Four months ago, I pondered whether August was old.

Pish! Old, indeed.

Let me tell you about old.

My son has four razor-sharp teeth.
His hair has grown so long it could just about use a cut.
He can pull himself up to standing in a higgledy-piggledy sort of way.

He has also learned how to pucker up his face and yell loud enough to reach the moon and stars.

And I guess, my friends, that makes him old.

Six months ago, August, you were just a squawking 8.5 pounder.

We wrapped you in a square cloth that went two and a half times round your tiny frame. In fact, we could cover your entire torso with a kidney-shaped burp cloth.

Truth be told, most of the time you slept, eyes shut tight against the big, bright world. And when you weren’t sleeping you shouted your little lungs out. And when you weren’t sleeping or shouting, you drank milk, greedily, slinging your head about, while your mum flailed over the complexities of “the latch.” At the beginning, you were small enough to be tucked under one arm in the so-called “football hold.” I never worked out what was so football about it.

You wore size “N” nappies. And your hair was wispy, flyaway silk.

And then, tick-tock, time went by. And you got bigger. And your hair went from flyaway silk to soft little spikes. You outgrew your newborn T-shirts. You moved up to size 1 nappies. And then size 2. And then size 3.

Now, you are strong enough to sit up in a highchair and you’ve learned how to chew your food. You eat rice and fruit and vegetables and cheese. And you think drinking milk is for babies. You know how to make me laugh. And when you look someone in the eye, it means something. You are not so little any more.

But here’s the funny thing: Six months from now, I know I’ll look back at this time, the time when you were just a 16.5 pounder and marvel at how small you were “way back when” — in the days before you had teeth, before you could walk or talk or kick or run or crack genius jokes.

Far be it from me to hold you back, but oh my darling, don’t grow up too quickly!

It’s official: I’m a working mum.

There. I said it. Easier said than done? Well, sure.

But wait, there’s more.

Being a working mum has put a lot of things in perspective for me:

It’s true I can’t enjoy pastries and hot chocolate at 4 p.m. Or amble around Central Park at noon. Or sing lullabies to my bouncing baby. Or throw sweet potatoes up at the ceiling. Or fill sippy cups. Or rub August’s dry skin down with lotion. Or change diapers. Again. And again. And again.

Fine.

But compared to operating as a stay-at-home mum, heading back to work is practically breezy.

It’s true I’m forever getting caught in subway doors or being spat out at the wrong station (signal failure, again). Or dashing down to Pret for a cheese sandwich (bleh). Or sitting in computer training sessions. Or organizing meetings. Or jaunting down and then up and then down and then up to the quote-unquote mother’s room.

But I can tell you without hesitation, that being a stay-at-home mum is one of the hardest jobs going. It will wipe you out before you can say baby wipes. It’ll blow you down and knock your socks off. It’ll have your head spinning faster than a carousel (much faster, actually). I’ve lived both lives now and I’ve seen the light.

If anyone tries to tell you that staying at home with a baby is just giggles and games, push back. Because yes, it is a joy. But it’s also a job. In fact, if I had to put a price tag on the task, I’d say $150,000 annual salary minimum.

That stay-at-home mums don’t get paid is just about the biggest scam ever.

Sunday was the last day.

Our last lazy-dazy, silly-billy, do-nothing-at-all day together.

And it felt like the last day in the world; the end of everything; certainly the end of an era.

I looked at August. I let my eyes linger on his little pork thighs. I stroked his feathery hair. I put my face to his face and he clamped his gums down on my nose.

We didn’t do anything out of the ordinary — there was the usual jaunt to the supermarket, the changing of nappies, the bath and bed, but everything was bittersweet to the brim.

Two days on, well, we’ve both survived. Reports from the babysitter have August squealing with delight over peek-a-boo and her renditions of “Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.” In fact, might he be having more fun with her than he did with ol’ mummy?

If so, I’m OK with that. Really, I am. Besides which, work is its own brand of fun. And sometimes — in fact, more often than not — I forget to be sad. So there we are.

