Where Were You?

Life was pretty different 15 years ago. When my mom wasn’t looking, I wore a lot of clothes I made myself, and my “winter shoes” were Birkenstock Boston wools. My favorite bands were Phish and the Dave Matthews Band, and when they pop up in my iTunes library now I feel a wave of hilarious nostalgia. I had a flip phone that had been scotch-taped together a few times and didn’t take pictures. This time 15 years ago, I had only just arrived in the U.K., running around the streets with my flatmates on a “get to know London” scavenger hunt, posing with the lions in Trafalgar Square, and, as evidenced in pictures, wearing a long grey fleece sweaterthing that looked kind of like a bathrobe but was appropriate for London’s unpredictable September weather. This time 15 years ago, skies were still blue and no one could imagine choking them with the smoke, ash, and despair of 9/11.

At the time, my parents both regularly flew out of all the DC airports, where two 9/11 flights originated. My mom is from New York City, which was a probable (and eventual) post-graduation destination for a theater major like myself. I was understandably terrified and confused and afraid, especially as a 21 year old abroad for the first time – far from home, far from normalcy, no idea what safety was. And when I did eventually move to Brooklyn in 2002, I had no idea I’d still be here in 2016, raising a kid on the mean streets of Manhattan. Nowadays, terrorism is no longer the sexy new concept it was back then. Patriotism and love of country has been redefined and questioned over and over again. And as I walk through the Times Square subway on a daily basis, oftentimes dragging my two year old behind me, wouldn’t I be naïve if I didn’t wonder what was coming next?

As I’m sure you may recall, it was a Tuesday morning just like any other – except, for me, it wasn’t morning. It was early afternoon, and I was one of few students on Florida State’s London campus that didn’t have class, working in the computer lab when my friend Jay came in and said a plane had just crashed into one of the twin towers. If it were today, my cell phone would be pinging with alerts from news apps, perhaps some kind of emergency alert from Apple, text messages and tweets and Facebook posts from friends near and far. But at the time, even though it had happened about twenty minutes previously, the best the internet could do for us was a vague headline on the New York Times website with no click-through. So we headed upstairs to catch the live news, and were just in time to hear about Flight 77 crashing into the Pentagon, two miles from my mom’s office.

The first, worst parts of that day were the unknowns, compounded by the fact that I wasn’t just in another time zone, I was in another country. I managed to get through to my dad almost right away, and he was able to confirm that my mom was in her car, driving to Richmond for a meeting (a great relief since travel for both of them usually involved a flight out of National or Dulles on any given week day), but within minutes, phone service devolved into nothingness. By the time most of my classmates, almost all of them longtime friends from the theater department back in Tallahassee, came wandering up to the flats after class, they were still in the dark and Jay and I had been sitting there for almost an hour, shell-shocked by the avalanche of horror on the BBC. Hasty potlucks were thrown together as we moved in packs from flat to flat, comforting each other in the absence of our families. As one of the few students from the affected regions, I felt an additional blanket of pity as they watched me watch my home city turn into a military zone. It would be a few days before the personal stories reached me overseas. The husband of a woman in my mom’s choir, the mother of one of my high school classsmates, both killed at the Pentagon. Cousins and friends barely escaping the twin towers. My mom was desperate for me to come home, but a longtime family friend in one of those Big Government Agencies told her I was probably safer in London, yet should the need arise, he could get me extracted. Many nights thereafter, I lay under the skylight over my bed in Flat 13, imagining black-hooded operatives suddenly appearing in the dark, cutting through the glass to snatch me into the night, and I kept my shoes, passport, teddy bear, and gray fleece within grabbing distance, wondering if they would even let me hold onto any personal effects.

“Where were you on 9/11” is a question almost anyone of a certain age knows the answer to, whether it’s simple and straightforward, or a little more exciting. Being an American overseas at such a time was a bizarre, otherworldly feeling. We were homesick and afraid, of course, but we were also engaged in this whole other experience that was supposed to change our lives for the better, now tangled up in an event that had changed our nation’s landscape. Were we lucky to be away from it all? Should we have gone home? Were we more or less safe in another huge, international city?

