Posts By: Addie Morfoot

Addie Morfoot is a freelance journalist at Daily Variety and a graduate of the MFA Creative Writing program at The New School. Two years ago, her world turned upside down when she gave birth to her son Harry. She writes about juggling work, school, marriage, and motherhood in the Big Apple.

Addie Morfoot

To Have or Not To Have

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Posted & filed under Parenting.

There is an unfair responsibility that comes with being an only child – you grow up knowing you aren’t allowed to disappoint, you’re not even allowed to die. There isn’t a replacement toddling around; you’re it. It makes you desperate to be flawless, and it also makes you drunk with power. In such ways are despots made.  – From Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

It’s a New Year and that means resolutions! One of the hundred that I’m trying to keep is to read much, much more. Like a book every few days kind of reading. Thank God I picked Gone Girl to start off my year of continuous, every-single-night-even-if-I-have-an-event-to-cover-and-The-Real-Housewives-of-Every-Single-County-are-on book reading project.

It’s a thriller of sorts that my sister recommended. When I read the first sentence of the synopsis – “Marriage can be a real killer” – I knew it was my kind of book.

It’s the kind of book that makes you think that you’re really going to keep up your New Year’s resolution.

I won’t give the story away, but lets just say its about two people – two married people – who begin to dislike each other after just five years of marriage and they don’t even have a child. My husband Ross and I are celebrating our fifth anniversary next week. When I told him that some of the fights (in just the first section of the book) reminded me of our arguments, he told me not to worry. “We liked each other before Harry,” he deadpanned.” What he means is, pre-child we were perfect. Post-child, we’ve had some ups and downs. But because we solidified a bond pre-child, our relationship is unbreakable. Sounds good to me.

In a very crazy way, Gone Girl goes into people having a baby to save a marriage, a concept that I now know is so completely ridiculous I can hardly believe the thought exists. Babies don’t save marriages, they make you work harder at your relationship because, really, how romantic are night feeds at 3 in the morning, continuously wiping poop off a butt, and being spit-up on? But now that Harry is two, I can honestly say that toddlers actually do bring people closer, or at least Harry has brought Ross and me closer. I guess that’s because Ross and I like humans. Little human beings that can say ‘thank you’ (or as Harry says ‘thennn q”), walk up stairs, laugh, smile, sleep for eight hours straight and, best of all, say “I love you” (Harry talk = I luvooo). Frankly, it’s amazing. I can finally say that I get it. I get why people procreate. It took a while, but I finally understand. Hallelujah!

Now comes the hard part. Should we have another one? I promised myself during the first six months of Harry’s life that I would never, ever do it again unless I suddenly became extraordinarily wealthy and could afford a night nurse who would stay at my house for an entire year. But now that Harry is two and I can finally see how incredible he is, I’m thinking with my mind (thank you for that incredible line, Brad Womack) that I should maybe consider another child. Not now! No way. But maybe in a year? Not only is practically every woman who was pregnant when I was pregnant, pregnant with their second, but I’m getting older and Ross is approaching mid-life-crisis mode. I’ve got to make a decision – soon!

That’s what I was thinking last night in bed instead of reading. But then I channeled #84 on my list of 100 New Year’s resolutions: Relax More. After that revelation, I took a deep breath and resumed reading.

Nora on Marriage

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Posted & filed under Parenting.

Having a first child is like throwing a hand grenade into a marriage.

—Nora Ephron, Heartburn

I’ve been reading a lot about Nora Ephron recently. Her death shocked and saddened the entire island of Manhattan, the country, and perhaps the world. I have yet to read Heartburn, her 1983 roman à clef about husband, Carl Bernstein and their divorce, but I did come across the above quote. I couldn’t have said it better, and I’ve been trying for months!

Harry’s only been in the world for a year and half, but it feels like decades have gone by since Ross and I have had a conversation about anything but the little guy. We’ve become “those” people who go out to dinner sans child and talk about their child. I think, or rather hope, that it’s unavoidable. I spent 31 years considering mostly myself, and then one day I was in charge of keeping another human being alive. Not only alive, but educated, well-adjusted and good-mannered. Needless to say, Harry occupies most of my thoughts, and if I’m not thinking about him, I’m thinking about work and/or how to get more sleep. Ross-thoughts have taken a back seat.