I’ve had a good run at maternity leave. I’ve gotten used to my baby and I’ve learned innumerable skills such as:

And just when I’ve got the hang of this whole baby thing, the calendar tells me it’s time to go back to work. Which it is. Really. The question is: Am I ready?

Mentally? Yes, I’m ready. But in the long afternoon hours of motherhood, it’s possible I may not be as sharp as I once was. My husband has tried to ready me for the tidal wave that’ll hit me on my return to the workplace. As in —

“Francesca, do you know where you put X?” OR “Francesca, did you remember to do Y?” OR “Francesca, do you recall the address of Z?” And the answer is inevitably, “Um….”

It’s true, I’m a bit slow on the old uptake and I have a tendency toward forgetfulness that’s worse than ever, but I figure once I get back into the swing of things, my brain cells will rise to the occasion.

Last week they were put to the test. I did two dry runs in the office: full work days blocked with meetings and a touch of editing.

It was like the first day of school. I checked out the ladies’ rooms on three different floors. I learned to navigate the staircases flitting from floor to floor: 7, 6, 5, 4. I wandered through the sea of desks in the newsroom. I inspected the cafeteria and learned how the card system worked. I zipped down (or was it up?) to the mother’s room. I visited HR. I stopped in at the general reception on 7. I zinged up and down in the elevators. I shot back and forth from my desk to the central coffee station. I was like Eloise on her first day of work (if she had worked). Skedaddle here; Skedaddle there.

And it was all good, until (oh you knew this was coming…) I realized I had misplaced my iPhone. Whatever claims I might have made about being oh-so-ready and oh-so-on-top-of-things, well, this gave me pause.

I needed to retrace my steps. But where to begin? And which floor?

Half an hour later and empty-handed, I returned to my desk. I looked over to the reporter to my right: “You haven’t seen an iPhone have you?” Well, as a matter of fact, he had just received an email sent company-wide announcing an iPhone discovered in the ladies room on 6. The owner would need to identify the animal on the “cute little boy’s shirt.”

Well, folks, the animal was a sheep.

Tags: Maternity Leave, Work

August is five months old and it’s time we started thinking about schools.

That sounds absolutely ridiculous, but it couldn’t be further from funny.

In fact, an old colleague stopped me in the WSJ hallways today (more on that to come) and pointed out that it’s never too early to start planning for your child’s education.

And I agree. I like words; Michael likes numbers; so it follows that August is required to like both. As an equation, it might look something like this:

F(abcd) + M(1234) = A(a1b2c3d4)

Or something to that effect.

This is all a long-winded way of explaining why, the other day, I found myself thumbing through a copy of “The Manhattan Directory of Private Nursery Schools.”

Suffice it to say that as far as Manhattan nursery schools go, there’s a lid for every pot. There are fancy schools (lots) and less fancy schools (some). There are really expensive schools (lots) and just expensive schools (some). There are schools which focus on friendship. There are schools for those with special needs. There are Montessori schools. There are big, bustling schools with cool uniforms. And there are quirky schools with just a handful of students.

Children can expect to learn various important tricks such as blockbuilding, puzzling and storytelling (all necessary skills), but I can’t help but be enamored by the schools which push a second language on the kids. (“Students will notice that though they speak in English, the teachers only respond in French.”)

I read the school profiles with interest and before you could say — diploma! — I found myself examining the primary schools, high schools and universities that the students go on to attend.

Would these schools do? And what is August thinking these days in terms of college, anyway?

I looked back at August with a raised eyebrow. And I waited for a response. And he looked at me and gurgles. And it dawned on me that my five-month-old can’t even talk yet.

So. Be. It.

Anyone who thinks snow is just fun and games has clearly never had to push a stroller through 19 packed inches of the stuff.

Sidewalks aren’t the problem. Store owners and landlords take responsibility for their respective patches of land outside their buildings and storefronts. It’s the curbs and the corners for which nobody takes responsibility.

I know, I completely know — you’re reading this wondering why I’m making such a mountain out of a molehill. But crosswalks and curbs in the snow in New York are poor under any circumstances. And when you introduce a stroller, the result is downright hideous.