Our school, now responsible for our safety in a way they’d never imagined, gathered us in the auditorium with the intent to reassure us that our semester would go on as it should, and to casually-but-seriously posit that Americans could be targets, so best to take the flags off our backpacks, leave the Nike and Tommy Hilfiger logos in our drawers, and not to wear white sneakers – apparently, the hallmarks of being a targetable American. A dubious bomb threat at the financial institution across the street that following Saturday had maintenance men running through the buildings, banging on the doors of our flats and sending panicked college kids scurrying to the auditorium in our pajamas. We went in groups to the American embassy, where the piles of flowers were waist high. We spotted Margaret Thatcher placing a bouquet. Ever the theater major, I gathered my weeping friends in my arms, singing a shaky version if “America the Beautiful.” Months later, I found out we’d been photographed, and the picture published in several US news outlets. My dad kept the newspaper clip pinned to his office wall for years. It was a heartbreaking immortalization, and even as an actor, I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of that photo being a forever moment, preserved without my knowledge and disseminated around the world for people to say, “Oh, those poor girls.”

And “oh poor girls,” they did. The minute we went anywhere and opened our mouths, our guttural American accents almost immediately earned us looks of sympathy and the occasional hug from complete strangers. “Oh you poor thing,” people would coo. “Did you know anyone who died?”

That empathy wasn’t everywhere or for everyone, of course. Not six weeks after, I was riding a train from Venice to Florence with my friend Mel when a large American tour group, complete with white sneakers and loud Midwestern accents, came barreling through the car, clogging the aisles, nagging about seat assignments, and causing everyone around them to heartily roll their eyes. Across from us were an Italian couple and a British couple, the latter of whom had gotten on the wrong train. As they got off at the next stop, they shot us a knowing smile, saying, “well, at least we didn’t have to sit next to the Americans!”

We headed back to the US in mid-December, most of my friends bound for Florida while I was headed home to Dulles International Airport. I had been dutifully changed by my time overseas. I wore dark jeans and tough motorcycle boots purchased on Carnaby Street. The big hiking backpack I’d carried on back in August had to be checked. The Calvin Klein towels my mom had sent me over with had been left behind in favor of vintage threads scored from Notting Hill thrift shops. And when I walked through that customs gate and into the crushing embrace of my parents, the thing that struck me most was that all the Christmas decorations were red, white, and blue.

Yes, true patriotism had finally come to the U.S. Who were you if you didn’t have tiny American flags lining your driveway? A traitor. Who were you if you weren’t eating Freedom Fries? A weasel. Who were you if your trees weren’t filled with twinkling red, white, and blue lights? Well, you weren’t an American, that’s for sure.

Without getting into the contentiousness of today’s election landscape, one of the dominant news stories of the day is NFL players (and others) allegedly showing disrespect for our flag, our national anthem, and/or our military by sitting or kneeling during the anthem. And with its seemingly inconvenient timing as we approach the 15^th anniversary of the worst terror attack in our nation’s history, we’re asking the really tough questions, aren’t we? What does the flag stand for? What’s an appropriate form of protest? What are these protests really about? We’d all be lying, or at least willfully ignorant, to admit that our country’s past and present aren’t filled with conflict, pain, and blood. We’d all be lying, or at least willfully ignorant, to admit that we have the right to determine what is an appropriate amount of discord when it comes to talking about the issues. But wrapping yourself in an American flag doesn’t make the problems go away. It doesn’t make you more patriotic. I spent four months being told to hide my Americanness, for my own safety, and when I returned home to the US, it was like being dropped in a bubbling, burning vat of patriotism, stinging and burning my eyes. Despite not having been in the US, I looked at those flag-covered houses and cars and thought, “you all have no idea. You are all show, and no substance. If this is what you think it means to be an American, I don’t know what I am anymore, because this doesn’t feel right.”

Most days, I watch the news in despair, not only because of the wars and the politics and the rhetoric, but because of the painful, judgmental way we treat our fellow Americans. It makes it hard. I could leave, you know. I’m married to a foreign national. We could pack our bags and bolt for Ireland and leave the red, white and blue in the rear view mirror. But my American identity comes with the good and the bad. It is deeper than the stars and the stripes. It means more than the flag or the soldiers who serve in our country’s name.

People Magazine has done a story on the children of 9/11, children born after their fathers perished on that day, and are now teenagers. It’s hard to even think about their lot in life without wanting to fall apart. When I think about those bizarre sympathetic pats from Londoners, it doesn’t come close to fifteen years of carrying such a burden. But of course, they are beautiful and brave, and normal, if normal is a thing that they can be. 14 year old Robyn Higley says, “I’ve always been aware of the world. The world should be a place where it’s okay to be who you are, and to love whom you love and believe what you believe. Underneath, what we’re made up of is the same.”

Last August, 2015, was the first time I actually went to the site of the twin towers, now the home of the 9/11 Memorial and Museum and the Freedom Towers. I’m in that neighborhood constantly, but could never bring myself to walk over a block or two.

