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By Wendy Atterberry, October 31, 2011 11:24 pm

My first visit to New York was in the fall of 2004, a month before the presidential election. I came to visit my then-boyfriend who was here for a few weeks doing a rotation for med school. Exactly three years later—almost to the day—I moved here—this time, to live with Drew, the man I’d been cross-country dating for the last year and a half. We moved to Brooklyn in June of last year and by fall, I felt at home, finally, nestled on our little tree-lined block, ten minutes from Prospect Park. I spent many a late summer and fall afternoon riding my bike along the park loop, just as I had in Central Park before that and the lake front in Chicago before that.

I do my best thinking on a bike, and last fall the topic I pondered the most was motherhood and when I wanted to have a baby (Drew had already made it clear he was ready whenever I was, and the sooner the better). You can’t live in Brooklyn and not think about parenthood. I once heard someone describe this borough as having an aggressive presence of babies and that’s exactly right. To put it in perspective, I started a new moms’ group in my neighborhood a few weeks ago, anticipating an isolating winter ahead if I didn’t make friends with other women having babies, and in less than a week I’d connected with 15 other new mothers (or mothers-to-be) within five blocks of me. In fact, in the last two weeks, five of us have given birth (all to boys!). That’s a lot, right? I mean, for a relatively small urban neighborhood?

Anyway, my point is: you can’t escape babies in Brooklyn—at least, not in my part of Brooklyn, and so, on my bike rides last fall as I passed countless women carrying their infants in Ergos and Byorns and Moby wraps, I thought a lot about when I’d want to have my own little mini me (or mini Drew). I went back and forth and back and forth, afraid—petrified, really—of making a definitive decision. What if it turned out I couldn’t get pregnant? What if I could? What if it took a really long time? What if it happened right away? Every scenario seemed really fucking scary, and as much as I wanted to put off the decision-making indefinitely—and all the decisions that would inevitably stem from this one—I was 34 and knew the clock was ticking.

Continue reading 'Thoughts From A Two-Week-Old Mother'»

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By Jasmine Curry, January 10, 2011 6:00 am

Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream.

I have dreams, too. Most involve giant penguins and the number 47.

As for that famous speech, I’ve always believed that someday it will truly become reality.

But who am I to stand from the curvaceous slopes of California and shout my opinions? As a person of Middle Eastern and Irish descent, I am considered Caucasian. Yet, as a child, I never understood why I had to check the box that said “white,” because my skin is a golden brown. When people ask me what I am, and I reply, “white,” they look at me like I have lobsters crawling out of my ears.

So, I always looked different, but felt the same as everyone else. They really should add an “ethnically ambiguous” box on the next census.

When my husband and I discovered we were expecting, we had visions of an exotic little baby and gave her a Hawaiian name. Boy, were we wrong. Due to the amazing lottery wheel of genetics, my daughter has fair complexion, blond hair and blue eyes. Perfect strangers have expressed skepticism that she’s actually ours. We even joke that if we hadn’t both witnessed her come out of me, we’d suspect we were the victims of a baby swap. (For the record: No, I’m not the nanny. No, I didn’t adopt her. And, no, for the last time, she isn’t the mailman’s kid.)

Who knew that the Ethnically Ambiguous Duo could produce a child that Hitler would be proud of? (Not that it should matter whether Hitler would’ve been proud of our kid, mind you.)

Raising a child can be rewarding, demanding, frustrating and exhilarating, all bundled together like some evil cell phone plan of parenthood. There’s Play-Doh embedded in my carpet, my arms are sore from swinging a three-year-old around the living room, I can recite Goodnight Moon from heart, and if I have to watch one more episode of Dora the Explorer, I may just scream. Thank God she doesn’t know of the existence of a certain demonic purple dinosaur. Continue reading 'A White Girl Can Dream, Too'»