Then, last weekend, Ross and I had the opportunity to spend some time alone. We had to fly to California for a wedding, and we left Harry at my parent’s house.

I had been excited about this trip/wedding since my friend got engaged two years ago (pre-Harry). About six weeks into Harry’s existence, when I was getting peed and pooped on, waking up every three hours, and as my ob-gyn put it, “mourning my old life,” my excitement level for the big day skyrocketed. I figured I only had 16-months left before Ross and I could resume our old life together.

What I didn’t realize all that time ago is that by the time our big trip to California rolled around, my adjustment to parenthood would no longer be in the adjustment stage. I’m not saying that now I’m a perfect parent, I’m just saying that having Harry in my life is no longer traumatic. It’s actually enjoyable. That said, I’d be lying if I told you that it was tearful good-bye last Friday when we bid Harry adieu. Ross and I were pretty psyched to spend three whole days with just each other and, of course, our friends. It’s the most alone couple-time we’ve had since Harry’s arrival.

As excited as we were, the car ride to JFK was silent. I chalked it up to the fact that it was 6 in the morning. When we got all the way to the gate though, and still hadn’t conversed about anything save for our departure time and if Harry missed us, I began to worry. I made a few desperate attempts to ask Ross about his work and his friends, but our time at JFK wasn’t like the old days. I was disheartened.

“Don’t worry so much,” Ross said when we boarded. “We just need to adjust to each other.”

“But I don’t want to have to adjust to you.”

Ross smiled at my rebuttal, put his earplugs in, and closed his eyes.

As the weekend progressed, I realized that Ross was right. After 20 months of not spending any time alone with one another, it took a little over 24 hours to find one another again, which was semi-painful, but (once it happened) wonderful.

I figured that after getting hit by a grenade, we were pretty lucky not only to have made it out alive, but to still be in love with one another.

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Posted & filed under General.

Given the mobility of American families (making a nearby grandparent a luxury) and the absence of public day-care options, a significant number of children (and not only those born into the 1 percent) are raised—at least for a few years—by paid helpers.

—Mona Simpson, The New York Times Magazine

I came across Mona Simpson’s feature article, The Other Mothers of Manhattan, in The New York Times Magazine a week after the fact. It’s been that kind of summer. Work is frustratingly slow and, though that gives me more time for other types of things, I’m still lagging in certain departments including fitness, household cleaning, and personal hygiene (I’m in need of a haircut and my eyebrows and legs are begging for hot wax.)

One aspect of my life that has not slowed down however, is Harry-care. If the past 18 months have taught me anything, it’s that motherhood and lethargy are a toxic combo. While I’m not enjoying his new 5:45 a.m. wake-up calls, there is something refreshing about being prohibited from dwelling in self-imposed indolence. There have been some seriously hot and humid days in the last month when I didn’t feel like leaving my air-conditioned apartment, but Harry got me out and under the Fort Greene Park sprinklers (albeit at 8 in the morning). He also had a hand in the discovery of our local, independent bookstore, which we quickly learned hosts a Sunday story hour.

Though wandering around the park and exploring our new neighborhood has been fun, I felt like it wasn’t enough stimulation. So we also signed up for a music class.

For those non-New Yorkers, “music class” means $30 bucks for 45 minutes in a church basement or some random toy store listening to a grown woman or man (guitar in hand) singing some rather odd tunes to a group of amazed toddlers (“Mom, why is this lady singing hello and waving a tambourine above her head?”) and embarrassed adults (“Is this really my life?”).

I attempted to take Harry to one of these classes when he was 6 months old and quickly discovered it was a waste of time, but now that he’s 18 months, I figured I’d give it another try. To my surprise he instantly took to it. He sat still (for once) in my lap and listened to an energetic young woman sing, Hello Harry! It’s good to see you! He smiled, which instantly wiped away the knots lingering in my stomach about the price.

The woman with the guitar then informed us moms that we were expected to participate, i.e. sing, dance and shake with her and the little ones. I laughed nervously and looked around the room for a fellow mortified mother, anxious about exposing her inability to carry a melody and serious lack of rhythm. There was no one!