It started well enough. August and I were on our way to Baby Yoga. We decided to take 79th Street instead of 80th figuring it would have a higher likelihood of being cleared. But where we wanted to cross, well, it was impossible to pass. We retraced our steps, circled backwards, finally ventured out into the road. The walls of snow on each side were as high as the stroller seat. And before you can say “push” we were well and truly wedged. No going forward no going back. A friendly mom came along and without even asking, hoisted up the front wheels while I pushed from the back end. She knew she needn’t seek permission for that. “Sometimes it helps,” she whispered conspiratorially “if you just pull the stroller backwards instead of pushing it forward.” I nodded and puffed and plunged on.

By the time I arrived at Baby Yoga, my cheeks were red with the effort. We’d been thwarted at so many corners we’d had to take an outrageously circuitous route all the way over Broadway and back to Amsterdam.

It took me at least half an hour to walk the four blocks home from yoga. And later in the day when I needed to pick up some new glasses, it took me a good 45 minutes to zip (ha!) down 10 blocks. I won’t pretend I ever got the hang of slithering my stroller over densely packed snow. But I can declare that it became less of a nightmare and more of a game. See here:

Mummy slides through the puddle protected by her rubbery boots — plus one point
The stroller glides through too — plus one point
Mummy gets wedged at 69th street so a delivery guy helps her across Columbus — minus one point
Mummy manages to get to Le Pain Quotidian for a hot chocolate to go — plus one point
The hot chocolate flies out of the top of the paper cup, drowning her hand — minus one point
But Mummy is wearing gloves and doesn’t get burned — plus one point

And so it goes…

Weather reports call for another dumping this Wednesday. Watch out, snow, I’ve got bones to pick with you.

When August was born, I made myself frantic trying to pack his newborn days with exciting activities. Playmats! Books! Songs! Pictures!

But then, a wise friend pointed out that even a nappy change constitutes an activity for a two-week-old. And so I started lingering for half-hour stretches at the changing table. Dispensing vitamins in the dropper counted as entertainment too. And of course there was the matter of getting dressed which could take an entire day. While a pediatrician visit could keep us in conversation for an entire week.

Five months on, these everyday activities tick along more swiftly. We can toss on an outfit in two-and-a-half minutes, suck down vitamins like Coca-Cola up a straw and do a nappy change one-handed while making up our own clever verses to Kumbayah.

All of which means that once the vitamins are dispensed and the outfits selected and we’ve made up several songs, there’s quite a bit of time in the day remaining. To do what? Well, that is the question.

Given that it’s an appalling naught point naught degrees outside, the park is obviously OUT. But my child being my child tends gets fed up easily which means that laying in the crib and staring up at the ceiling is also OUT. And so, before you can say, “yawn” we find ourselves packing into the stroller and bustling about to various classes on the Upper West Side.

Monday’s class is “Story Pirates” at the JCC — a campfire-esque singalong involving a guitar and various shakable instruments. Even though Pirates bumps up against feeding hour (11 a.m. SHARP) it’s worth it just for the music. Plus, today the group leaders employed a parachute and that’s always win-win with August.

On Wednesday, we have “Hands On” — an utterly precious music class for precocious babies in which piano is played, instruments are examined and songs are sung. It’s a festival of aural deliciousness which August adores.

On Thursday, there is “Mummy and Baby Yoga” — one glorious hour during which August lays on his mat and watches mummy do triangle pose. If he were older, he’d have a good chuckle at how inflexible mummy is, but right now he still thinks she’s perfect. (Ha! That’s a good one.) And after mummy has had her yoga, there is baby yoga comprising songs and tummy time and toes-to-the-nose full-body stretches.

That leaves Tuesday and Friday: long days on which we yearn to escape our wintry cabin. Shall we sign up for more music? Gym? Are we old enough for arts and crafts yet? (OK, even this Type A mummy admits: No!) Maybe we just need to CHILL OUT. It is winter, after all, and hibernation has its plus points.

Tags: Activities, Playing, Singing

Today, we brought August to an elegant Saturday lunch on the Upper East Side. There was a cheese and salad course, and there were fine wines. Our hosts even trotted out linen napkins for the occasion.

