Well, it’s official: I’m a mom. As most of you know, Emily Juliet was born on May 6th. It was an incredible experience, and one I really never thought would happen to me, but low and behold, nipping at the heels of my 40th birthday (which was June 8th), it did. Miracles do happen.

So, I’ve been a mom for six weeks now, and I am still standing—exhausted and hunched over a bit—but I’ve made it through the first of many milestones: the six week mark. It’s been quite a steep learning curve, maybe along the lines of Mount Everest. This should come as no surprise considering that I had zero experience with infants, but as it turned out, I was even more unprepared for the challenges that motherhood would present. Aside from an inability to write, or even to contribute to my own blog (thanks to my interns Bao, Dara and Susan for helping me out), there have been a myriad of other changes I’ve gone through. I thought I’d catalogue my discoveries, beginning with the most overwhelming of the lot: sleep.

Turns out, you don’t sleep at all when you have a baby. I knew there would be little sleep, but I didn’t realize that the first few weeks would mean no sleep. Sure, I had a few opportunities for an hour or two here or there, and everyone said “YOU HAVE TO SLEEP WHEN SHE SLEEPS,” but that was not possible for me. I was too anxious or too overtired to actually drift off. My mind would race, I would hear her crying in my head, and I’d just toss and turn, angry at myself that I could not get any rest, and even more stressed out at the end of my hour “nap.” I’ve now come to the conclusion that people who say “Sleep when she sleeps,” have never had a baby. And if they have, they’ve conveniently forgotten what it was really like early on. Talk to me in three months and maybe I will have forgotten too. I hope so.

Boobs: You may think you are a modest person. You may think that your boobs are private property. Then you start to breastfeed. Boobs are no longer personal playgrounds reserved for husbands. They are feeding ports. They are out anywhere (Downtown Bar, Brooklyn Bridge Flea Market, Cobble Hill Park), anytime, in front of anyone. Just the way it is.

Time: Fifteen minutes to a new mother is the equivalent of two hours to a regular person. Believe me, when your sole window of personal time is fifteen minutes, you make the most of it. I am now an Olympic multi-tasker. Give me my fifteen minutes and I can shower, clean spit up, check email, clean spit up, change a diaper, clean spit up, make a phone call, clean spit up, look for a bigger apartment (we need more space, if you know of anything big and cheap, let me know). You get the idea. Spit up is a major theme in my life at this point.

Eating: Food, like sleep, is a luxury. My definition of a meal has now morphed from Greenmarket sourced, multi-course tasting menu to a random buffet made up of few crackers and cheese, a scrap of chicken, a mouthful of pasta, a bite of pita and hummus, a few forkfuls of salad, and a couple of sips of coffee here and there (cold coffee because I can never manage to get to it when it’s hot). That’s pretty much what I’ve consumed in the past two days. Not even remotely kidding.

Weight Loss: Anyone looking to lose weight? Have a baby. You have no time to work out, but you have no time to eat anything, either. Oprah: Forget Bob Greene, have a kid.

Daddies: Thank god for Craig. Without him to help (he does everything short of lactate), I might have given up after the first week. Actually, who am I kidding? I wouldn’t have made it past the first day. Props also go to my mom for being the best grandma/unpaid nanny ever.

Hormones: Please siphon them out of my body, now! Craig would second this request. I feel for him.  One minute I am a happy, joyful mother in a state of such pure bliss I don’t think I can contain myself, and the next I am a cranky, obnoxious bitch from hell, and the next a sad, sappy, teary-eyed mess. There’s nothing like life post-partum!

Love: It expands quicker than your waistline after a pig roast. It feels infinite. The thing is, for me, my soul’s quotient for love has only been matched by its capacity for fear. At three weeks old, Emily spiked a high fever and gave us a big scare. We were in the hospital for three days. There were IVs, spinal taps, and all sorts of tests that came back with nothing. It was a virus and she pulled through and is back to normal now, but it was terrifying. Big love equals even bigger fear.  

