The Elements of Style

Mornings can be tough with little kids. Getting them ready for school and yourself ready for work is a challenge. Moms learn short cuts to save time in the morning: make lunch the night before, put backpacks by the door the night before, and lay out clothes the night before.

Selecting clothes for your children can be difficult if you don't see eye to eye regarding what should be worn to school. Joseph almost never approves of the clothes that I select for him. He has had strong opinions about what he would like to wear since he was two. He is four now. These are the things I have learned about Joseph's style over the past two years:

Joseph hates jeans. Jeans are too scratchy, pinchy, and hard. These are Joe's words, not mine.

Joseph likes elastic waist bands. Joe is a man on the move and active men need to be comfortable.

Joseph likes sweatpants. No, actually, Joseph likes sweatsuits. No, that's not it either. Joseph likes track suits. Like this:

This is not the way I would dress or have dressed Joseph, this is not how his brother dresses, this is not how the other children in his preschool dress, yet this is Joseph's fully realized vision of style. Have I mentioned we live in South Philadelphia?

Joseph likes pajamas. When Joseph comes home from school, he often goes right to his room and changes into pajamas. Joseph has been known to change his pajamas once or even twice in a night. Joseph will happily wear pajamas all day on Saturdays and Sundays. And this past Valentine's Day, his class had a pajama party at school. Joseph reminded me everyday for two weeks that he would be having a pajama party at school. Joseph checked in on the status of the laundry the day before the party to make sure his favorite pajamas would be clean. That morning Joseph heard Jesse and I discussing something loudly, he walked into the room and said, "Mommy, Daddy, please! Please do not fight on my special day. Don't you know that today is Pajammie Day?!?!"

And lastly Joseph likes to look like...

a tiger...

with tiger claws...

and tiger stripes.

This is probably the most consistent aspect of his style. I know this because two years ago I found this little tiger at the top of the steps one morning (five minutes before we had to leave for school.)

And this little tiger came over for dinner just a few months ago.

I think this look is destined to become a classic.

Nope, not yet.

We did it again. When will we learn?

On Saturday, I made a suggestion to my husband that we go out for dinner. The obstacle to going out over the past two months has been our itty bitty baby, but Charlie has proven to be about the easiest, most serene infant I have ever met. He smiles, he coos, he cries a bit when he is hungry, whimpers if he has a wet diaper, and then sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. Maybe it is a false sense of security, but I do not have that underlying fear that something is going to go wrong with Charlie and cause us to turn right around and go home - the explosive diaper, the outfit soaking spit-up, or just plain inconsolable fussiness. So with the baby factor under control, it would appear the family was ready for its first public appearance.

So the next day (because it takes a full 24 hours for plans with a young family to come to fruition), we set out to have lunch at The Pop Shop in Collingswood, New Jersey. I did internet research on the most child-friendly restaurants in Philadelphia and polled friends to get their opinions. One reviewer on Urban Spoon even said, "What a great choice for people who like to have some fun and bring the kids, or just act like one! We discovered after making this choice that they had been featured on Bobby Flay's Challenge for making the best grilled cheese." The Pop Shop was the unanimous winner and our meal there was going to be perfect.

The Pop Shop would be the kind of place that would seat you quickly so you would not have to corral your children in the waiting area for 30 or more minutes answering their unanswerable questions with lies, it would have crayons and puzzle placemats at the table for the kids so the kids would stay seated at the table, the kids would draw quietly instead of unwrapping every set of utensils and banging them on the table or trying to eat salt and pepper, it would have food that our picky, pokey eaters would eat enthusiastically and then William would even ask to try a bite of our meals, it would have food for parents that was not breaded, fried, and smothered in cheese, the food would come out before the kids had a chance to slurp down their chocolate milks causing them to ask for another drink before taking one bite and most importantly, the restaurant would be filled with fellow parents that also understand the challenges of taking young children out to eat. There would be no withering looks of disapproval silently saying, "What kind of a parent are you? You need to control your children." Instead, moms and dads around the room would catch one another's eye and nod empathetically, "I'm right there with you. It ain't easy. You are a great mom and hey, your unwashed hair looks fantastic."

Well, as fate would have it, that is not what happened. We had to wait 30 minutes for a table during which time William and Joseph acted out every battle scene from Star Wars (which they watched for the first time the night before.) Keeping the two of them separated in the cramped waiting space proved to be impossible. I guess it wasn't so bad as they only tripped three servers and Joseph, who is only four, entertained us with impressions of James Earl Jones as Darth Vader. "William, I am your father."