The air is different there. It’s more quiet, even with the rush of the fountains, even with the hustle of the city going on around it. It’s not isolated, it’s right there in the thick of things, but it truly feels like the souls of those lost are still there, calm, courageous, and humble, creating a curtain between the city and the burial ground. As I walk around the pools, tracing the names of the victims on the wall, I step around smiling for themselves thanks to the aid of selfie sticks, making sure to capture the water in the background, and I think, “is that patriotism? Is that love for our country?”

Asking For Help

I was en route to work last week when I got a text from a co-worker.  “Morning! Don’t let me forget, I have a baby question for you. A friend of a friend just had hers a week ago, and is struggling with a newborn issue,” it read.  My curiosity was peaked.  What could it be? Nursing? Poop habits? Sleep depravation? My co-worker usually runs and hides when I forget my whereabouts and start talking about all the colors I saw in Mini’s diapers over the weekend. I was nearly kicked out of her birthday party last year, when for reasons unknown even to me, I reminisced about the accuracy of the term “ring of fire.” How had she gotten herself involved in a conversation about newborns?

In this modern age we live in, we may not always be surrounded by the village that it takes to raise a child.  Back in the Husband’s homeland, his sisters are both within spitting distance of their mom, and will likely trip over myriad aunties, uncles, and cousins in the grocery store.  Much of my family has settled in the DC area, where my cousins pass baby goods back and forth to one another depending on who’s pregnant at any given time, and even my mom has pulled a baby-sitting shift or two.  As someone who is super close to my mom, I felt her dismay over the possibility that I wouldn’t be able to depend on her physical presence in the first terrifying, confusing days, weeks, and months of parenthood.  However, as someone who often leaps into the unknown, and is married to the most independent guy on the planet, I figured we would survive by doing what millions of moms and dads do every day – making it work, on our own.

 Team Raff, on the Amtrak Acela en route to our village.

 So, where do you turn when you’re the first of your friends to have a baby, or you’re miles away from family? How do you reveal you’re struggling without exposing yourself to too much, too confusing, or too rigid advice? Even with all the oodles of modern technology at our fingertips, there is something to be said for having your village within reaching distance. Wouldn’t breastfeeding commiseration be easier on my cousin’s couch than via FaceTime? Could texts and cell phone pictures really communicate my concern over Mini’s scaly skin and horrific cradle cap? Who the hell was I going to talk to at one in the morning, drearily watching Netflix while Mini attempted to break a nursing world record?

I was lucky to find a few online communities where no gross thing went unsaid, no triumph or tragedy  went unacknowledged. These groups aren’t perfect. They gather together women with lots of different perspectives and viewpoints, but if you can find one where the focus is on supporting mothers who are trying their best to succeed and help others, with a moratorium on politics and bullying, and a clear policy on posting photos (NYC Birth’s battle over a home birth photo hit the national news cycle!), you’ll find yourself with friends you’ve never met, cheering you on with empathy.  Sometimes it’s easier to talk about your failures and fears with a stranger, which can also open you up to how people are doing things in other cultures and communities. I was recently invited to join a group for Irish mothers living abroad in NYC. You may have cottoned on to the fact that although I am not Irish, I am determined to preserve Mini’s black Irish identity and the bond with her family there. I wasn’t sure how some of the other moms would react to the black American in their midst, and it almost held me back from joining, but I have found immediate acceptance and enthusiasm for our story, and really, it’s just moms being moms anyway – we just make far more jokes about lads and tea and our favorite Irish fast fashion shops. (Penneys is all the rage right now, but I never come home from Ireland without something from New Look!)

The new mom in question was indeed having some nursing issues, one of the most intense and personal challenges that new moms face. Full discloser – I’m a nurser. I figured I’d give it a shot and see if I could last a few months, because that’s what everyone else seemed to be doing, and alas, here I am with a two year old who asks for the boobie at bedtime.  However, I think we all know that nursing, for some reason, is still not a judgement-free zone.  Do it enthusiastically, and you’re some kind of deviant on a mission to offend everyone around you.  Skip it altogether, and you’re a negligent mom who’s putting your child’s health in jeopardy.  Do it too briefly, and you’re a quitter.  Do it too long, and you’re giving your child an unhealthy complex. When you’re still in the middle, who can you trust?