Style: I used to care about my clothes. Now, all I care about is making sure I am actually dressed. Anything will do that’s light, machine washable, and easy to pull on and off because I have to change so many times a day due to Emily’s best talent—yes, constant spit up. On the occasion that I catch myself in the mirror while trotting from the baby’s room to the living room (a well-traveled path considering that’s where the changing table is and she’s a champ at pooping and peeing) I wonder who that person is. Hair uncombed, no makeup, bleary eyed, often times wearing a breastfeeding pillow (sometimes I don’t even bother taking it off) around my waist like some sort of warped life preserver. After the first few times I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I made a point of not looking anymore. It’s best for all involved.

Anyway, in the course of these six weeks, in addition to discovering the aforementioned “challenges” of motherhood, I made a commitment to myself: “Andrea,” I said, “you may be a spit-up covered, sleep-deprived, teary-eyed mess, dressed in rags but you cannot stop living. You will maintain some semblance of a “normal” life. Read: You will continue to go out to dinner, but now with your new little family!

And so it was that on day three of Emily’s life, we took her to dinner at Watty & Meg, a new restaurant in our Cobble Hill neighborhood that coincidentally was born the same day as she was.

The restaurant, which borrows its name from a ballad by Scottish naturalist Alexander Wilson, has the feel of a storied old New York tavern thanks to builder and owner Phil Morgan of Building on Bond (he also built Stanton Social). A wide awning shades an outdoor corner patio filled with rattan chairs and tables for two. Inside, a large front room is stocked with church pew banquettes, with tin ceilings, vintage fixtures, and a long inviting polished wood bar with a window into the cubby-sized kitchen. Walk through to the back room, and you’ll find more banquettes in a cozy, clubby wood-washed space with a dramatic slanted ceiling that made me feel like I was eating in an oversized attic of an old Mansion somewhere in the Highlands. It may be a new restaurant but Morgan’s design makes it feel like it like it has a history.
On our first visit, a line stretched out the door for a table and we waited patiently on the sidewalk with the rest of the Brooklyn families and couples out for Sunday night supper. The crowds were justified. Watty & Meg is a wonderful newcomer that fills a need in this neighborhood for impressive New American fare at wallet-friendly prices.

We had nowhere to go (other than to sleep, which we agreed to sacrifice for an evening out), so we waited, giving the host some time, and eventually he got to us. Instead of balking at the site of a stroller, he welcomed us and oohed and aahed at our babe. (The right thing to do.) While the front room was already packed, we were offered first dibs on our choice of tables in the back room. We picked one at the end of a stretch of banquettes with a slip of space next to it for the stroller, wheeled Emily into her nook and ordered some wine. WINE! I had a glass of Gruner Veltliner—my first full glass of wine in 10 months—and almost cried. Actually, who am I kidding, I did cry. I was three days post-partum. I was crying all the time. But the wine helped. I could feel at least some part of myself—maybe one eighth of one of my shoulders—relaxing. That was a start. That first night, with Emily sleeping soundly in her snap-n-go to our left, we didn’t linger, but we stayed long enough to share a couple of appetizers and entrees before dashing back home for boob time and perchance a few hours of sleep (one hour was about all we would get).

Dinner was good, but like our Emily there were signs that this place was just born. Tables were set with flimsy paper napkins (not cloth), the bread (served by request only) was not great and the butter was wrapped in gold foil pats like you might find at a local diner. But these little details didn’t seem to matter all that much when we tasted the food, which was terrific, if a bit sloppy. A black bean soup ($7) was incredibly well seasoned, but was served with little care. Soup was dripping down the sides of the bowl and a long limp sprig of cilantro was laid across the surface of the soup like a corpse. Luckily the soup was so good, it really didn’t matter.

