Silicon Valley Moms Blog

Papyrus and Kings

After a buffet lunch at a very pleasant hotel that did not look like much from the outside, we stopped for shopping at a papyrus factory and market. I was expecting a "traditional market" to be a place with open air stalls and handmade items, but that was not the case.  This was a two-story building that was more like a Japanese department store than an Egyptian market.  We first visited the downstairs Papyrus Factory, which had a number of papyrus paintings, everything from traditional Egyptian tomb paintings with hieroglyphics to a rendering of Jesus on the cross.  The painting looked to be done by the same artist who does all those black velvet paintings from Mexico--very kitschy, melodramatic and not that well-executed.  There were several men standing around giving talks about the history of papyrus and how the reeds that make it only grow on the Nile.  We bought Alex a chart that showed the English alphabet with hieroglyphic equivalent.  I think he plans to use it like a super-secret decoder ring, if he's ever trapped in a tomb, like the kids in Mummy Math.

The upstairs portion of the market had sections of other goods, like wooden boxes with mosaic patterns, chess sets, beaded headdresses and belly dancing costumes, ornate perfume bottles, and the ubiquitous tchatchkes with the head of King Tut or Queen Nefertiti or tiny mummies in ornate sarcophagi.  We spent about 2 hours in this place, but Alex was getting tired and crabby, so we cut out early to sit on the bus and examine our loot from the day.  It took about half an hour for the rest of our group to make its way back, but we needed a rest.

The bus crawled through narrow, traffic-filled streets, crossing the Nile, en route to the Egyptian Museum. The scenery along the Nile was quite pleasant, with high rise hotels and apartment buildings, waterfront restaurants, and boats in the river.  Cairo looked like a modern city, not unlike  any you might find in Europe or the United States.  There was nothing threatening of foreboding about the landscape or the people we saw walking or driving along the streets.  We passed a truckload of army men, who made a point to lean out and wave at us, smiling and and flashing peace signs.

It Takes a Village

I am troubled by a recent discussion on my mothers’ club email list about what to do if you see a caregiver neglecting a child. The thread started when a mom noticed an 18-month boy left alone at a local park. Some time later, the nanny appeared out of the rest room with a second child, who might have been her daughter. When the mom mentioned that she should not leave the boy alone, the nanny snapped at her.

Discussion centered around posting descriptions of the child and nanny so that if the mom was on the list she would recognize her caregiver and take appropriate action, and when to call the police and report child endangerment. A flurry of other posts reported other situations, usually involving a caregiver observed neglecting a child at a local park.

Now I’ve tried multiple variations of childcare over the last eight years – nannies, au pairs, teenagers, even friends of nannies in an emergency – and I’ve left them alone with my kids while I was out having a career. I’m glad to know that other moms are keeping an eye out. Yet I’m concerned that we’re racing to judgment in situations where we don’t know the whole story.

For instance, in the nanny-in-the-bathroom situation, I can think of a story where the little girl was standing at the bench doing the “potty wiggle” and crying because she had to go, and she had only just started wearing big girl panties. When the nanny tried to drag both children into the rest room, the little boy started throwing one of those 18-month-old tantrums, yelling “No!” and running away. Maybe in desperation she decided to take the girl to the restroom and say a little prayer that the boy would be OK at a nice safe park in our upscale suburb – I think that’s what I would have done.

And maybe the nanny’s boyfriend (and father of the little girl?) had gotten caught without a green card and was getting deported, and she hadn’t slept much last night, and maybe her English wasn’t great and she interpreted the mom’s words as another rich spoiled gringa condescending to her and that’s why she snapped…

I don’t want to minimize the danger of child abuse. It might have been appropriate to call the authorities; I wasn’t there so I don’t know. But what if instead of focusing on who was guilty of child endangerment, we assumed that the mom/nanny/caregiver was a good person in a tough situation – as we’ve all been in? What if our focus was on the safety of everyone’s children, rather than the ability of an individual keep her own children safe?

What if we lived in a village, where a mom sitting on the park bench would instantly jump up to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on your boy while you take the girl to the restroom”? What if we lived in a village, where you didn’t even have to ask? Where you could just expect that an 18-month-old in a park full of caregivers and children would be safe for a minute or two?

What if everyone who reads this made a promise to work on creating that kind of a village right here, right now? What could we do as a community to create that sort of environment for our children? I don’t know the answer, but I would sure like to raise my kids in a place like that.