One of the reasons I chose my hospital, NYU Langone, was because they are part of the World Health Organization’s Baby-Friendly certification, staffing midwife nurses who are also lactation consultants and putting a heavy emphasis on encouraging a new mother’s success with nursing. Without knowing who to talk to, I’d hoped the hospital would be my refuge when I needed help – and it was. I’m eternally grateful to the night nurse who was not only shameless enough to grab a boob and perfectly position it in Mini’s mouth, but to fight vehemently on my behalf when an old-school doctor wanted me to stop nursing and focus on post-natal issues that kept me in the hospital beyond my scheduled check-out time. What do you know? I could do both! (Now, that’s not to say that one person’s health took precedence over the other’s, even in a pro-nursing environment. I also pumped in the hospital, and they did send us home with formula to supplement nursing for a couple of days because of Mini’s extreme weight loss).

(NYU Langone hasn't requested my endorsement, but here it is. Click here to learn more about giving birth there.  And if you're searching for a WHO-certified Baby Friendly Hospital, or want to learn more about what the WHO does, click here.)

I put together an email with my best advice for the new mom – encouraging her to take care of herself physically, be as patient as possible in those first few days when both mom and baby are adjusting to the momentous shock they’ve both just been through, lather her aching boobies with as much lanolin or coconut oil as possible, and most importantly – talk.  As new moms, we are so afraid to be that person who talks about her kid.  So what? What else do you want to talk about? We listen to single people dating stories, sex stories, work stories, social stories, neighbor stories. Why should baby stories and issues be any different, even if they’re a little gross? I should be able to talk about what’s going on in my life, and I shouldn’t have to worry about who’s bothered by that or judging me because of it. Talking about the struggles of motherhood doesn’t mean you’re bad at motherhood.  And who knows, you might mention it to your friend, who might mention it to her friend, who might mention it to her friend, who will gladly set her work aside for 15 minutes to send you an email with some tips, some tricks, a reminder that anyone who tells you there’s only one way to do things is wrong, and a promise that however gross and exhausting and weird things are right now, they will get better. So please, talk. Someone other than the tiny, angry, hungry person attached to your boob will be there to listen.
Are you following our journey on social media? Keep up with Team Raff on Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat @thiswaytobaby.  Full disclosure - what the heck is Snapchat? I don't know. Let's figure it out together!

Moving for Idiots

You know how sometimes, as a wife, mom, woman, human being, etc., life takes over and time just disappears like you’ve been abducted by aliens? Yeah, that’s what the last few months have been like.  All the anticipation of future events (moving, new restaurant opening, etc.) has now faded as these events have actually occurred.  However, all the energy that was dedicated to them meant precious little time was devoted to the blog.  I can’t tell you how many incomplete starter posts are filling the Notes section of my iPhone.  As a result, now that I have all this free time, you can anticipate lots of upcoming entries on such outdated events as my 21^st birthday, the Cuban missile crisis, and my thoughts on the birth of Prince George.

Most life-altering event to occur over the past few months? We finally moved.  Yes, after twelve years, I finally said a fond farewell to my rent controlled one bedroom apartment in Hamilton Heights, and the clan Rafferty has moved onward and upward to Hudson Heights.  After surviving the experience, I have some wisdom to share.

      1. Move often or never.

I thought I did a really good job purging.  I took at least four big bags of stuff to the Salvation Army.  We tossed three crappy pieces of furniture. I threw away sheets with holes.  And yet, after allllll that, it took two days to move twelve years of crap.  I recently ran a 5K with a friend, who also helped us move (and is still my friend), and asked him if he was saving his race bib.  He gently reminded me that he had moved five times in six years, and part of doing that with ease was not holding on to piles of crap like race bibs.  So if you’re a person who, ahem, “accumulates,” don’t ever move.  Or move a lot, and odds are you’ll keep less and less every time.

      2. Hire movers.

I moved from a closet-sized room in a shared apartment in Williamsburg to an enormous one bedroom in 2003; the Husband showed up on my doorstep in 2007 with a rucksack, duffel bag, and a boomerang from his year in Australia.  We are moving amateurs.  He figured a few of our beefiest friends would be enough to shove everything in a UHaul.  Two trips, one lost UHaul dolly, and an old apartment still full of stuff later, he conceded that my original request to hire movers had merit.