Of the five appealing salads on the menu (including a mix of arugula, romaine, spinach and green beans with ginger miso dressing and a iceberg wedge with creamy Gorgonzola dressing), we chose the salad trio of kale, quinoa and avocado ($12), which made me rethink kale completely. I am really not a raw kale person. I prefer it braised or in soups, but after the kale salad at Watty & Meg, I’m a changed person. It was shredded into a chiffonade and brightly dressed in citrusy vinaigrette and balanced with crunchy toasted nuts. The quinoa was also lovely—tossed with dried fruit and nuts, and the avocado, draped over the top, added a luscious fatty creaminess to the dish that really brought it all together. I’d eat this every day. You can even eat it twice in one evening as the salad shows up in another form as a side dish for the a perfectly cooked crispy skinned luscious slab of organic King salmon ($21).
Rather than simply roasting their chicken, the team at Watty & Meg stuffs a plump, moist breast with a pumpkin seed and mint pesto and serves with a succotash and butternut squash puree ($19). This sounded a little off season and a little off in general actually, but honestly, it was quite good. To my surprise, I loved the mix of mint and pumpkin—it was subtle and really made the neutral flavor come alive.

Emily was starting to stir and so we didn’t have time for dessert, and asked for the check right away as to avoid any public meltdowns around feeding time. As we walked (bolted) through the dining room to leave, one of the owners made a point of introducing himself (his name is Kai) and thanking us for coming and welcoming us back. A sincere thanks is a small detail that goes a long way.
And we did return, several more times in fact, with and without Emily. And every time we’ve gone back, I’ve been even more impressed with the food and the service. The paper napkins have been replaced with white linen, and the gold foil pats of butter have been traded out for good olive oil. What remains is great food, and extremely warm and friendly service. On later visits, one with Craig’s parents and one with Jamie (my first girlfriend date since Emily’s birth), chef-owner Sosie Hublitz’s menu has never ceased to please.

When I went back with Craig and his parents, we shared a starter of Merguez over lentils ($11), which is a must-have for anyone with a passion for Merguez. Slender links are spicy and flavorful and a nice match for a stew of rustic and aromatic lentils. It’s perfect for a cold and rainy summer night, and it was big enough for an entrée, or for several to share to begin a meal.

On the opposite spectrum, a fennel salad with orange, pine nuts and cilantro was everything you crave on a sticky, balmy evening—it was cool, light, and refreshing. Ditto the whole grilled trout ($17) dapped with lemon and served with a simple salad of sweet cherry tomatoes and onions. It was pretty basic but also pretty delicious. Their burger, a required menu item these days, is crafted from organic beef and served with your choice of cheese (we chose a helping of ripe Roquefort). It’s a solid addition to a neighborhood in need of a go-to burger. The one at Bar Tabac is also quite good, but it’s should not be the only game in town.

On another visit with Jamie we shared two specials. The bone-in rib eye steak was salty and peppery, and its juices flowed into a mile high pile of skinny crispy fries, while the halibut, a beautifully cooked piece of delicate and silky fish, tasted more like something out of Le Bernardin than a neighborhood bistro, bedded on a creamy leek puree with roasted fingerling potatoes and asparagus. It delivered far more than I expected from its $22 price tag.

But Watty & Meg is not only a great place for dinner. It’s a perfect respite for an after-work cocktail (the bar is very inviting), or, if you’re a searching for a place to relax outside and have a cold beer, a glass of rose, and a snack—say the grilled shrimp with spring corn salsa ($10)—their sidewalk patio is delightful. We crashed out there late on a Sunday afternoon and had a few beers and couple of glasses of wine while Emily napped. It was heavenly and with prices like these, totally affordable to boot. It was much more relaxing than a “nap.”

Six weeks into Emily’s life, I am (sort of) getting used to the exhaustion and the emotional peaks and valleys of motherhood. I am still in a state of shock and awe at the volume of spit up, poop and pee that an eight-pounder can produce. And I am equally taken by the torrent of emotions that can run through one person’s body at one time. But hey, at the end of the day (or more accurately at the beginning of the day), I feel like the most blessed person on earth. I know there are going to be many more challenges in the weeks and months (and years) ahead. We’ll get through them, and we’ll celebrate them at Watty & Meg.

Watty & Meg is located at 248 Court St., corner of Baltic, 718-643-0007.

Andrea Strong