Crisis and Realization

A few weeks ago I posted an ode to my nanny.   I praised her ways, and marveled at her ability to manage my home. Today I sit here, convincing myself that I need to fire her. Confused? Well I sure am. I have been one of those privileged stay at home moms with a full time nanny that so many moms love to hate...I have relied on my nanny for four years. I never had any reason to doubt her, as she helped me to care for my four children. After what happened this weekend, I question my parenting, and the role of nannies in general. My life is upside down...

I went away as I often have for a long weekend to NYC with my husband. My nanny was watching my children, and had planned to take them on a weekend trip with her family. Without boring you all with the specifics, let me assure you that I went through many discussions on the logistics -- who was driving, where they were staying, etc. I am not an easy going Mom. I left my travel folder, spreadsheets of camp information, and repeated my concerns about her planned weekend getaway. I was reassured by nanny dearest, and even mocked for how often I asked her where they would stay, who would be there, etc. etc. etc.  I left for NYC.

On Friday, I called to check on my kids.  To my surprise they were heading off to a hotel with nanny dearest in Bodega Bay. I asked why, insisted that I was not comfortable with the plan, and instructed her to call me when they checked in to the supposed hotel room. Friday night passes. No call. I call. No response. I have nightmares all night. Saturday. No calls. I am a wreck. Where are my kids? What has happened to them? I imagine the worst, and can not get into contact with the nanny. We finally receive a quick call Saturday night from my eldest. We are at a noisy dinner in the city, so my husband took the call. I was relieved for the moment.

Now it is Sunday. I once again try to contact the kids. Guess what? No response. I panic again, but hear nothing. My husband tells me to calm down.  My mothering instinct once again tells me something is not right.

Monday morning I get a call from my 8 year old about camp. He hangs up quick, not his normal chatty self. I call back and insist on talking to my 11 year old. He says. "something bad happened, but [nanny] says that I can not tell you." OMG, my stomach drops. I tell him to go to a private place and tell me. They slept in the mini van roadside -- there was no hotel. She drove up with my kids, her granddaughter and ended up sleeping in the car. That was just that start to a weekend of bad, irresponsible decisions made by my nanny; the worst being that she told my kids to lie to me. Ugh. It gets worse...but sparing you further details, I'm sure that you can see my dilemma.

My husband and I spoke with nanny dearest last night. She insists the kids were always safe and had fun. That's hardly the point, even if it was an absurd proposition. I think she was an idiot and did things that I would never fathom doing. Friends and family say fire her. My brain agrees, but my heart can't seem to do it. Beckett, my four year old loves her. I am so conflicted.

I have also come to the realization of how much I have let her do and of what a major role she has played in our family. I have also been missing out on a great many things. Granted, the laundry and cleaning is not a big loss. It is spending time with my kids that I have been paying someone else to do. I have been paying another woman to bond with my kids, share in their special moments. How many simple pleasures have I missed? (No, laundry is not a simple pleasure.) This has been a wake up call. No matter how great we think our nannies are, they are not us. They may not share the same values and morals. This became apparent to me this weekend, after four years of blind trust. She does not understand my anger. I feel betrayed and let down. (Not to mention scared of managing my life on my own -- four kids in four schools next year requires a nanny or at least a driver.)

This is painful and confusing for me on so many levels. Nanny dearest has filled the void that my mothers death left. Nanny dearest helps me to make decisions about my kids, my home, my life. Has nanny dearest been this deceitful for four years? I am sick to my stomach. What do I tell the kids? How do I explain this one? I have just had her take the week off, unpaid, until we decide what to do. Sometimes decisions are really tough; this one sure is to me. It is hard to accept the significant role another woman has played in the life of your kids. She has been here every day for four years. What do I say when she no longer walks through our door?

The Not So Fun Camp

Let me begin this message by saying that I am highly emotional, extremely upset and dealing with broken pipes that are leaking out sludge underneath my house(the leak has nothing to do with why I am upset).

I thought going back to work part time (around 15 hours per week) would be easy.  I have a great babysitter, parents close by to lend a helping hand and a ton of friends to assist with drop off and pick up.  I also thought that it would be a good time for my daughters to see their mom in a role that was more than cooking awful meals (I am not a very good cook), cleaning up their crap and chauffeuring them from activity to activity.  For the most part, things have been going OK, minus a few mishaps.

