Sammy Davis Jr.

As of late, I've been feeling like Sammy Davis Jr.

How many short, black, Jewish guys who are blind in one eye are there in this world? One.

How many 40-year old single mothers who used gestational carriers are there in this world? Apparently, one.

This became all the more obvious to me when I attended a Mommy group last week. The other mothers were all 10 years younger, married, and had carried their own pregnancies (how bourgeois). They were talking about their birth experiences, breastfeeding, and how much their husbands help out around the house. As you can imagine, we didn't have a lot in common.

I had on yoga pants and a fitted shirt and I saw them glance at my comparatively flat stomach from time to time, with a "Are you freakin' kidding me??" expression. Okay, this was the one part I evilly enjoyed. Pilates girls, pilates.

Ahhhhhh. Maybe I should start my own Brat Pack.

Fake & Bake

My 24 year old Nanny, 'Nan', showed up on Thursday with a tan (rhyme unintentional, but I like it). It was 40 degrees outside and overcast so I knew that bronze wasn't from the sky. When I commented on the tan, she confessed to going to a tanning booth in preparation for her Big 25th Birthday the next day (I successfully fought my urge to lecture her on melanoma risk - it wasn't easy).

Nan was also going for a manicure, pedicure and to get her hair done after watching my daughter. It turns out that she and her friends had rented a limo for the Birthday Extravaganza. I figured they were going into the city for a show, but it turns out they were going into the next town over to a sports bar called The Big Bear Saloon. This gave me pause.

I've been to this particular sports bar on many occasions. It is the kind of place that has a flat screen tv in every square foot and a video game next to the front door called 'Deer Hunter'. This sports bar serves 47 kinds of beer and boasts chicken wing salad as the 'healthy choice' on the menu.

When I go to this bar, I sometimes prepare by rolling on deodorant. Sometimes.

Post-baby, I prepare for a trip to this Saloon by wiping the baby formula off my shoulder and repurposing it as a volume booster with a sweep through my hair . I certainly do not tan, mani, pedi, and style. In fact, when DO I tan, mani, pedi and style? The answer is: never.

My last lavish event was a friend's swanky wedding in Newport this August. For this major event I did shave my legs, shower, and apply make-up. I'm fairly sure this is as far as I would take it for a trip to meet Obama at the White House.

Does this mean that I care nothing about my appearance? Actually, I don't think so. But in the post-baby era, I can tell you that I can shower, dry my hair, clothe myself and whistle Dixie while cajoling my crying baby in her cradle in approximately 12 minutes. I've applied for the Winter Olympics but have been told that this event has not yet received full committee approval.

Baby Bait

What everyone is too politically correct to tell you - and yet every parent secretly knows - is that having a newborn baby is like having a cute puppy: everyone on the street suddenly stops to talk to you.

Its interesting. I've been frequenting the same grocery store, the same coffee shop, and the same library for many moons. No one knows, no one cares. And then suddeny I show up with a baby. A cute baby. Now everybody wants to be my friend. Verrrrrrrrrrrrrrry interesting.

Diaper Dating

My daughter and I celebrated her 2-week birthday this week by (drumroll please ....) going out on our first date as a team.

No, not kidding.

A guy had contacted me on Plenty of Fish a few weeks ago. We corresponded, I told him I was expecting a baby via a gestational carrier, and then didn't hear from him for a while. Of course, I figured that news had been enough to freak him out. Wasn't I surprised to get a call from him a few days after I brought my daughter home from the hospital? The call went a little something like this:

"Hello" (that's me, exhausted and trying to lug the baby in carseat, diaper bag, and shopping bag into the house)

"Hey, Liv, this is Bob from Plenty of Fish. Is this a good time for you to talk?"

"Um, actually, no Bob. My baby was born this week and I'm trying to carry her into the house."

How's that for Dating Etiquette 101?

Again, I thought I'd never hear back from Bob, and yet he called a week later. After speaking he asked me out for dinner. I don't like to go out for dinner on a first date - its too big a commitment of time, energy and resources. Plus, I hate the whole 'Who's paying the bill?' gig. So I slipped in:

"Bob, it would be easier for me to meet for coffee, if you don't mind. I'll have my daughter with me and it's easier to plan for a short period of time."

