Connecticut.  I guess their time in Park Slope holds a great deal of meaning to them.  Plus, I hear Brooklyn can be sliced into two nicknames: Brook and Lyn.  I dig it.

As I have joyfully done these past few years for all the new lucky little girls born to the amazing women I know, I made Brooklyn some personalized stationery. I think there's a part of me that was meant to be a preschool teacher.  I love stamping pretty paint onto paper.

All the Way from Japan

I have no idea who these people are and you can bet they don't have a clue who I am, but man, I have never crushed so hard on anything Japanese before I stumbled onto this site.  I love me some Hare Tokidoki Haru {+}.  The moments he captures on camera are so candid and simple and precious.  For the past year, every time I saw Japanese letters appear in my Google Reader, my eyes have lit up.  I can't get enough of his work.

Most of the shots on his site are centered around these two boys.  Since Google translates the captions of his sweet photos like "ほら、はるみながゆくよ!" to "Look, everyone will die much!", I'm pretty much stuck in the dark about the artist's commentary.  Luckily, the images are visually engaging enough that I'm perfectly content soaking in the happiness caught through his lens.  All the while, of course, I'm wistfully wondering if my future children will be anywhere near this darling, happy, or cherubic.

All images from here {+}.

Thirty-One

I'm looking at the clock on my desktop and it's telling me that it's the last day of November.  We have one month left in 2010, girls and boys.  That's thirty-one more precious sunrises; thirty-one more city sunsets; and for some of us ladies, perhaps just one more round of bloating, cravings, and cramps (sorry, fellas).  And then?  The big one-one-one-one (1/1/11 - see how that works?).

This all means that there's only one thing left to do: Make each of those 31 parts of December count.

Bethesda Terrace, New York Central Park
2:54 p.m., Sunday, November 21, 2010

For starters, I concluded my stint as a Manhattan nanny last week.  I had what one would call a tremendous learning experience, one that reminded me of the goodness and sweetness of children and the blazing powers of nature vs. nurture.  I played for hours in icy cold sprinklers, lectured way too often on the merits of soft poopies over hard, and logged several hundreds of miles pushing a stroller with one hand, the other clutching half a dozen balloons or a bulky art project or umbrella about to flip inside out caught in an UWS wind tunnel.  Good times were had.

I can tell you one thing for sure: nannying sure beats sitting in front of a computer formatting pivot tables to analyze sell-thru results on how much overpriced wrinkle cream sold at Bergdorf Goodman last week.  I mean, who has money to blow four hundred dollars on two ounces of something that costs less than twenty to manufacture, package, and ship across the Atlantic?  Idiots.

End digression.

And now I've accepted an assignment as an editor at a publishing company.  I know!  Those of you who have followed my story are probably scratching your heads, but trust me, it's not entirely random.  It makes me laugh, really, how wacky my personal journey has been so far.  It twists and turns with very few road signs to direct the way, but it's my road, my very own path, so here's my attempt to stop the fretting and embrace it.

When things are slow, it makes you wonder exactly how much you'd feel if you threw yourself in front of the oncoming three train; but when they're moving, there's no time to wonder or think.  You just say "yes" and move forward.  And if you're anything like me, you pray, second-guess yourself, pray, second-guess yourself some more, and then pray some more.  I pray, I pray, I pray.  I do, I do, I do.

Day 1 of 31 is tomorrow.  Let's make it count, friends.

Out Of The Same Pie Hole Last Week

It's hard to believe that the same three-and-a-half-year-old who nonchalantly announces while coloring Dora, "I smell something yucky but I didn't poo-poo or fart" (there was broccoli on the stove for dinner) would whisper into my ear less than twenty-four hours later, "Julia, I feel like taking a match and lighting you up all over."  I asked her if she knew that that would be very painful and would hurt me THIS much?  As I sadly suspected, she nodded in the affirmative.

I refused to cringe when her impish smile stayed stubbornly plastered across her face.  It's downright scary witnessing firsthand the nasty limits of a growing child's mind.

And while I remain calm and even-voiced through all of the little girl's ups and downs, it shakes me the most when I think of her future.  Money can buy a lot of top-notch nannies and individual care, but there's a whole lot more that goes into grooming a quality miniature human being than that.

Pucker Up

Upon command, she'll {+} give a hardcore quality kiss replete with a joyous smacking sound effect.  You know the good, wet, pucker-up kind?  One landed on my nose yesterday.  Tasty, I'm sure it was, given my salty unwashed at-the-end-of-a-summer-day-spent-walking-around-the-city face.

8:25 a.m. Philadelphia. May 7, 2010.

The only thing cuter than this would be...

...one green Croc on the left foot and a purple on the right, each replete with rhinestone Croc accessories.

"...Her First Kimchee"

Button noses and chubby legs?  Awesome.  Bubbling fits of laughter and sudden bodily gas emissions?  Pure joy.  Babies sure rock our world, don't they?

There's a little one very busy sleeping, eating, pooping, and burping in Pittsburgh these days.  According to this little note that was waiting for me in the mailbox this evening, it seems likely that by the time she masters her chopstick skills, we'll happily eat kimchi together.  That time will come sooner than I can blink.  It seems like it was just yesterday when this little girl's mother slurped up her first bowl of spicy Korean ramen straight from the stove of my on-campus apartment.  My little sister's freshman college roommate proved to be a true champ that day having no problems tackling kimchi with her noodles to boot.  That was more than ten years ago.

Time is a pushy thing.  It just bumps you right along without a care in the world.

If You Can't Afford A Babysitter, Beyonce Can Help

Edit::Update::09/28/2009
Well, it looks like Cory's parents are capitalizing on their little dancing star. They have disabled the embedding url link, although you can still click on it to watch it on YouTube. You can go to their official website www.singlebabies.com where - wait for it - you can donate to Cory's baby bank! Hooray! As of this update, I see four of five spaces dedicated to advertising blank. This is what they call the entrepreneurial spirit, folks.