Thanks Big Papi!

High Heeled Mama has a confession to make. I wear socks with my heels. Well, not really. But I am a die-hard Red Sox fan (hopefully that won’t turn any of you away). So it was with great anticipation that we took peanut to his first Red Sox game (thank you interleague play).

Considering the game started at 7pm, which is normally peanut’s bath time and therefore the start of the slippery slope to bedtime, peanut did very well. We have quite the observant peanut. He’ll typically watch and assess any given situation before deciding whether to participate. Last night was no different, but he adjusted quickly and soon began flirting with just about anyone in a three row radius.

It has been to my great consternation that peanut is not clapping yet. He is a happy baby who shows his excitement in many other ways. He crawls, he laughs, he is certainly an “on-track” baby, but he just isn’t into clapping. No big deal, right? True. But for some reason, a clapping baby is just so adorable. No matter how hard I try or how many rounds of patty-cake we play, peanut has not been interested in slapping his hands together. Until last night…

Down six in the top of the eighth, the Sox brought in David Ortiz (more fondly known as Big Papi) to pinch hit. The crowd, which was probably half Sox fans, went crazy. Flash bulbs popping and lots of cheering. I was clapping with my own excitement when I turned to see peanut clapping away in hubby’s lap!

At the time I wasn’t sure if I was more excited that he clapped or the fact that he clapped for the Sox which just might confirm that you’re born being a Sox fan, that it runs in your blood, that each victory and defeat is genetically passed from generation to generation.

Hard to say. But it was a moment I’ll cherish and always remember. Even if the Sox lost the game.

Lull in the Conversation

It’s happened. I’ve become that mother. Oh, you know the one — and probably because you’ve done it, too. Yup, in a social gathering I talked about peanut’s poop. I swore I wouldn’t become that mama, and then, like an out of body experience, I watched in horror as the words escaped my mouth. Thankfully, it wasn’t details and I suppose it was in context (my little peanut had just been handed off to the hubby for a change after making a stinky), but did the poor, unsuspecting, non-moms at this barbecue need to know that he makes the cutest face when he’s pooping? I’m cringing just thinking about it. When did I run out of things to talk about?

Working in public and media relations, I learned a lot of random (sometimes pointless, sometimes groundbreaking) information and had to keep my finger on the pulse of the media environment, both of which proved helpful when making small talk at an office party or neighborhood gathering. Now that my regular haunts include the swings, the grocery store (who knew a 10-month old could eat SO much?) and a Stroller Strides work-out with some fellow high-heeled mamas (although I only see them in sneakers!), my conversational repertoire has become severly limited to statistics (age, weight, length of labor), sleeping patterns, transition to solids and baby’s new tricks.

Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy these conversations, I initiate these conversations. How else would I know what to do for teething or that rice cakes are a perfect starter solid for baby? But what happened to my party conversation?

I recently traveled back home to see the family and during a family dinner I realized I said three sentences the whole evening — and two of them were telling the waitress what I wanted. Granted, I was there sans hubby, so I was busy feeding peanut his dinner for a good portion of the chat time, but later, everyone was busy complaining about their jobs, sharing tidbits from a recent trip, and then doting on peanut. I felt like a glorified babysitter, afraid to chime in, afraid I’d lost touch with the outside world, afraid I wouldn’t have anything worthy to say. How is it that the most important job in the world sometimes makes me feel like the least important person in the room? Was a part of my soul living in the placenta that I lost after delivering peanut? I doubt it. And I don’t think I can blame it on the fact that I was wearing flats that night. I think it’s my own hang-up that because I’m not paid, and therefore validated, by an outside source, I’m just not that interesting.

The fact of the matter is I can share a lot. So the next time you see me, here are a few things I can talk about:
* the Annie Leibovitz photography exhibit I recently viewed
* what I’m reading (that isn’t “Goodnight Moon” or Parents magazine)
* my thoughts on why any presidential campaign that is longer than a pregnancy is entirely too long
* how the Boston Red Sox will probably blow their first place spot in the AL East after the All-Star break

And of course, I’m always willing to talk about my peanut. And I promise, I’ll try to leave his poop out of it.

Parental Advisory — Contains Some Violence

When I was pregnant and found out that we were having a boy, I decided that I wouldn’t want him to play with toy guns. It seems to me that child’s play should model positive behaviors. I am feeling a bit hypocritical, however.

I, like many other loyal viewers, was eagerly awaiting the series finale of The Sopranos. Granted my little peanut is only 10 months old and isn’t watching television with us, but shouldn’t I be leading by example? I find myself justifying my Sopranos-addiction in my head — I watch because of the storyline, the conflict, the characters, and I tend to cover my eyes during any whacking scenes anyway — but they sound like hollow excuses and any pre-teen boy would easily be able to expose the holes in my argument.

I know I won’t be able to isolate my peanut from violence — we live in a violent world. We’re a country at war, our media still adheres to an “If it bleeds, it leads” strategy, and the movie industry has come so far with its special effects technology that we practically congratulate them for creating realistic looking explosions and gun shot wounds. As a parent, I hope I can create a safe environment for my peanut to grow up and learn compassion, feel hope and experience joy to balance the reality that surrounds us. I hope that the most violence he encounters is a raucous game of dodge ball.

Just as I crawled through the house on my hands and knees looking for any potential dangers to my very curious baby, I suppose I have to take a hard look at my own habits — what I eat, what I say, what I watch. At least I don’t have to worry about The Sopranos anymore. David Chase took care of that for me. Now if only David Chase could do something about my sweet tooth…

Welcome!

Welcome to High Heels and High Chairs! After working for nearly 10 years in the world of public relations, I have now entered the world of baby relations. I’ve gone from press releases to a plethora of interesting baby releases (ew!); event production to milk production; satellite feeds to solid feedings; and crisis communication to, well, crisis communication (no honey, you CAN’T play with the electric outlets no matter how fun they look!).

Although I love being a stay-at-home mom, I have found that I miss the part of myself that went into hibernation when I stopped working. Don’t get me wrong, I love being mommy and am completely smitten with my precious peanut. As a mother, I want to make sure he gets the best of me. To do that, I’m tapping into that wanna-be writer part of myself and putting myself out there to see what develops. What could be more fun than growing up along side my little man? Not even buying a new pair of shoes beats that high!

And don’t worry, although I have a closet full of heels I can’t bear to part with because they represent that professional part of me, you will most often find me in a pair of flip flops. Ah, but there are those days when I’m feeling a bit sassy and sport a pair to Target. Maybe I’ll see some of you other high heeled mamas there.