It was then that I realized I was in a group of what Mona Simpson calls, The Other Mothers of Manhattan, a.k.a. Nannies. The women sitting in this circle didn’t care if they went off-key or didn’t swing their shakers with the beat—they were being paid to be here. As a daycare kid, Harry was unfortunately stuck with me—his self-conscious, musically un-inclined, mother.

I decided to swallow my pride and belt out the words to MODERN ART! MODERN ART!, mimic the sounds of the subway, and then shake my ass to the beat. As I did, I noticed all of the nannies’ impeccably manicured feet and perfectly made-up faces, complete with blush and lipstick. They all smelled like perfume, and no one had a messy bun.

When the 45 minutes came to an end, I strapped a happy Harry into his stroller and made an appointment for a pedicure and a wax.

Addie Morfoot is a freelance journalist at Daily Variety and is finishing her MFA in creative writing at The New School. Last year, her world turned upside down when she gave birth to her son Harry. Every other Monday, she writes about juggling work, school, marriage, and motherhood in the Big Apple.

THE WOODWARD/MORFOOT CONUNDRUM ~ A Rip at the Zoo

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Posted & filed under General.

Having a daughter is a pure romance in itself, where you are in love with your child but completely non-possessive. It’s different to any relationship I’ve had. It’s on a higher level of purity. Closer to divine love. It’s made me aware of a capacity for love that I wasn’t aware I possessed, and that’s one of the few things that make me feel better about myself day to day.

—Jeffrey Eugenides

I recently finished reading The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides, and damn was it good! Now that I’m done, I’m reading every interview with Eugenides that I can get my hands on, and it’s become apparent that the Pulitzer Prize-winning author is a genius—especially when it comes to his child.

I have a son and feel the same way that Eugenides does about his daughter: It’s different than any relationship I’ve had. It’s on a higher level of purity. Closer to divine love.

As I write this blog, I’m watching Harry play with his new Thomas the Tank Engine collection. It’s pretty incredible to watch him learn, before my eyes, how to push trains and build tracks. (For all those non-parents out there, I know that it sounds like pure hell, but I promise, it’s not.) I’ve also discovered that there is nothing I wouldn’t do for him—including a trip to the zoo.

I view the zoo the same way I view changing a dirty, number-two diaper—just something I’d rather not do. I’m not an animal person in general, and I really think zoos are rather cruel. They remind me of visiting a prison, except that the animals behind the bars can’t let you know how miserable their lives are. But kids love animals (I guess), so last Wednesday I took Harry to the Prospect Park Zoo.

After an enjoyable bike ride together up Vanderbilt Ave to Prospect Park, we hit a few playgrounds, splashed in a couple of puddles, and eventually locked the bike outside the zoo. After that, things got rocky.

Harry was hot, cranky, and hungry. Desperate to stop his whining, I hurried off the bike. It was during this mad dash that I managed to trip over the bike’s pedals, fall to the ground, and rip my white pants wide open. In between paying for a ticket and finding a cracker at the bottom of my purse for Harry to munch on, I surveyed the apparel damage. It was a large rip in the crotch area that threatened to expose my blue underwear to the entire zoo and its guests. One false move, or more accurately, one playground snafu with Harry, and this rip would mean a long, embarrassing, left butt cheek-exposed, ride back to Fort Greene with a screaming baby on the backseat.

So I ventured into the zoo carefully.

After looking at some seals, which Harry didn’t care for, we headed to the zoo’s farm. I tried to act excited when we saw a cow and a turkey lingering behind a fence, but the farm’s stench forced me to keep my mouth shut. Harry ran straight towards the turkey, who, in turn, ran straight towards him with a look of vengeance. I snatched up Har Bear before he got too close. After that, I decided to concentrate on the sluggish cow but he, too, was in a bad mood. Every time Harry yelled “MOO” he shot us the evil eye, and so we moved on to the sheep. While they seemed happier then the turkey and the cow, none of them felt like a visit from an 18-month-old. Luckily, Harry didn’t seem to mind. He got a kick out of the rest of the “friendly” barnyard animals.

It was during our visit to the zoo’s Discovery Trail that I hit my breaking point. The prairie dogs reminded me of rats, so I told Harry it was time to head home.

