I guess I like to stay a few years ahead.

When I was twelve years-old (and didn’t know a tube top from a tube of lipstick), I fought for a subscription to Seventeen Magazine. At sixteen, I pitched a fit for Cosmo and all those luscious “Bedside Guides” inserted between the orgasm and edible undie columns. (Mom won absolutely every one of these arguments and I read Archie comics until I was, like, seventeen.) Now, in my late 20’s–and after reading Doree Shafrir’s great piece on Jezebel–I want to rent the entire first season of Thirtysomething.

Hubby’s not going to like that fact that I’m returning our weekend DVD selection of I Love You Man and replacing it with a show dedicated to compromised, disgruntled women but… he’ll just have to deal. Doree’s column piqued my interest in its description of the 80’s TV drama and Hollywood’s version of the careerist’s life or the stay-at-home mother’s life (”never the twain shall meet” kinda thing).

It’s true–we ladies wage a battle once we welcome a sweet-smelling babe into our lives and try, desperately, to hold on to the vestiges of a career. We want to be moms and we want to stay relevant. We want some modicum of the professional and social lives that we had pre-baby (the lives that our husbands are allowed to enjoy no matter how many tiny bodies inhabit the house). Is that so much to ask?

Thirtysomething: When the Mommy Wars Wore Shoulder Pads (Jezebel)

I moved from Alabama to New York City with notions of a [writing] career and an appetite for downtown French bistros and charming, angular men. Also, I refused to accept the path of least resistance for a well-bred Southern girl halfway into the third decade of her life: marriage and babies.

Last week, at a book event in Long Island, I read the above paragraph from my novel, stopped and let out a little, nervous laugh. I felt the need to acknowledge that, yes, I was wearing a wedding ring and that, yes, my husband was at home watching our baby girl.

“Okay! I’m 29 years-old, hitched and with a little bean at home! Does that make me less of an ARTISTE? Less of a liberated woman?!” I wanted to shout. “I didn’t take the easy way out–none of this was planned!” I continued in my head. “Things happened out of order. The baby came first. Then the proposal and elopement. Then we finally traded in the SoHo studio for something more ‘adult…’”

No one in the audience cares, I realize. These are my own issues. For whatever reason, part of me feels like I’ve lost some credibility as a modern, independent, New York woman now that I’m married, a mother… and happy.

But I’m being ridiculous. I’m not Susan Sontag. I write about food, sometimes I write about love. When there’s a pretty sunset over the Hudson, I’ll write about that too. And marriage and children by no means represent the path of least resistance.

The people in the folding chairs patiently wait for me to continue my reading. I wonder what’ll happen if I tell them that the “Belle in the Big Apple” days are over. I see the world differently now. And, really, the vantage point behind a stroller–or next to my husband–is far sweeter than anything I ever did alone.

“So, Jamie, Parker and I are thinking about setting up shop in Charleston…”

They nod and smile and still seem interested.

I sing the Golden Girls theme song to my daughter when she can’t fall asleep.

I know this is ridiculous but it’s the only song I know by heart. (I haven’t even admitted my 1980’s sitcom lullaby to Jamie…) On second thought, I do know the lyrics to the Fresh Prince of Bel Air

Now this is a story all about how
My life got twisted upside down
So I’d like to take a minute
Just sit right back
I’ll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air…

(Insert heavy back beat here, something I would do with no musical accompaniment and probably embarass the daylights out of my 3 1/2 month-old daughter).

But, words like “twisted” really shouldn’t be part of a bedtime lullaby, right? So I skip the Fresh Prince, maybe hum a few chords of “Sweet Baby James” and then inevitably fall back on Blanche, Rose, Dorothy and Sofia.

My mom sang the “Teddy Bear Picnic” and myriad others to me. I’m sure my lovely, very maternal sister-in-law, Wesley, has an extensive repertoire of sweet, simple tunes to sing to my 5 month-old nephew. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, isn’t it? Once you pop out a baby, soothing songs flood your oxytocin-marinated brain.

Nope, not for me.

But, the more I sing about the 4 girls from Miami, the more I like my de-facto lullaby.

Thank you for bein’ a friend
Travel down the road and back again
Your heart is true
You’re a pal and a confidante

And if you threw a party
Invited everyone you knew
You would see the biggest gift would be from me
And the card attached would say thank you for bein’ a frie-eeend.

We’ll just forget that in the last episode Blanche slept with the mailman.

Exactly one year ago today, I saw two lines. The pink  stripes glared at me, challenged me, petrified me. They thrust me into a life that I was sure I wasn’t ready for.  I looked down at the box of the pregnancy test.

“99% accurate!”

Lord have mercy.

How could I carry a life when I wasn’t even sure of my own?     

Jamie and I sunk down into the cool, iron chairs on my patio, listened to a faraway radio and stared at my belly, as if it would reveal something. We saw nothing. And, for a moment, I’m pretty sure we felt nothing.

Numb in the August heat.

