13 Things About Brownstone Baby

1. He was born on Thanksgiving Day.

2. He was born 12 weeks early.

3. He therefore, like all preemies, has a double identity: Sagittarius and Aquarius.

4. He loves the stuffed loon on his activity gym.

5. He thinks diaper changes are funny.

6. He’s ticklish.

7. He abhors being hungry.

8. He finds his Fisher Price swing sometimes hilarious, sometimes disturbing.

9. He had a full head of hair when he was born; no mean feat for a 28 weeker.

10. Since he learned to stick his tongue out it’s become his favorite trick.

11. He loves bath time more than any other time of day.

12. He loves speed whether its in the car or stroller: stoplights and traffic jams make him angry.

13. He's been hitting every single milestone when he would have had he been born on his due date--sometimes earlier. (Rolling over at 3 months!)

Avian Analogies

To take the bird metaphor further: she who lays her eggs in an open field has to be more aggressive in defending her chicks than she who lays in a camouflaging tree.

Me? I laid my egg on a freshly mown suburban lawn. Danger all around: kids playing ball and dogs digging and cars speeding past.

Nestless, I used my very own puffed up self to protect him. And letting go of that? Ah. Harder than I thought.

Mountain Buggy Strollers In Brooklyn

MAS in his Mountain Buggy Urban Elite


First off, let me say that I don’t really think you can get by with one stroller or one baby carrier anymore than you can get by with one pair of shoes. Sometimes you need a sandal, sometimes you need a sneaker and sometimes only a rain boot will do.

In the best of all possible worlds you’d get a lightweight stroller for hopping on and off subways, a rugged jogging stroller for marathon training (see how funny I can be?) and a chichi but durable Bugaboo for urban restaurant and shopping excursions.

But. Financial circumstances being what they are, forced to make a compromise Ebronis and I were when MAS entered the world.

So we bought a Mountain Buggy jogging stroller. Because I had—still have—this idea that I’m going to get back in shape this summer by training for the NIKE 10k. Not that I really have all that much more to lose—skipping the entire third trimester was a really great way to forgo the whole mommybody thing. (And no: I don’t recommend it as a strategy: a 2.5 pound baby is a frightening thing.

Back to the stroller.

Things I love about my Mountain Buggy Urban Elite:

The rugged wheels handle the often-crappy Brooklyn streets & sidewalks without once jostling the baby awake.

A swiveling front wheel makes turning city corners a breeze but it also locks into place for stability on long runs.

The water bottle holder puts a cold drink at my fingertips.

The seat is extra comfy and MAS has no trouble napping out.

The entire seat and sun canopy snap off for easy cleaning.

The $50 car seat clip meant I never had to wake MAS when going from car to stroller to apartment. (If you have a colicky baby like I did, you’ll understand the true value of such a feature.)

Things I Hate About My Mountain Buggy Urban Elite:

Since it weighs in at 23 lbs there’s no way I’m lugging that thing up or down any subway stairs soon.

The wide wheelbase makes for a stable ride over a variety of terrain but also means I can’t get into certain narrow Brooklyn storefronts.

There’s no coffee cup holder. (Hello people: caffeine is the only antidote to infant-induced sleep deprivation. Sheesh.)

Keep in mind that this thing is the SUV of strollers: its overall appearance is mountain bike meets REI fashion. Not surprisingly, maitre d’s see us coming & cringe. Some, like the folks at Chestnut, mask their chagrin so well they deserve a medal for the effort.

Given all the above we’ve decided to purchase a second lightweight stroller for subways & restaurants. A used Maclaren, for example: 11 pounds or less & folds into near nothingness.

Got one?

Could He Be Teething?

3 months adjusted seems a little early, no? But all of the sudden he's gnawing on everything.

When The Worst Isn’t That Bad

Giving birth 12 weeks early was the biggest crisis I’ve dealt with in my adult life.

But it wasn’t an entirely negative experience:

I meet a group of really wonderful women and some pretty tough preemies.

I got to know a team of phenomenal NICU doctors and nurses.

I got an extra three months with MAS—months during which he would have otherwise been a mystery to me. (And what a miracle to be able to watch the rapid and spectacular development that occurs during the third trimester.)

But the real kicker: I discovered something really important about myself, something that has changed me in the most profound way.

Despite my previous doubts, it turns out I’m actually a remarkably strong person. Life can throw its worst at me and I don’t crumble. I bend like a reed. I bounce back easily and quickly. I don’t lose perspective even while I’m terrified and the walls are crumbling around me.

And somehow knowing that about myself changes everything. And that’s the gift MAS gave me: faith that no matter what happens from here on out, I’ll rise out of the ashes.

When Daddy Chooses The Day's Outfit

What They All Want To Know

Last week on the way out of the studio after mommy & baby yoga, one of the other mothers stopped to talk to me about MAS. (At the beginning of class I always give the preemie version of an elevator pitch: “He’s five months but he was born 12 weeks prematurely so he looks and acts like a 2 month old.”)

“So what happened—why he did come so early?” she asked after commenting on MAS’s cuteness. (Which is inordinate.)

She herself had had high blood pressure when pregnant with her son. Almost induced at 37 weeks, but through meditation had been able to keep it under control until his due date.

She looked at me expectantly.

Why had this calamity befallen us? Why oh why? Ah, there were so many reasons to choose from. Which to offer first?

I was dehydrated.

I had a urinary tract infection.

I had a yeast infection.

I got pregnant again too quickly after the miscarriage.

That D&C they did afterwards to make sure “everything got expelled”—it fucked me up some how.

I had a progesterone imbalance.

I was too stressed out. In general.

I jinxed things by being afraid I wouldn’t be a very good mother.

Paint fumes! We’d painted his room not two days earlier. Ebronis and his Mom had done the actual work but I was in the living room. I walked in to check on them. I even helped for a minute, to show how I wanted it done. Why had I done that?

Somehow, without even knowing it, I’d plucked an apple from a witch’s garden.

But instead I mumbled, “They don’t know why it happened,” and strangely: felt ashamed.

I was telling her a truth so terrible it should be sugarcoated. That these things happen for no reason at all. The bad things, the good things. Random.

And the moral? That all you can do is be grateful for the baby that makes it, for the life that survives. Do your best to forget the reasons why.