August did his best to behave. He sat nicely in our laps (Michael and I traded him off) and he didn’t drool too terribly much on our hosts’ white sofa. It helped that we’d dressed August in one of his finer pairs of corduroy trousers (a change of pace from his usual tracksuit bottoms), even if his shirt did keep rolling up under the armpits to reveal his itty-bitty belly button.

But after an hour or so, August got FED UP. He was tired and wanted to kick things. We tried putting him to sleep in the car seat which he protested violently, so we handed him over to our kind friend Lauren to be rocked until his eyelids closed.

Which they did. The eyelids, I mean.

And then? Then came the snores.

My child is five months old and he … snores? Well, kind Lauren thought it was ADORABLE. “Come over here,” she said, “so you can hear him snore! It’s so cute!”

And you know what? It was adorable. It was completely and utterly, squishily, outrageously CUTE. Little, tiny, barely audible snorelets like the noise a newborn piglet might make.

Now, if August had been a grown-up and snored in a social setting it would have been just about the furthest thing from cute. Know how you feel when the guy next to you on the plane starts snoring up a storm with his mouth gaping wide? Ugh.

But it turns out there’s an absolute avalanche of cute things a baby can get away which a grown-up just can’t.

For example:

Cellulite butt — Charming for a baby; far from charming for an adult
Farts in public — Always worth remarking on (the louder the funnier); Not so with an adult
Porky thighs — Adorable for an infant; not so adorable later on
Robust, gobbling appetite — Sign of health in a baby; sign of gluttony/greed (Seven Deadly SINS) in an adult
Thumb-sucking — Pretty cute for an infant; pretty disturbing for an adult
Paunchy tummy — Cuddle-worthy for a baby; Pinch-worthy for an adult
Exposed belly button — Cute for a baby; TMI for an adult

And that’s just for starters.

Is it all really so cloyingly cute? Or has evolution just whipped our minds into thinking so?

One cute, curious, cuddly child seeks one fun, engaging, stimulating, nanny. Nanny should be an accomplished reader. Nanny should have a decent singing voice. Nanny should be willing to go for walks rain or shine. Nanny should be willing to lay on the floor under the farmyard gym. Nanny should have the organizational wherewithal to get child to various events and classes in the neighborhood. Nanny should know how to heat up milk. Nanny should definitely know how to change a diaper.

A few no-nos: No alcohol on the job; no cigarettes; definitely no drugs; no TV; no obnoxious cellphone calls; no trans-fats.

Technically, I’m sure a lot of people fit the bill…

Like, the woman whose voicemail clicked through to sultry, seductive tunes for 30 seconds which was relieved by her honeyed voice asking callers to leave their number. I’m sure August would have adored her, but for me? No thanks. Click.

Or the jolly woman who told me she already had a job, but that her (un-fun, monosyllabic) daughter was available to work right away. And wouldn’t I like to talk to her on the phone? Now? No thanks. Click.

Or the woman who called me at 9 a.m. and blew through my apartment like a whirlwind less than 30 minutes later, laughing and then, um, crying. And who didn’t know when it was time to Leave. Please. Now.

Or the lovely woman whose eyes betrayed an inner sadness and who said she could sing songs from her native land — dirges? — and who exited the apartment slump-shouldered and despairing.

Or the woman who sent me a full itemized list of her financial requirements: salary, overtime, personal days, vacations, merit raises and … bonus? (Who do you think I am, lady, Larry Page?! Good grief.)

There are the unrealistic can-do-alls — “Commute five hours a day? No problem!” There are the whiny what’s-in-it-for-mes — “So exactly how many personal and sick days do I get?” There are the whisperers — “….., …. ……. …….” There are the in-it-for-the-moneys — “I like kids. Wait. Do I?” There are the nose-turned-up-ers — “Food shopping. Hm. OK, I could do that.”

OK, so seriously how hard can it be? All I want is someone just like me, but much, much, much better. I don’t care what language you speak as long as you speak it well. I don’t care if you sing out of tune as long as you sing. I don’t care if your drawings are lousy or you’re not much of a storyteller (there are books for that).

And I think we can all agree that a desire to work with kids would help your case. Yes, that would definitely help.