Once seated and strategically separated by Jesse, the boys proceeded to whine about how hungry they were, periodically slumping onto the tables from starvation in between their desperate pleas for food. Their chocolate milks arrived and were consumed ten minutes before their meals arrived. Once their pigs in a blanket and cheese bits arrived, they had lost their appetites and we had to beg them to take each. and. every. bite.

Also notable was the wobbly table which caused Jesse's coffee to spill every time Joseph tried to crawl under the table to get next to William. Jesse ordered the Chicken and Waffles which was sent back because it was an anemic looking platter consisting of one waffle and one chicken strip for $10. Something happened to me when we crossed the Walt Whitman Bridge into New Jersey because instead of ordering a omelet, a salad and an iced tea, I ordered a vanilla coke and this:

This sensible sandwich is called "The Grease Truck." Yeah, that's right. The sandwich's description, Mini Angus beef burgers, foot-long hot dog, French fries, onion rings,American cheese, ketchup, mustard, lettuce, tomato, on a foot-long roll. Served with a pickle and cole slaw, was too enticing for me to pass up. All of my favorite indulgences on a bun (all it was missing was mozzarella sticks and hot fudge.) And, in what consider a victory for women everywhere, I was the first female to ever order it (from my server.)

By the time my grease truck pulled in, the boys had managed to rearrange themselves so they were seated next to one another, Joseph had almost tripped a waiter carrying a pot of hot coffee (inset withering look of disapproval here,) the pigs had been eaten and the blankets discarded, the chocolate milk was gone, the crayons had been broken and the campaign for ice cream had begun. In other words, lunch was over. It was time to go.

Two lessons were learned during this outing. 1) You cannot take two little boys, more specifically brothers, out to lunch and expect them to behave. They are best friends and worst enemies. They turn from one to another in an instant. Just as you would never bring a cat and a dog, a left-wing Democrat and right-wing Republican, or a Phillies fan and a Yankees fan to dinner, you cannot bring four and six year old brothers and expect to have a leisurely, quiet meal. 2) The Grease Truck is not meant to be eaten in five bites.

There is one thing I now I can rely on though. When we go out, I can count on Charlie to do this:

Onions? Are you kidding me?

Yesterday was an unseasonably warm day at 70 degrees. It was the kind of day you would kick yourself for if you did not take advantage of it and get the heck outside. So in lieu of kicking myself, I decided to take Charlie on his first outing. This baby has spent no more than five minutes out of doors at a time. We were hit with a blizzard on the day he was born and it has been snowing ever since. Consequently, Charlie's trips outside have involved running from the house to the car and from the car to the grocery store or the pediatrician.

He loved being outside. See?

The breezes hitting his face really delighted him. He would flutter his eyes rapidly and smile an uncertain, crooked grin. He didn't know where to look first when we were in the park. He would look in the direction of a child's squeals of delight, then in the direction of someone singing on the swings, then in the direction of a little girl ringing the bell on her bicycle. It must of been too much for him - the sunshine, the wind, the noises, the figures passing by - because this is what happened after the five or so minutes he tried to take it all in.

After all he is only seven weeks old and should not be expected to do more than focus on one small object, maybe follow it with his eyes a bit and then fall asleep.

The highlight of the afternoon was our trip to Pat's King of Steaks. Though Jesse and I lived in a tiny apartment right next door to Geno's (the rival steak shop across the street from Pat's), we only go to Pat's. Don't get me wrong, I patronized Geno's many times at about 11 o' clock at night when I was pregnant with William and was frequently eating a fourth meal every day. However, I now hold a grudge against Geno's.

Was it was the power washer that blasted Geno's sidewalks clean and me out of a sound sleep every night at 3:30 a.m.? No.

Was it the drunken Eagles fans that would come to Geno's after a game or when the bars closed and would cheer "E-A-G-L-E-S" so passionately it would wake my baby up? No.

Was the the motorcycle gangs that would patronize Geno's on Sundays with modified exhaust pipes on their Harley Davidsons that were so overwhelmingly loud they made my heart skip a beat and brought tears to my eyes? No.

This grudge is over the one thing that turns neighbors against one another and causes people to flagrantly ignore the laws and ordinances that help keep order in our city - parking. Once the infamous owner Joey Vento had my car towed and reparked down the street, so he could have a parking spot closer to his business. He reparked my car in South Philadelphia when I had a newborn baby and wanted only to have my car as close to my front door as possible. He took my parking spot. From that moment on Joey Vento and Geno's were dead to me.

Anyway, William was excited and was running about a half a block in front of us.