My younger daughter E. started a new camp through our local Park and Recreation Department on Monday and she seemed to be quite amused and happy.  The gist of this camp is that children ages 4 through 6 play soccer, t-ball and basketball.  Basically, it is running through the drills and having fun outside. 

Yesterday, well, it was completely a different story. Here is what happened:

• E. was dropped off at her friends house early in the morning (because I had to go to work).
• E. and her friend were then dropped off at camp at 9am.  Both E. and her friend were 'slow to warm' with this large group  of kids running around the field with all male counselors watching their moves.  The mom tried to get the girls engaged on the soccer field, but none of the counselors were helping her  She FINALLY got the girls to participate by going on the field with themand left around 9:30am.  Let me add, without much or any help from any of the counselors.
• ...now this is where the story gets a little fuzzy and upsetting..... E. started to cry around 9:45am and the counselors put her underneath a shady tree (I hope it was the shady tree) and LEFT HER THERE alone.  Shortly thereafter, another crying girl was brought next to E.  They were then BOTH left by the tree crying... ALONE!!!!
• Around 10:15am, another mom saw what was going on with these two girls and tried to contact me.  However, she left a message at my home number - and I only had my cell phone with me.   (BTW - which I GAVE TO THE COUNSELORS IN CASE MY DAUGHTER WAS CRYING!) - BUT NO ONE FROM THE CAMP EVER CALLED ME!!!!) ... and you feel my blood pressure rising?
• Somewhere around 10:30am, the other girls mom came and helped console my crying daughter.  After a few minutes, she took both E. and her daughter to another part of the park and let them play together for the rest of camp time.  She didn't tell the counselors that she was leaving and THEY DID NOT REALIZE THAT E. WAS NOW MISSING FROM THEIR CAMP!!!!
• During pickup, my friend went to sign E. out (since I was working and she planned to pick her up) and asked how E. did - they said FINE!  ...and I quote, "E. did a good job sitting under the tree."

Well, you can just imagine my anger when I learned about this morning, while sitting at my desk at work, in between meetings.  I wanted to explode, so I called the VP of this camp and gave him an earful.  I was calm, but direct .... on so many levels, this camp just failed my daughter and the hope and trust I have in a fun camp experience.

1. How come your counselors did not engage my child, or any child who was "slow to warm"?
2. How come my daughter was left by a tree to cry alone?
3. How come nobody told the children about the bathroom - like there IS a bathroom and the group takes bathroom breaks?
4. Why was there only teenage boys running the camp?  Do you think maybe you could bring in some girls?
5. How could you let my daughter leave the camp with another mom?  (Thank goodness she was there, but don't you think you should know where your four year old campers are????)
6. How come you told my firend during pickup that E. was fine during camp?

So for all you wise parents, please restore my faith in summer camps.  I want to think that this is a unique experience.... but somehow, I am not so sure.

... OK, I think I have vented long enough.  Now to deal with the broken pipes under my house.  It should make for another blogging moment. 

Keeping cool? That's hot

Well, summer is definitely here, judging by the number of 100+F-degree-days we've been experiencing in the Bay Area.  In the Philippines, where I grew up, every day is 90 degrees, so nobody really complains about the hot weather.  Then again, no Filipino is his right mind actually wants to spend any time out in the sun, let alone play in it.  The Bay Area's temperate climate lends itself naturally to the outdoor lifestyle, but how does one enjoy it when the sun is blazing and burning my back, and worse, my kids' backs?  They have inherited my husband's fair English complexion, so I am ever mindful that people get 80% of their lifetime sun exposure by the age of 18, and that excessive sunburn in childhood increases -- by three times! -- the risk of developing malignant melanoma (skin cancer) later in life.

So how does my family stay safe and cool in these summer months?  Most people know the guidelines, of course.  But for me, honestly, it is easier said than done.  As I said, in Manila, we just avoid the sun and seek airconditioned malls.  But getting outdoors here is one of the things we most enjoy.   I've listed several EPA guidelines, along with the ways I make them work for me. 

(1) Limit time in the mid-day sun.
Uh-oh, strike one for me.  10AM is just about the time when I have gotten my 3 kids fed, cleaned and dressed for the day.  By 10AM, all the oatmeal and yogurt they have consumed have turned them into little racecars, all fueled up and raring to go.  Then by 1 or 2PM, they are more than ready for their naps.  So unfortunately, this timeframe is probably when you are most likely to see my kids outdoors! 