3.  Pack your stuff in actual boxes.

Our moving supplies included proper moving boxes, a mishmash of beer and wine boxes from the bar, and several boxes of garbage bags from Target.  We did a horrible job packing.  We are moving amateurs, remember? There were a lot of things still being shoved into tote bags and plastic bins on the morning of the move.  I read a lot of “tips” on fancier mom blogs – color coded tape! Paper plates as dish barriers! None of that happened.  I mean, we were kind of organized.  I’d say the most effective thing we did was packing 90% of our most important items in clear plastic bins.  What you can see, you can find.  On that note – boxes labeled “kitchen,” “living room,” etc, are useless.  You have to write what’s IN them on the OUTSIDE.  I spent half an hour searching desperately for a mug on our first morning in the new place. How am I supposed to unpack without coffee?! I fared better in Mini’s room, where Dogfish Head boxes were neatly labeled “soft toys,” “sheets & blankets,” etc.  However, if anyone has seen the baby monitor, please let me know.

     4. Have someplace to put your stuff when you unpack.

In a weak moment, I allowed the Husband to throw away the 17-year-old Ikea dresser that I got from my best friend, who got it from our friend Isaac.  It’ll be nice to have a proper dresser.  See what I did there? “To have.”  Meaning, “currently don’t have.”  Meaning, I’m living out of Space Bags and suitcases.  Who knows where anything is? There’s a very real possibility that I might end up wearing a cocktail dress to work this week because I can’t find any pants.

5. Throw away anything you don’t feel like packing.

I mean it.  Dump it.  This was a huge leap for me, the ultimate keeper.  But as you’re getting closer to move date, and you’re torn over saving your last bits of bubble wrap for your wine collection, say sayonara to all those tchotchkes that never looked right anyway.  I recommend tossing your bathroom scale.

     6. Don’t go on vacation right before you move.

We were supposed to move July 1^st, but our new place was still undergoing renovations, so we postponed until the 6^th.  I was still stubbornly determined to travel down to Virginia with Mini to visit my family for Independence Day; the Husband gallantly offered to finish up the majority of the packing.  I promised I’d be back early to help with the last bits.  Alas, a five hour trip took eleven; I arrived home with an exhausted baby who had vomited spectacularly all over herself halfway up 95, and wanted nothing more than to lie on the bed in our empty bedroom with a pizza and Netflix on my iPad.  This was definitely a contributing factor to our move taking two days.

     7. Ask Mom.

If yours is anything like mine, she will drive up from Virginia, follow you around your home with a garbage bag and “encourage” you to purge those ratty towels and cracked fridge magnets.  She will drive you to Home Goods and encourage you to buy grown up things like a toothbrush holder with matching soap dish, and silly things like a big fluffy aqua rug for Mini’s ocean-themed bedroom.  She will take your toddler out for the day, swinging by IHOP and getting her down for a nap way better than you can.  She’ll lend you her car for the myriad trips back and forth and not bat an eye when you return it with a quarter tank of gas.  Then she’ll go home, and return three days later with a bag full of shelf liner, so you can run a nighttime 5K.  Thank you Mom.  We owe you all of the flowers.

     8.  Don’t run a 5K the weekend after you move.

Especially if it’s at night, and in Sheepshead Bay, the literal opposite end of the Five Boroughs from where we live.  It was my first 5K, I had trained for it and everything, and it was the Color Run, which meant I arrived home at 1:30 AM covered in glowing cornstarch powder and fake tattoos.  I can’t accurately describe the physical pain I was in on Sunday morning.  Save your strength for the important stuff, like hauling cardboard boxes down to the basement.

    9. Get everything delivered.

It’s a new neighborhood.  So far I’ve found the Dunkin Donuts, four playgrounds, and a great wine shop.  I’m relying heavily on a city girl’s best friend in order to survive – delivery.  Specifically boxed.com for bulk items, Fresh Direct for groceries, Familyhood sites like soap.com and diapers.com for baby and household necessities, and sites like wayfair.com and dotandbo.com for well-priced furniture and accent pieces to replace the ones the Husband left on the curb.  Also, since moving sucks money out of your bank account like a Hogwarts siphoning spell, I always access these sites through ebates.com.  Seriously, why isn’t everyone using Ebates? They just GIVE YOU MONEY for clicking through to your chosen site via theirs. And it’s not just a bunch of stupid sites, either.  It’s probably every e-commerce site you’re already shopping on.  P.S. I don’t work for Ebates.  I just love telling people about how I get free money for shopping.  You can sign up via this link and they’ll give me a little bonus for signing up people, but they do that for everyone.  They even give you a bonus just for signing up.  There is no catch. Shop online, get a check every three months.  That’s it.  Boom.  Mic drop.