All in all, I’m glad I experienced it. Harry seemed to enjoy himself, and that’s all that really matters. Next time though, I think I’ll let my husband take him.

Addie Morfoot is a freelance journalist at Daily Variety and is finishing her MFA in creative writing at The New School. Last year, her world turned upside down when she gave birth to her son Harry. Every other Monday, she writes about juggling work, school, marriage, and motherhood in the Big Apple.

 

THE WOODWARD/MORFOOT CONUNDRUM ~ Thank God for Jada

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Posted & filed under General.

Raising kids is part joy and part guerilla warfare.

— Ed Asner

A few years ago I went to meet my husband Ross for lunch. He was in the midst of a 48-hour weekend Dalai Lama lecture, meaning that for two days he was listening to words of wisdom from the Tibetan spiritual leader. Ross brought some of his friends from the workshop along with him and, after I plopped down with my tuna sandwich and Diet Coke, I asked them how the lecture was going.

Woman #1:  Why didn’t you sign up for it?

Me:  I’m not really into that kind of thing.

Woman #2:  You mean you don’t meditate?

Me:  (laugh) No.

Woman #1:  So then how do you relax?

Me: (straight face) I read tabloids.

Woman #2:  You what?

Me:  You know, those celebrity gossip magazines. They are so mindless that they completely zone me out.

Woman #1 and #2:  (looks of disgust)

Me:  (big smile)

I’ve never been one to conceal my lowbrow tabloid (and reality television) habit because I know that even though I enjoy both, neither makes me any less intelligent or intellectual than the next guy. Put me down and give me all the disgusted looks you like, but just because I read Us Weekly doesn’t mean that I don’t read The New York Times and my share of Proust (although I prefer Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Marriage Plot right now).

That said, ever since Harry came into the picture, my once beloved Us Weekly hasn’t given me as much pleasure as it used to. I blame it on the bombardment of celebrity mommy’s giving tips on how they achieved their perfect post-baby bods and post-baby thrills. The fact that the majority of these women lose 80 pounds of pregnancy weight in ten days is not only annoying, it’s totally misleading. It takes a while and a lot of self-motivation to leave your house post-delivery, let alone go to the gym. What also gets on my nerves is the “Life is AMAZING” mantra, the concept that nothing about having a baby is hard at all and every second is pure, unadulterated bliss.

PAH-LEASE!

Can these celeb mamas stop their yammering and think about the rest of us poor slobs who don’t have a litter of nannies, personal chefs, trainers, cleaning services, and chauffeurs? Life is hard enough as a woman—according to the magazines we should all be 5’9″ and flawless, even 24 hours after giving birth! God forbid you experience any struggle. Why would you? Motherhood, according to superstar moms, is easy.

But after a vigorous search, I finally found one celeb mama willing to be honest:

“All moms struggle. Celebrities just know how to conceal it,” says Jada Pinkett Smith, who has two children with husband Will Smith and is stepmom to his first son. “While motherhood is a beautiful thing, it’s traumatic to the body and the mind. I had some really down days after my kids were born. I thought I would never recover, even though I had a lot of help. The acting comes in handy. We can pretend everything is great even if it isn’t.”

Bravo Jada! Thank-you for your honesty.

Addie Morfoot is a freelance journalist at Daily Variety and is finishing her MFA in creative writing at The New School. Last year, her world turned upside down when she gave birth to her son Harry. Every other Monday, she writes about juggling work, school, marriage, and motherhood in the Big Apple.

THE WOODWARD/MORFOOT CONUNDRUM ~ Working Girl

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Posted & filed under General.

Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.

—Lucius Annaeus Seneca…and Robert Evans

In homage to the woman who inspired this blog, Joanne Woodward, I wanted to share the fact that I’ve accomplished two non-Harry related things in the last few weeks. The first is that I completed my thesis. Hallelujah! The second is that I wrote a story that was published in The New York Times Magazine Sunday (a small story, but it is The New York Times!). Despite the piece’s low word count, it took a big chunk of time. The thesis, with its high word count, took a lot more time (as well as a few years off my life).

Now that both are done, and I have more time to enjoy Harry again, I’m back to contemplating Ms. Woodward’s thoughts on motherhood and career ambitions. Harry spent much of last spring in daycare, which left me feeling like Joanne: guilty.