My Bra Angel

Pamela may be spending her lovely New York City getaway checking out the art and culture, a.k.a naked statues. I’m in lovely New York City as well, here for business meetings Tuesday and Wednesday, and yeah, I, too, spent some time today studying the human figure, but not in an art museum. I went bra shopping.
    Certifiably insane? Not at all. I was making a very rational attempt to eliminate one of the major frustrations of my life—the fact that the last time I had a bra that fit right was back when I was nursing—and I stopped nursing six or seven years ago. And even that bra only fit part of the time, since a nursing mom’s boobs cycle through many many different sizes during the day.
    Since those nursing days, I have spent hours and hours in department and lingerie store dressing rooms trying on bras, and more money than I care to think buying bras that didn’t really fit, but were the best I could do that day, and I really really needed a decent bra and after so many hours invested I couldn’t leave empty handed. I now have a drawer full of bras that don’t quite fit, but will sort of work. That is, because, though each has a flaw, each flaw is different, so some work with some shirts, some with others, some are comfortable for a couple of hours, some for longer. This means, of course, that it takes me longer in the morning to pick out a bra than it does an outfit. And as often as possible I punt, by wearing a cami with a built-in bra or a really loose top.
    I never gave up my hope, however, that somewhere there was a bra waiting for me. So about a year ago, when I saw a newspaper story that said the best bra store in the world is in New York City—the Town Shop, in the bra business for 80 years—I clipped it. And when I booked this business trip to New York, I dug out the newspaper clipping. I wasn’t sure I’d have time to make it up from my mid-town east hotel to the upper west side, but I figured I’d bring the address just in case.
    And when I reached my hotel room I could think of nothing else. I checked my watch, calculated that I had enough time, speed-walked to Grand Central Station, bought a subway fun-pass, took the crosstown shuttle and the Broadway express, and went bra shopping.
    The store was tiny, not much bigger than my living room, and the 20 people or so milling about pretty much filled the place. Nearly half of the crowd, I soon figured out, were staff. The store had a few racks of bathing suits and lacy underwear, but no bras in site. A woman with a clipboard wiggled through the crowd to greet me. “Are you here for a fitting?”
    “Uh, yes.” She seemed to be waiting for more. “I don’t have an appointment.”
    “Let me get your name.” She wrote it on the clipboard, I fought the urge to say “Party of One.” “It’ll be about 15 minutes.”
    I looked at the bathing suits—nothing interesting. I studied the sign halfway into the room that said “No men beyond this point.” Eventually, the hostess suggested I sit in the single chair, because I was next.
    My fitter, I guess she should be called, an attractive black woman, early 30s, I guessed, with bleached-white assymetrical hair, followed me into a dressing room. I took off my shirt and my badly fitting but comfortable old bra. She glanced at me for only a second. “OK, I know what size you are.”
    “A 3X-X?” (Some things are private, even in a blog.) I figured I knew my size.
    “No.”
    "Oh." I told her I wanted to leave that day with two basic everyday bras, one with a little more padding than the other, preferably not much going on in the way of lace and frou-frou, no underwire. She disappeared and returned with three bras, one fit amazingly well, the other two I didn’t try because I didn't like the styles. We talked about my vision of the perfect bra, briefly digressing into a discussion of post-baby belly, comparing our handfuls of floppy skin that didn’t leave with the pregnancy pounds. Now properly bonded, we returned to the problem of the second bra. She asked if I would consider an underwire, and, told yes, disappeared again and returned with another handful of bras. One in particular she was convinced would fit; it didn’t. She didn’t know what was wrong until she checked the label (European sized, incomprehensible to me); the bra had been misfiled, it was the wrong size. She replaced it with a new one, but swapped its little cat’s-eye shaped pads with different ones, scavenged from a rejected bra. “There.” She stepped back and surveyed her work. “That’s it, I think. Let me leave you for a minute and then we’ll see what you’ve got.”
    I tried on one, and then the other, and then the first again. I had two completely different bras that fit; it seemed too good to be true. Should I buy a couple of each? But what if they didn’t fit tomorrow? I got dressed and stepped hesitantly out of the dressing room.
    “Those two?”
    “Yes, but…”
    “And then if you’d like more just call us and we’ll mail them, postage is on us.”
    Is this woman my bra angel? Could my bra problem finally be solved? If this really is true, and these bras don't turn into straw when I leave New York, this was definitely worth missing an afternoon of art or culture for.