And then it hit me ... having a child is a great dating accessory! I can blame everything on her now. Wow, they never mention this in Dr. Spock.

So we met for coffee. I didn't have to go throught the awkward desciption of what I look like -- hell, how many single women are in Starbucks on a Wednesday night with a baby?

Ironically, the conversation with Bob was one of the best I've had in months. I wonder if having a baby is also a good screening tool? All men too immature to date a woman with a child at this age need not apply.

Lucy needed a bottle half way through the date and I whipped one out and fed it to her -- imagine how awkward this would have been if I breastfed! A few minutes later I told Bob we needed to go home to avoid a meltdown. He walked us out to the parking lot and went for the dreaded first-date-parking-lot hug. But it is difficult to hug someone when they are blocking you with a 6 lb. baby in a carseat -- again, points for Lucy! Bob settled for the arm squeeze instead, and I didn't have to decide whether or not to reciprocate because my arms were full.

I'm not sure if I'll hear from Bob again. If I do, great, If not, great.

I'm too happy and exhausted to worry about what he thought, whether or not he will call, whether or not I should call him, and whether or not I care. But this date was very important to me because it is living proof that being a Mom and Dating and not mutually exclusive. And it proves what I've already begun to suspect --- Lucy and I make a great team.

Sperm in a Latte Cup

Lucy and I walked (okay, she rode) into my favorite independent coffee shop today. I'm a regular at this shop and read my newspaper with a French Roast in there every week after racewalking.

The 40-something owner said to me, "Who is this?"
"This is my daughter, Lucy"
"No, seriously, who is this?"
"I'm serious Luke, this is my baby daughter."

Silence. Looks at me, looks at her, looks at me. Contemplation.

"How?"
"I used a surrogate (gestational carrier was just too much to ask).
Do you know what that is?"
"No."
"I couldn't carry a pregnancy, so I found another woman to carry my baby for me."

Silence. Looks at me, looks at her, looks at me. Contemplation.

"Where did the sperm come from?"
Okay, we're getting a big personal here, but I can handle it.

"I used a donor."
"You used a donor? Why? I would have given you mine! You know I have 6 children, including twins! Why didn't you ask me?"

I'm picturing this conversation in my head, "Hey honey, guess what I gave a customer today in one of our latte cups ???"

"Gee, thanks Luke, I appreciate that."
"I'm serious! The next time, you use mine."

Would this entitle me to a free scone with my French Roast each week ?
Just wondering.

Happy Hour, reworked

Happy hour used to mean standing around drinking cold beer in a room full of 'young professionals', all pretending not to notice each other while attempting to eat jalapeno poppers without spilling hot cheese on their work clothes. Ohhhhh, good times folks.

Happy hour has a new meaning since my daughter arrived, rather early, 12 days ago. Happy hour now refers to the 60 minutes per day when we're both awake, neither of us is crying or pooping, and we're staring at each other thinking, "I can't believe this is happening."

Yes, my daughter is here. It actually worked. It actually worked.

I look back over the past few years of dating, break-ups, single mothers by choice meetings, pregnancies, miscarriages, surgeries, fertility treatments, surrogate hunting, more fertility treatments, failed cycles, and then a pregnancy! Followed by 36 weeks of ultrasounds, doctors appointments, and then .... a baby. Holy shit, it actually worked.

(As an aside, I can't believe that some people get one of these babies by just having sex. Are you serious???)

And now my life has changed forever. All the naysayers told me that I'd never sleep again, never date again, never travel again, never have fun again. And while I'll admit that simple tasks such as a run to the grocery store have suddenly become much more complicated, I say, 'Bring it on'. I'll trade this happy hour for a bud light and a jalapeno popper any day.

One Night Love Affair

Shit, it wasn't L.O.V.E. Her current reference tanked --- big time. As in they come home every night to her latest disaster --- poop running down the side of the diaper genie, milk all over the bottom of the frig, muddy footprints all over the white rug. Master disaster.

Let me compare shopping for a nanny with dating:

-Everyone looks great on-line; check!
-Everyone is polished and on best behavior on date one; check!
-References don't pan out; ah ha!

I think I have the secret to dating! Request a reference list and check it twice. I cannot tell you how many years of pointless dating this could have saved me...

Back to the drawing board.