    10. Skip unpacking to explore your new neighborhood.

Not only should you know where the best liquor store is, but taking a break from the terror of unpacking means a chance to de-stress and get a new perspective.  I still can’t find half our plates, but we did find our way to Fort Tryon Park, an absolutely exquisite urban oasis at the tip of Manhattan, and home to a Metropolitan Museum of Art annex, the Cloisters Museum and Gardens.  And we got ice cream on the way home.  Win win.

 So, there you have it, my foolproof tips for the foolish on the subject of moving.  Now that we are no longer amateurs, I feel highly qualified to give you this advice.  We still have a lot to do to get completely settled, but the most important thing is we are together, and we have wine and toilet paper.  All those pictures will just hang themselves, right?

Love, the Rafferty Girls  

It's Paddy, Not Patty

From my Irish husband, to me, to you, it’s Paddy, not Patty!  Patty is the nice lady who lives down the street and brought over lemon bars and frozen lasagna when you moved in.  Paddy is the drunk guy with super red cheeks who threw up on your shoes last St. Patrick’s Day.

Mini was only five weeks old when we gussied her up in green and took her out on the town for her first St Patrick’s Day.  My mom still has some choice words for us about that.  Paddy’s Day is by far the easiest and most guiltless time of year when it comes to celebrating her biracial identity.  We just stuff her in a “Daddy’s Lucky Charm” t-shirt and call it a day.  No one is surprised when they find out she’s half Irish, but there is a part of me that feels oddly protective of that part of her heritage.  You’d think it would be the opposite.  I admit to being weirdly, embarrassingly defensive about the fact that she doesn’t meet the expectations of others in regards to her biracial appearance, but my family and I will always be here to represent her blackness and provide a familial example of that part of her culture.  My husband’s choice to move to the US to be with me meant sacrificing his own family and culture back in Ireland.  I try not to take that for granted.  St Patrick’s Day is a day when we are all Irish, which does mean more than drinking as much green beer as possible.  There’s an amazing spirit and camaraderie that the Irish exemplify, which is why it’s so easy to embrace it.  I’m very proud to be Irish by association, and look forward to celebrating that with Mini as she grows up.  She already has her own mini hurling stick and  sliotar.  There will, without a doubt, be Irish dancing lessons in her future, and more than one summer spent running around Meath with her cousins.     

One of the blessings in being a multiethnic family is being able to educate each other on our cultures and send a more conscientious, compassionate child into the world.  Is it my responsibility to celebrate her Irishness, rather than focusing on her American blackness? Shouldn’t I be taking charge of educating her on African-American history, signing her up for Jack & Jill and Radical Brownies, preparing her for the realities of bigotry and racism, while also encouraging her pride and identity in being black? It’s been mentioned to me on more than one occasion that perhaps we focus too much on her being Irish and not enough on her being black.  Truth be told, I suppose that’s because it’s easy.  As much as we’d like for it to be so, we don’t live in a post-racial society just because Barack Obama is president, and 13 months is not the right age to be lecturing a kid who can’t even say her own name.  I do worry about her not being fully embraced by either culture.  What does it mean to be black enough or Irish enough?  I’m not sure there’s a proper answer to such a question.  I can only expect the Husband – who has been delightfully claimed for “our side” by my family – to be as proud and respectful of my side of her heritage as I am of his, and that we both accept responsibility and accountability for making sure she knows exactly where she’s come from.  I do not doubt his ability to do so, even when it comes to dealing with the crap situations that present themselves to us both.  

By strange coincidence, both of us have had someone refer to her as our “white-ass baby” in the last month alone – me, fielding insensitive comments from a drunk woman in a restaurant who thought she was being clever by declaring that Devin would be more interesting somehow, and the Husband, riding the subway with Mini and verbally accosted by a drunk man who used some very colorful language in an attempt to assert some kind of dominance over them.  I think we both did the right thing in terms of our reactions – rolling our eyes and walking away.  If we try to tackle every bit of ludicrous injustice we’re faced with, we won’t have time to embrace such cultural stereotypes like drinking whiskey and eating fried chicken.  What is important, however, will be making sure that Mini feels nothing but pride in both sides of her heritage and will know that we have nothing but pride in the perfect little curly-haired minion we’ve created.

And that can start with St. Patrick’s Day – in her green “I’m Black and I’m Proud” onesie!

So please enjoy the holiday with all the little leprechauns in your life, and remember to be safe, use a designated driver if you’re drinking, and wear green so you don’t get pinched!

Love, the Rafferty Girls

Lucky Sevens - The Skincare Hit List

Introducing a new blog feature – Lucky Sevens!