(Breast) Milk & Cookies

I've been like a pinball machine - shooting off in one line of thinking how great it would - will - be to get back into the workforce once more. To have my children, especially my daughters, see me in a whole new role. One that doesn't include PBJ maker among its required skill set. But then one of those fast little flippers on the pinball machine suddenly whacks me hard and sends me off in another direction banging against the side of this bumper and that.

Just about the time I start to romanticize about it, I read of the trials  and tribulations  of moms going back to work, particularly the re-entry stage and I end up reflecting on when I first went back to work after my first baby ... back when I was thinking breastfeeding was supposed to be as natural as teethbrushing. Smooth operator I was not. I brought my own chaotic world of being a new mom and paired it up with the chaotic world of hyped-up internet companies where everything moved at lightening speed, except my fuzzy mommy brain upon re-entry. And I thought I had it all planned out just right.

Not only was my company getting acquired, but we were relocating from our humble digs at Filmore and Filbert (God I loved that part of The City) to more metal and glass industrial design styled office space. This, I thought, would be a good time to ease back into things when everyone else was just focused on trying to make the phone system work. Maybe I wouldn't draw too much attention to myself as I bumbled through my first week back.

As all relocations go, we were ready to move in before the space was ready for us and voila – for days (maybe a week?) we were sitting on the floor. Anyway, I began my first week back at work, and as all the advice goes, you never go back to work from maternity leave on a Monday, no. You start back on a Tuesday, or better yet, a Wednesday just so you don’t have a long week as you try to transition back to the Other World.

I started back on a Thursday and still managed to completely screw it up.

Had the stylish Pump in Style at my feet; meeting ran a little long so I professionally excused myself and hustled into the women’s bathroom.  No electrical outlet in the women’s bathroom.  OK, not yet sweating, or leaking, I say to myself, you haven’t been in every room in the place yet, surely there is one, just one, room that is closed off, no picture window and has an electrical outlet, a working electrical outlet.

The closet with the copy machine would have been fine, except the copy machine repairman was disassembling it like a Swiss watch – pieces everywhere and in no hurry to put them back. Only then did I actually realize there was no place in this f*ing office where you didn’t look like a science project in a test tube just making a phone call at your desk surrounded by all this maddening metal and glass. Panicking, I run to our HR person saying I need a closed-in room to pump in NOW. Not 10 minutes from now. NOW RIGHT NOW. My right breast leaked as if to underscore the point.

To her credit, the single, 20-something-year-old hopped to it. Found a stack of newspapers in the recycling bin out back, grabbed two workers moving heavy furniture, took a key out of her drawer and opened up a glassed-in conference room that was piled high with computer equipment, vending machines, kitchen items, office supplies and the CEO’s 50 pound bag of dog food -  and began showing the guys how to paper the window up – carefully going back over where they left peek-a-boo gaps between the pages.

By now a few nervous tears dampening my blouse mixed in with the breastmilk leakage under my jacket. This was painful physically, but the mental stress that I was going through, thinking “boy, so this is how you show yourself, your staff and the whole world how you can “have it all” be working Super Mommy, blah –blah blah” was so much worse.

Moments later, I’m sitting on the dusty floor with my back to the papered window (just in case) pumping away, certain everyone can hear the “jooosh-jush—jooosh-jush” sound whirring away… realizing that I’m more than two hours late in pumping according to my perfect scheduled entries in my Palm Pilot (with alarms attached just to be sure I wouldn’t forget  - as if).

I look over and see a carton of individually packaged Oreo cookies, ready to be stocked in the vending machine. Lunch. That would be the only thing I’ve ever stolen from an employer. Milk & cookies, sort of. Piece of cake. First day back.

The next day, I forget to bring the tubing for the moo machine with me to the office (after I so carefully sterilized it and hung it over the pantry door to dry thoroughly). Have to call my heavenly husband who drives from his office in Palo Alto just to bring it to me in The City. He brought me the baby, too.  That remains one of the sweetest moments of priorities he’s ever lectured me on, and he didn’t say a word, just handed me the baby.

That was on a Friday.  Can you imagine what might have happened if I had started on Monday?

Ride My Camel, Lady?

After two restful days at sea, the next port of call on our Journey to Solar Eclipse '06 was Alexandria, Egypt.  At Alexandria, we had various touring options, including pyramid tours, the Cairo Museum, and a trip to the step pyramids of Zoser.  We opted for the pyramids and the Cairo Museum and got up early to catch a bus for a 3 hour bus ride to Cairo.