Joanne said that she didn’t consider herself much of a mother because she was always “running out to do a movie or something.” My work is not nearly as glamorous and hers, and my husband is not Paul Newman so I have to work. That said, I feel a certain amount of guilt when I’m not with Harry—even if it’s because I’m on deadline. But overall, I’m dealing with the guilt a bit better these days, and I think it has to do with age. Not mine, but Harry’s.

Harry is approaching 17 months (which means he’s practically human!). He can walk, feed himself, blow kisses, wave goodbye, and even say Addie (still waiting on Mommy). It’s pretty incredible to watch him evolve. And I’m thankful each and every day that he’s no longer an infant. I, unlike some mothers out there, did not like infancy. The unpredictability of it meshed with the sleepless nights and lack of human interaction really knocked me off my feet for a solid year. But now that Harry is officially a toddler and kisses me when I ask him to (and once-in-a-while without being even prompted), it makes me feel better about my non-Harry days. I get the feeling that Harry really likes it when I’m excited, happy, and proud. Writing, in whatever form, triggers these emotions. Being Harry’s mommy also provokes these feelings, but usually not all at once, which bothers me. Why can’t I feel complete being just a mom?

Joanne said, “If I had to do it over, I would either have a career or children.” My guess is that I’m like her. One of those women that just needs both. And these days, in spite of my guilt, I’m feeling pretty lucky that that’s what I have!

Addie Morfoot is a freelance journalist at Daily Variety and is finishing her MFA in creative writing at The New School. Last year, her world turned upside down when she gave birth to her son Harry. Every other Monday, she writes about juggling work, school, marriage, and motherhood in the Big Apple.

 

THE WOODWARD/MORFOOT CONUNDRUM ~ Learning to Relax

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Posted & filed under General.

Just jump on the moving train and try not to die.

—Chris Rock, What to Expect When You’re Expecting

I’ve been on a speeding train for the last couple of months, but I think (key word: think) it’s going to slow down a bit this summer—a mixed blessing. While it would be nice to unpack and set up my new apartment, I get nervous when I’m not at least a little crazed with work.

Since I’m a freelancer, I get scared when I don’t have a job on the horizon, but I’ve decided to try to work on this character flaw over the summer. I need to learn to relax when I have down time. Now that I have a child, it’s a necessary step. My husband Ross always suggests meditation or yoga, which only makes me laugh. Both activities activate my stress receptors. Instead, I tell Ross that I plan to explore our new neighborhood and become an active member of the community, which only makes him laugh. I’m not very outgoing, and I like spending time by myself.

Now that Harry is in the picture, my alone time is limited. He needs his playground time, which means a lot of interaction with fellow parents. We also need to find a nursery school, which means that I need to start mingling (even though he’s only 16-months-old). I need to figure out which schools are best and which waiting lists aren’t too long (oh yeah—and which one we can afford!). In New York, getting accepted into nursery school is like getting accepted into college, and the tuition isn’t much less. For more info, check out my friend’s hilarious/scary documentary about applying for Manhattan nursery schools.

When I asked a local store owner where she sends her kids, Ross was amazed. I usually try to keep my conversations with strangers to a minimum. Ross on the other hand, likes to ask waiters what dish is the best and sales people for their opinion on how jeans look. “They’re salesman!” I always say. “Of course they are going to tell you they look good!”

But when it comes to Harry, I’m willing to talk to anyone to figure out what’s best for him. I’ve joined playgroups where I chat with parents about nap schedules and potty training, conversations I never thought I’d be a part of. I’m even thinking about joining a local food co-op. (All members contribute two hours of work every four weeks for significantly lower prices.) Harry wouldn’t have to participate, but joining would benefit him. We’d be saving cash that we could put towards nursery school. Joining might also mean meeting parents who are environmentally conscious and do things like composting. Now instead of being work-crazed, I can be inundated with co-op politics.

On second thought, perhaps I should just relax and go to Trader Joe’s.

Addie Morfoot is a freelance journalist at Daily Variety and is finishing her MFA in creative writing at The New School. Last year, her world turned upside down when she gave birth to her son Harry. Every other Monday, she writes about juggling work, school, marriage, and motherhood in the Big Apple.