Every week or so, I’d like to share seven of my favorite things with you! Why seven? When left to Google endlessly, I could come up with three hundred and seven things I’d like to share, but seven seems like a nice reasonable number to get the point across.  To kick things off, I’m focusing on seven of my favorite skin care items.  I have long been obsessed with skin care, ever since I first used my mom’s Pond’s cold cream and Lancôme bi-facile eye makeup remover to slough off my stage makeup at weekend dance competitions.  My needs have expanded a bit since then, and I’d be lying if I didn’t confess that I’m a full on junkie.  We’re talking Sephora VIB Rouge status, people.  Now that I’m in my mid-thirties and facing the challenges of A) trying to stay young forever and B) in the absence of that, at least appear to get seven hours of sleep rather than the five I actually get these days, I’m looking for products with certain buzz words – ANTI-AGING! RETINOL! BRIGHTENING! FIRMING! These lucky sevens are faves, but certainly not all the tools in my arsenal.  For that, I truly would need lucky 307s.

1. Fresh Lotus Youth Preserve Cream - a must for day and night.  It's super moisturizing, especially in the brutal dryness of my overheated apartment.
2. Philosophy Help Me- this is a crucial part of my night time routine.  The retinols in this tube are a one-two-three punch against wrinkles, dark spots, and blemishes.
3. Korres Black Pine Firming, Lifting, and Anti-Wrinkle Cream - this is a new addition to my arsenal, and layered over the Help Me, it could stick around and help me turn back the hands of time.  Buzz words, people.  Buzz words.
4. St Ive's Apricot Scrub - this is one of my lifelong drugstore favorites. I've used a lot of scrubs over the years, but this one always comes out on top.
5. Philosophy Hope in A Tube -  truthfully, I could have had a Lucky Sevens dedicated entirely to Philosophy products, and while I like to share the love, there's no way I could leave this out. Not only is it a great eye cream, but it also fills in the frownie lines around my mouth.  Wait, those aren't frownies.  Those are smilies!
6. Bliss Fabulous Foaming Face Wash - there's no better way to start the day off than with this deliciously scented, gently exfoliating face wash.  I love to use it with my Clarisonic Mia brush for extra impact.
7. Origins Clear Improvement Active Charcoal Mask - I am an arbiter of masks, but this one has been a recent fave.  Cursed with thirsty pores, I need a good product to vacuum them out.  Charcoal-based products have replaced sulfur-based products in my heart. 

Chime in, friends! What skincare products are in your war chest?

Best Year Ever.

Wow, what a year.

On February 12, my adorable, tender, adventurous, darling baby Mini turned one.  It’s been, without a doubt, the fastest year of my life.  It’s been both easier and more difficult than I imagined it would be.  How can I accurately reflect on the last 365 days in just a few paragraphs? Quite simply, I can’t.  I can only paint broad strokes while focusing in on the most minute details – the feeling of carrying her through the snow into our apartment building, setting her car seat down in the middle of the living room, and thinking, “now what?”; the stomach churn of snapping her into my most favorite newborn onesie, only to come to the sad realization that it was entirely too small; the pride from pushing her around in her stroller, passing other moms and smiling empathetically or having strangers coo and make faces at her on the subway; the volume of her voice when we squeal back and forth at each other while I do the dishes and she pushes her baby grocery cart around the kitchen.  I remember the feeling of standing over her on her changing table at three in the morning, willing myself not to cry over my exhaustion and confusion because there were mothers out there who’d lost their children, women aching to be mothers, who would give anything to be standing where I was at that very moment.  I remember every person who felt obligated to point out how much she doesn’t look like me or ask whose baby she was, since she “obviously” wasn’t mine.  I still feel a jolt of shock and immeasurable love when I look into her crib and see her sleeping.  My baby.  My little baby girl.

We had a big party over the weekend, held in the party room of a friend’s restaurant because the combination of apartment living and sub-zero temperatures limit birthday party location options.  I agonized over it for weeks, scouring Etsy for the “perfect” headband, birthday banner, and fluffy fairy wings for her fairy garden fete, pinning dozens of perfect party images on Pinterest, parties planned by moms far more creative and intrepid than myself, and discussing it over and over again with my mom and sister-in-law, both of whom would have done a far better job if I had let them take over from the beginning.  Naturally, I forgot to take good blogtastic photos and apologize for this sad little collage.