The pyramids were something I had wanted to see since I was a child, peering into an old copy of the World Book Encyclopedia  from the fifties that my mom bought at a garage sale.  From the grainy black and white photographs, annual viewings of The Ten Commandments, and books about the Pharaohs that I borrowed from the library, I conjured up an image of the pyramids as the epitome of exotic, mysterious locations.   The pyramids and Egypt were about as far away from Germantown, Ohio as I could imagine, so that was the place I wanted to be without a doubt.

To prepare for the trip, for the past six months or so, we had been reading books about mummies, Pharaohs, and Egyptian mythology to Alex, who was as curious and captivated as we were when we were kids.  He became something of a Junior Egyptologist, and often regaled his kindergarten class with tales of Osiris, Isis, and Seth, Anubis the jackal-headed god, and the intricacies of mummification during Show & Tell.  His teacher said, "He could go on about this stuff for half an hour and the kids would hang on his every word.  I might as well go out for coffee."   We visited all the local attractions with Egyptian Exhibits, like the wonderful Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum in San Jose, the DeYoung Museum's Queen Hatsheput exhibit, and traveled to Los Angeles for the LA County Museum showing of the traveling King Tut collection.  To say we were all excited to finally see the pyramids would be quite an understatement.

This was something I had always wanted to see, and that Alex was really looking forward to, so I had to set aside the gnawing fear that niggled at me from watching too much CNN in a post-9/11 America.  The Luxor tourist bus terrorist attack of 1997 loomed large in my mind and I silently worried about security.  Since 9/11, it seems that all the news coming out of the Muslim world sends the message that we should just stay away.   Egypt's economy was badly damaged by the Luxor attack, since tourism is a huge source of revenue for the country.  We were assured that the government went to great lengths to make it as safe as possible for visitors.    Still, half the people I told about the trip prior to leaving said, "Are you nuts?  I wouldn't go near that part of the world."  The other half said, "How exciting!  I've always wanted to see the pyramids"  and those voices alternated like a little angel and the little devil sitting on my shoulder, only I'm not sure which was which.

So, with some trepidation, we boarded the big tour bus and hoped for the best.  I was hoping we were in for a fun day of viewing antiquities and not a hostage situation.  We were told that the tour company had taken every precaution, and the reason for our slow departure was that we had to go by convoy and none of the buses could leave until everyone was on board.  Each bus came equipped with an armed guard, an English-speaking tour guide, and radios.  I banished thoughts form my mind about an article in Newsweek I had read about "the new breed of female terrorists" and one particular woman who spent time in Egypt "shooting at tourist buses for fun."  I tried to banish such thoughts from my mind, and just remember the inimitable words of Doris Day, "Que sera, sera."

Go See Some Naked Statues

As a mom, I am often looking for an escape from the pressures and stresses of parenthood. Sometimes that comes in the form of a leisurely stroll, a visit to the spa, or a trip to your bathroom with a locked door.  (Can any of you even remember the last time you closed a bathroom door?)  There is also the quick escape with a great novel, or of course a great blog.

I have found the ultimate way to escape. I am in N.Y.C., and have been enjoying a cultural escape into the arts. Now I am not suggesting that you hop a flight to The Big Apple.  (It's rainy and humid here, your hair would frizz.)  I must be honest, I am here without kids for a few days with my husband.  This is one of those vacations where you are reminded that you actually like your husband, and you have alot in common other than your offspring.  I came to the realization that my life has been lacking exposure to the arts.  (I am exposed to my kids beautiful art, and do love and frame many of their works.)  But there is just something so uplifting about standing in front of a Picasso.  Art can truly take your breathe away, and transport you to a different place.  Staring at a painting of a french park -- I felt as if I was there.  ( No, I was not on drugs, this was an amazing painting, can't recall the artist, was near the Monets  in MOMA.) 

