Have a Nice Guilt Trip (10 page)

Lisa’s shining star, Daughter Francesca, rocks the National Book Festival.

Puppy pileup

There can be no greater pleasure, as a parent, than watching your child come fully into her own, taking all of her God-given talents and putting them to their most perfect use.

That feeling?

It’s Mom Heaven.

Milk Shake

By Lisa Scottoline

Today, we’re talking breast-feeding.

Not me, but not by much.

I nursed Daughter Francesca until she was twenty-two.

Just kidding.

But in truth, I did nurse her for a long time, though I will never reveal exactly how long, even herein. I’ve discussed my gray chin hair, my disappearing pinky toenail, and my nonexistent social life, but that is one secret I will never reveal.

Because then you’ll know how creepy I am.

It’s society’s fault, because it can’t be mine. Nursing is a great thing and not creepy at all, but society makes you feel like nursing is sexual, even though that’s what breasts are for, not for making Victoria’s Secret rich.

Maybe that’s Victoria’s Secret.

That society is stupid.

In my own defense, they say that breast-feeding makes babies smarter, and I will remind you that Francesca went to Harvard.

My breasts deserve full credit, fifty-fifty.

Although the right one, which is bigger, likes to claim 75 percent.

She’s so bitchy.

So you learned something today. If you want your kid to get into a good college, grab your breast and get busy.

Hide the car keys, so your kid can’t get away.

But this isn’t about my breasts, it’s about my dog Peach’s, who has ten breasts for only three puppies, all of whom are going to MIT because they nurse constantly.

Got milk?

Hell, yes.

Peach gave birth to her puppies about two weeks ago, and I moved them all, plus my desk and my computer, into the bedroom, so I could babysit while I work. Believe it or not, I’m getting more work done than I thought, between cooing over puppies, kissing puppies, taking pictures of puppies, posting pictures of puppies online, then responding to comments about puppies.

The operative word is awwwww.

I feel blissful in my canine maternity cocoon, as blissful as I felt a long time ago in my human maternity cocoon, which is basically the same thing, but for the sitz bath.

Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.

Men, you don’t know what I’m talking about, and count yourself lucky. Women have all sorts of equality these days, which is wonderful, but we’re still the ones who become besties with the doughnut pillow.

You can thank us anytime.

In fact, there are plenty of similarities between puppy infancy and baby infancy, and I feel the exact same way that I used to. I hang in the same room all day long in sweatpants, never leave the house, and don’t have time for a shower.

Okay, the puppies are an excuse. I’m a writer on deadline. Welcome to my world.

Also I haven’t slept through the night in forever, because the puppies haven’t. They nurse around the clock, slurping and sucking, whimpering and whining, and last night, they even started barking while they nursed.

Francesca never tried anything like that.

But she came close.

Every mother can tell you a story about the time their baby bit them while they were nursing, and I have mine. Francesca didn’t really bite, but she did try a nibble.

A nipple nibble.

Or a nip clip.

Mother and baby

The parenting books advise new moms that if you get bitten, you’re supposed to say a simple, but firm, “no.”

Like a puppy.

But you’re not supposed to shame the baby or hit them with a rolled-up newspaper.

In my case, I went with the simple, but firm, “owwwwww.”

Plus a rather lengthy, yet creative, string of profanity.

Yet I’m to be forgiven, because at the time, Francesca had a full set of choppers. This would be an occupational hazard of moms who nurse long term.

Dentition.

If you’re still nursing by the time your baby has braces, you’re on your own.

Even I draw the line.

And at the end of this sleepy but blissful cocooning period, just like before, I’ll end up with a new baby.

Actually, I get to keep two puppies, all for myself.

So my pets will have pets.

The True Meaning of Words

By Lisa

I’m good in an emergency, but first I have to know it’s an emergency.

With Hurricane Sandy, I didn’t.

The first problem was the name.

One of my best friends is named Sandy, and I love that name, so when I heard that Hurricane Sandy was on her way, I wasn’t worried. If you want me to worry about a hurricane, name it Satan.

For Hurricane Satan, I’d move the porch furniture.

But for Hurricane Sandy, I didn’t even buy a flashlight.

At the time, I was working around the clock to meet my deadline for the next Rosato & Associates book. I had a generator that would keep power to the computer and the refrigerator, which is all any girl needs.

Also I was working beside the puppies, who were in their fifth week of life, so I was encased in a furry cocoon of adorableness.

Hurricane Puppy Breath.

Sandy was due to strike on Monday, but the weekend before, I still wasn’t worried, even with all the hurricane reports on TV. Every time I looked up from the computer, the TV showed red swaths over Pennsylvania, but they looked like gift ribbons, and then the newscaster started talking about spaghetti bands.

Another misnomer.