A beer (for Jamie), an orange juice (for me) and a back-up test later, we were having a baby. In quick succession, I would also have my book on the shelves, go on a seven week-long book tour, get health insurance, plan a wedding & a (mini) honeymoon, swallow my first horse-pill-of-a-prenatal-vitamin and become a frequent shopper at ”BuyBuy Baby.”

And somewhere in there, I began to let go…just a little bit. I allowed myself to surrender to a plan that was much bigger than anything I could ever schedule in my blackberry, write on my calendar or plan out with my agent.

Two would become three. And that baby– and those two lines–would, somehow, point us in the right direction.

In her pink, smocked linen onesie (that was decidedly NOT cocktail length), Parker arrived at the West Village cocktail party. It was her first. That’s us, over on the left-hand side of the picture; I’m wearing a turquoise mini-dress (once again, NOT cocktail length), clutching my baby, trying to feed her the last drops of dinner so I can tuck her into the bassinet and mingle.

My arms ache, sweat beads down my back because of the little body pressing against me… But, “You’re out!” I think. “You’re with adults, talking about New York things,
nibbling on blue cheese crackers, gazing from the 12th floor out onto the lights of 7th Avenue.”

I reach for another thick, silver dollar-sized cracker. These are good, definitely going in the book, I think. In French, their name is Epaulets de Bleu d’Avergne–basically, the fancy, blue cheese version of cheese straws. Jamie and I have experimented with the recipe all day long, hoping that they’ll be good enough to make it into the book. They’re just salty enough, the crumb is fine, a bone-dry Chablis would be the perfect accompaniment…

For two minutes, I don’t have a baby girl. My boyfriend of three years is a dozen blocks north, slaving away in a kitchen, trying to prove himself to the boss from Lyon. When he gets off from work at midnight, we’ll head to Blue Ribbon for bone marrow, steak tartare and a few glasses of Bordeaux. Tomorrow, I’ll get up early, test recipes and write all day…

And then I move my eyes from the string of lights to a tiny, pink body across the room. Parker is asleep in someone’s arms. I have a baby, a husband, limitations– and love– in my life like I’ve never had before. Delicious–and overwhelming.

Photos by Colleen Duffley

Grab a blue-and-white striped apron and leave the stilettos at home! (Fine, wear the Jimmy’s to class and then change into Pumas…) Starting in October, at the Institute of Culinary Education, Jamie and I will be spending Friday nights with y’all, teaching you how to put the wedding pots and pans to good use, how to stir up the best cocktail in town (and it won’t cost you $15 a pop) and how to pull together the perfect dinner party menu.

Sign up now! I might even bring pictures of Baby Parker to class…

Gourmet Breakfast in Bed
Friday, October 2, 6-10:30 PM

Breakfast in bed is one of the most luxurious indulgences to offer your partner at the end of a long week. This menu features a selection of gourmet breakfast dishes that will make him or her feel even more special, especially since they come with champagne. You will make Sherry Shrimp and Grits; Blueberry Pancakes; Buttermilk and Raspberry Muffins; Baked Apples with Crème Fraîche; Breakfast Burritos; Bacon and Sweet Potato Quiche; Lump Crabmeat Omelets; and Champagne Bar.
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Casual Entertaining (Cooking for the Big Game)
Friday, October 23, 6-10:30 PM

What better way to spend a weekend afternoon than to invite some friends over to cheer on your favorite sports team? Chips and dips will not do, though; instead, serve them sophisticated dishes that can be made ahead, so as to not tear you away from the action, such as Mini Crab Cakes; Cheddar and Brown Ale Dip with Ham and Pumpernickel Skewers; Popcorn Trio (Rosemary-Parmesan, Smoked Paprika-Cheddar, Roasted Garlic); Turkey Chili; Buttermilk Chicken Wings; Pork and Chipotle Sliders; Bourbon Milkshakes; and Spiced Pecans.
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First Dinner Party
Friday, November 13, 6-10:30 PM

Hosting your first dinner party as a couple is the opportunity to show off both your entertaining and your cooking skills, with the goal to impress your guests and have a good time. This menu will guarantee that you’ll never be short on visitors, as you prepare Tuna Tartare; Pear, Celery, and Radish Salad; Halibut with Tomato Compote and Smoky Eggplant Puree; Brined Pork Loin with Tender Mustard Greens and Brown Butter-Balsamic Autumn Vegetable Puree; Cinnamon Spice Tart with Carrot Mousse; and Pomegranate Cocktail.
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Cocktail Party
Friday, December 11, 6-10:30 PM

Nibbles and drinks—what better way to spend an evening with friends? Entertain them with a menu that will make them linger long past the cocktail hour, with dishes such as Butterbean Crostini; Grilled Butternut Squash and Pesto; Oven Arancini; Merguez Meatballs with Cucumber Dip; Vodka-“Cured” Salmon with Arugula and Pomegranate; Manchego and Quince Sandwiches; White Chocolate Mousse with Dark Rum Cherries; Ginger Mule; and Raspberry Gin Soda.
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