A trip through MOMA, even with the summer crowds, was an amazing experience. I have also been able to escape into the world of Broadway theater.  A few hours in a show whisks you away to another place.  There is nothing quite like live theater.  I even got a chance to hear live music last night at the hottest of NYC hotspots, Joe's Pub.  (Last time I heard live music was U2 in a huge venue -- last night I heard the Bono of Pakistan.)  I am not just trying to give you a glimpse of my itinerary, I am just reminding you of the transformative powers of the arts.  I often get my "high" by buying a great piece of clothing in between pick ups.  (More on NY shopping and style later -- my hotel internet connection is lousy.)  Maybe I should spend time at the free, yes free, Cantor Art Museum staring at a piece of art, rather than at another white shirt.  (Oooh -- a girl can never have too many white shirts.)  You can see live theater without even going to San Francisco.  There are many theater companies right here in S.V., and great music and dance shows through Stanford Lively Arts. These are activities you can do as a family or on your own.  My kids love to visit the Rodin sculpture garden to see the "naked statues."  So take a break from your normal summer routines, and check out some art.

I am off to the MET this morning after I finish my overpriced room service coffee. I am going to attempt to squeeze as much culture into my day as I can.  I will also attempt to eat as many great meals, and check out as many trendy boutiques as I can.  Then I can return to my cultural void called home -- only joking, S.V. offers many of the same venues as NYC.  Only without the taxi cabs, new yorkers and humidity.

Pining for LBI

Every once in awhile, I am walking down the streets of Palo Alto and notice someone wearing a sweatshirt with the letters LBI.  For most people here in Silicon Valley, the letters LBI mean nothing.  For me, these three letters take me back in time to a place that I spent most of my childhood summers, Long Beach Island, New Jersey - more specifically, Harvey Cedars, one of the towns on this small island.  When I see these letters, I give that "I know LBI Smile" and begin to frantically ask, "Did you spend your summers in LBI?  Do you still go there?  What town did you vacation?  Were you on the beach of bay side?"    The responses never cease to amaze me - anyone wearing an LBI sweatshirt and now living in SV share those special feelings about the New Jersey coast - we always agree that LBI is just one of those magical destinations and a tremendous place to take your family over the summer months.  However, you need to be from New Jersey to know its power - Yes, it is a "Jersey Thing...."

It is always this time of the year that I pine to go back to LBI with my two daughters - but convincing my husband that flying across the country to the Jersey Shore for our family vacation is another story.  Michael grew up in LA and can't seem to imagine that we would want to fly all the way to Philly, rent a car, drive a couple hours and then place our family on a small island on the New Jersey coast.  Oh, and by the way, renting a decent home on LBI would cost around three thousand dollars for one week, possibly more!  So the pining continues....

I long for my daughters to enjoy a 'simple' vacation  -  playing on the beach all day long and ACTUALLY swim in the ocean; collecting sea shells, riding the waves, chasing after sand crabs, having a picnic lunch on the beach under a large umbrella, getting way too sun burned because you have been on the beach for six hours (every day), burying one another under the sand, making sand angels. I pine to have the girls walk over the sand dunes(carrying way too many blankets, towels, beach chairs) and masterfully create sand castles by the ocean, just to have it knocked down by a large wave.  I want to hear the ice cream man ride up to the side of the beach and ring his bell - it is amazing to see half the people run out of the ocean and purchase a snow cone or popsicle.  I ache to go crabbing in the LBI bay and then steam our catch (sorry animal lovers) that evening. I long to dig for muscles when the ocean tide receeds. I want to have fish and lobster at one of the local restaurants that have a million people in front of us for a table, while complaining that the wait is too long - because everyone wants eat at the same restaurant at the same time!  I even remember going to an ice cream parlor (forgot the name) where the waiters and waitresses sing to you while you eat your dessert. Oh, and the jersey salt water taffy and fudge.... there was this little shop in Beach Haven where you could watch the workers make fudge and sample it - yummy! (I wonder if it is still there?) I yearn to take my daughters to "Fantasy Island" and enjoy the kiddie rides. I want to bring my husband to the karaoke bar somewhere in Ship Bottom (again, can't remember the name) where everyone sits around this square bar and belt out toons while a make shift spot light is forced upon you.  The weather was always a guessing game.  One minute it would rain, the next it was sunny - who cares, we would be together on a remote (well, not so remote) island surrounded by family.   I guess I need to write down these memories before they fade.

I am becoming nostalgic for the shore (for you Californians, it is the SHORE, NOT THE BEACH!) as I am getting older and now raising a family.  I want my daughter's to share some of the same happy childhood memories that I now treasure.  I don't think that I realized how important these memories and experiences were until I started to write.... wow, blogging makes you reflect.

Sigh.... It most likely will not happen this summer.  Maybe next year. But in the mean time, I will pine......  I hope the island hasn't changed too much in the past fifteen years!  Now to convince my husband.....