Lots of people asked why I was agonizing so desperately over a party that Mini would clearly have no recollection of, but I will.  I will remember.  This was also an opportunity to say thank you to our village.  Thank you to my mom and dad, who drove us home from the hospital, going ten miles an hour in a blizzard and slept on our couch that first night home, who have kept Mini in the finest designer threads, who have FaceTimed on a nightly basis, singing songs through an iPad.  Thank you to my brother and sister-in-law, who sent boxes of party supplies for an event they couldn’t attend.  Thank you to my best friend, who didn’t write me off because I have forgotten to return her calls more often than I remember to.  Thank you to our co-workers, who have supported our transition into the real world with child with more enthusiasm and love than we could have hoped for.  Thank you to our friends, who get to the restaurant ahead of time and secure a high chair while we apologetically smack everyone around us with a diaper bag.  Thank you to our family and friends overseas, especially Husband’s mom, dad, and siblings, who are thriving on oddly timed Skype calls and whose thoughtful gifts always arrive on time. 

Thank you to my husband, who more often than not spends all day with Mini with only a few hours sleep and never complains, who pushes her stroller up and down the hallways of our apartment building to get her to nap, who scrambles eggs and changes diapers and plays “one two threes” for hours on end. 

Thank you to Mini, who, in spite of my occasional shortcomings, never, ever, ever fails to look at me like I am the best, most exciting, smartest, most creative, funniest, and most loving mom in the universe.  Thank you for making this the best year ever.  

NO MOM IS AN ISLAND

Looking At the Vaccine Debate From a Different Angle

On February 12, 2015, my little Mini turns one.  I think most parents can agree that the first year of their child’s life is the fastest year of their lives.  It seems like only minutes ago that we were watching The Bachelor and I was pacing uncomfortably around my living room, Husband convinced this thing was about to happen and me convinced that I had just eaten too many Oreos.  I had gone back and forth over whether or not I wanted my mom in the delivery room with us, but at 4 AM I was on the phone begging her to get in her car and drive up from Virginia just as fast as those four wheels could get her to New York City.  Someday I may write in more detail about my labor – the overcrowded hospital, the sudden onset preeclampsia, the Olympic pairs figure skating on the TV in the background, the med student witnessing his first delivery – but as I reflect on this past year, no moment is more important than the moment they plopped that wriggly little six pounder in my arms and told me I was a mom.

Please excuse the tragic hospital hair.

In the last twelve months, I’ve done things I never said I would, or not done all the things I was sure I would.  I swore up and down I would never breastfeed on the subway.  That lasted about two months (thanks Hooter Hider!).   I swore I would never put the baby in the bed with us.  Luckily she sleeps great in her crib, but sometimes there are late nights (and early mornings) where Mini just needs Mama and Dada on either side of her.  Who knows what I will or won’t do in the future as we move forward, but here again my mantra rings true – all we can do is the best we can do.

I was hesitant to wander into the vaccine debate raging around the country right now, but as we get ready to take Mini for her MMR vaccine, I thought about whether or not this was something I’d be willing to waver on.  Personally, I am 100% comfortable with our decision to vaccinate, just as I’m sure those families who have decided against it are with their choice not to.  I recently saw an interview with an Arizona doctor, who chooses not to vaccinate his children and keep them “pure” (that’s an interesting reference, but I digress), and also spoke quite plainly about not caring whether or not his children made other children ill.  Is that really the kind of attitude we want to teach children in our society, that it doesn’t matter what you do to someone else? Take away the vaccine issue and insert another topic.  If you have more than enough food for your child, do you not care if another child goes hungry? If your child is getting a quality education, do you not care if another child gets no education? Whatever happened to “it takes a village to raise a child?” Must I accept a society wherein it’s okay for someone to say we shouldn’t care about one another?

I’m never going to be a perfect mother or make all the perfect choices, but I’m trying my hardest to put something good into the world.  I want to contribute to the village, and let the village shape who we are as a family and who Mini will grow to be as an individual.  I want to raise her to share her toys, play with the other kids on the playground, and stand up to bullies.  I want her to volunteer with those who are less fortunate and be reminded that just because she “has,” not only is she no better than the “have-nots,” but there is reward in doing good for others. I want her to see the value in young women who spread joy, love, and positivity. 

My understanding and interpretation of this poem by John Donne, which I first read in high school, has changed and evolved over the years, but it’s always something I think back to when I find myself losing sight of the bigger picture.  I’m not here to tell anyone what to do or not do.  I’m only here to say I want to be in this village with you because I care about you and your family, and I hope the feeling is mutual.

No man is an island,

Entire of itself,

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.                   

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thy friend’s

Or of thine own were:

Any man’s death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind;

And therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.