When we got to the window to order, William proceeded to read the entire menu to me. William reads every word he sees aloud. A majority of the menu is variations on a theme, not a list of different items: Steak Sandwich, Cheesesteak, Mushroon Cheesesteak, Pizza Steak. At the very bottom of the sandwich menu you are given three additional options: hot dog, roasted pork sandwich, and fishcake. William of course wanted a hotdog, not a cheesesteak. I told him he could order for both of us when we got to the window, this was the only way he would learn what every Philadelphian should know how to do - order a cheesesteak.

"What can I getcha?" the man behind the window asked.

"Um, I'll have a hot dog with ketchup, please" he said, "My mommy wants, mommy what do you want again?"

"I want a mushroom cheesesteak," I said.

"Mushrooms mommy?," William asked, I nodded, he wrinkled his nose and turned back to the man. "She'll have a mushroom cheesesteak," William said.

"What kinda cheese?" the man asked very patiently.

"What kinda cheese mommy?" William asked.

"Provolone cheese," I said. There are three cheese options: American, Provolone, and Wiz.

"Provolone cheese," William said to the man.

"Wit er witout," the man asked.

"What?" William asked, "With or without what?"

"Wit er witout onions," the man told him.

"Oh, onions. Onions? Are you kidding me?" William said, "Who would want onions? My mommy doesn't want onions."

And he was right, I didn't. I wanted my cheesesteak witout.

These days are precious...

but so darn unproductive. I have been on maternity leave for the past seven weeks after giving birth to my third child Charles Hunter. He is perfect, gorgeous, and healthy. He is the type of baby mothers dream of...a champion nurser, a professional sleeper with a very sweet personality to boot.

I am a working mother with three boys. All boys. All active, inquisitive, loud, mischievous, but loving boys. William is six years old, Joseph is four years old, and Charles is seven weeks old. Before my third pregnancy, I was used to being on the go all the time. This pregnancy forced me to slow down due to several factors: sheer exhaustion, anemia, and gestational diabetes. And the past seven weeks of maternity leave have astonished me in that I have done so little. It is the first time I have been concerned primarily with the care of my baby and not had to return to work in an absurdly short period of time.

I have worn pajamas for full days, consecutive days, multiple days leading into weeks. I have skipped many showers and seen my hair enter the stringy, greasy state and it has not bothered me in the least. I have watched hours of bottom of the barrel, mindless television, mostly of the reality genre. I willingly watched Jersey Shore (J-Woww is hot and Pauly D. is extremely funny), Toddlers and Tiaras (is it legal to spray tan the skin and highlight the hair of a two year old?) and Hoarders (I cannot say anything disparaging about this show, because my home is approaching the disheveled, cluttered state of the houses featured on this program.) I have opted to do grocery shopping at the corner store and 7-11, instead of going to my favorite store Whole Foods to purchase all the necessary ingredients for the meal I plan to cook that night.

In my defense, I have a newborn at home, it has been a rough winter (three major snow storms which led to a parking crises in South Philly) and I have two other demanding little boys to take care of. All of these factors have led to one of the most unproductive periods of my adult life, but oddly I have never been so content. I have held my baby in my arms for hours, slept when he is sleeping, breast fed successfully for the first time, and really feel like I understand what his needs are based on his behavior.

When I try to recount the details of William or Joseph's first weeks, I find that the memories are blurry and inaccurate or that I just plain do not remember. I feel this is because I did not live in the moment with my first two boys - not because I did not want to, but because I had too much to do. I always thought about what I should be doing to keep up with the other aspects of my life. This is unfortunate, but true. And while I still have a lot to do and very soon will have more to do (I return to work in five weeks), I realize it doesn't matter if the floor is strewn with Lego landmines, that we eat hot dogs for dinner twice in one week, that I have been wearing the same bra for three days, that I wore out a razor after one use shaving my legs, that the bag of the boys' summer clothes that never made it to the basement might as well stay upstairs in their room because it is 60 degrees today so that means spring is coming.

These things don't matter. I won't remember them. I will remember Charlie's first smiles at five weeks old with my mom and William sitting in my bed next to me and sunshine streaming though the window, that Joseph said William was his bestest friend and wants me to pick him up early from school so he doesn't have to do math and they can play, that William taught himself how to whistle this week and his teacher sent home a note saying he has been whistling non-stop in school for two days. These are the things I want to remember...

This blog is going to be my means of recording the funny, touching, frustrating events that happen in my family. Writing about these things will help me appreciate what I have and pay closer attention to what is around me.

The name of the blog comes from one of Joseph's patented, original expressions. When he does not like something or finds something frustrating or unacceptable, he says, "That is so darn it!" When he is angry at William, he says, "You are the darnitest brother in the whole city!"