If you want me to worry about something, don’t call it spaghetti. I love spaghetti. Call it something that worries me, like Internal Revenue Service Bands.

Or that I dread:

Tech Support Bands.

The only thing that started to worry me were TV reports about New York City, where Daughter Francesca lives. Increasingly, by Sunday, the TV news showed New York wrapped in tons of red ribbons, and I began to worry about my puppy.

Er, I mean, my daughter.

So I called Francesca, and we talked all Sunday morning because we couldn’t decide whether she should come home. Her apartment was downtown near the Hudson River, but it hadn’t flooded in the last hurricane. My thinking wasn’t clear, either because I was preoccupied with my book, in major denial, or middle-aged in general. At one point, I remember asking her, “But is there really that much water around New York?”

Francesca answered, gently, “Mom, Manhattan is an island. And they call it the Eastern Seaboard for a reason.”

But while we were dithering, Mayor Bloomberg announced that her building was in a mandatory evacuation zone, and she had to evacuate.

Yikes.

So our decision was made for us, but by then, we didn’t know how to get Francesca home. I worried about leaving the puppies for that long to go pick her up, and she couldn’t take a train, since Amtrak doesn’t allow dogs, even in a proper carrier.

Yes, dogs rule our lives.

But we’ll blame Amtrak, for being anti-canine.

In fact, let’s add Amtrak to our spaghetti bands list. After all, they call it the Northeast Corridor and there’s no corridor.

The point is, words have meaning, people. Especially in an emergency.

But as luck would have it, my best friend Franca was in New York that Sunday, running in a race with her daughter Jessica, because that’s the kind of cool girls they are. Franca generously offered to pick up Francesca and bring her home, and I took her up on her offer, so Francesca arrived home in a driving rainstorm Sunday night.

In the nick of time.

We lost power an hour later, and for the next four days, but we could rely on the generator until it ran out of propane. We had no Internet, TV, or phone, so we were cut off from the world, like an involuntary writer’s retreat. We worked and met our deadlines, and when the power returned, we switched on the TV and learned how very lucky we had been, and how many people were suffering in New Jersey, New York, Delaware, and so many other places, having lost their possessions, homes, and businesses, and some even their lives.

But we also saw police, firefighters, EMTs, the National Guard, and neighbors helping each other, and we talked about how lucky we were in Franca, who had gone so far out of her way to bring Francesca home.

And we thought about the true meaning of words. Not words like Eastern Seaboard or corridor, but words like friendship, gratitude, and love.

Thank you, Franca, for being such an amazing friend.

Lisa and BFF Franca having fun at a 3D movie.

And thank you to everyone who has gone out of his way to help someone in need because of Hurricane Sandy.

You’re all invited over.

For spaghetti.

Rolling Without Homies

By Francesca

You can’t feel yourself grow up, but every so often something happens to show you a change has occurred. This is about one of those times.

I live near the Hudson River, a great place to go running, if you like that sort of thing. I don’t. I make myself run to stay in shape, but I hate it. It was on a recent slog—I mean, jog—that I noticed people zipping by me on Rollerblades. I loved rollerblading when I was a kid, but I thought the sport had gone extinct in the nineties. Now seeing these people glide by with the wind in their hair, I felt jealous.

So I flirted with the idea of getting Rollerblades but felt too self-conscious to actually do it. My indecision became a running joke between me and my boyfriend, and we were kidding about it at a party, when a tall, beautiful girl overheard us.

“Ohmigod, do people still Rollerblade?” she asked, her glossed lips sneering.

“I know, I know,” I said. “But, why not? They’re a good workout, they seem fun, and even if they don’t look cool, as a woman, don’t you get tired of having to work it all the time?”

“
I don’t
have to work it,” she said, as to leave no doubt that
I do.
Meanwhile, she was wearing five-inch platform heels, a skintight dress, false lashes, and color contact lenses.

I guess irony didn’t go with her outfit.

This mean-girl’s input was just the push I needed. As soon as I got home that night, I went online and purchased a pair of inline skates.

In the absence of courage, defiance will suffice.

My mother was supportive, provided that I purchase bubble-boy levels of protective gear. She encouraged me to join a club so I’d have people to skate with, but that seemed like a hassle. I emailed a few friends to persuade them to get Rollerblades, too, to no avail.

Still, I was giddy with anticipation. I tracked the delivery of my new toy from UPS Santa daily. When the skates arrived, I didn’t care that I had yet to recruit a single friend; I went out on them that day.

I’m not going to lie, I sucked at first. My street runs downhill to a major road, so I clung to the fence of the neighboring buildings, feeling my way along the hedges and tree boxes. Waiting to cross the street, I held on to streetlights and stop signs like my life depended on it—because it did. And more than once I willfully wiped out to avoid rolling into oncoming traffic.