Silicon Valley Moms Blog

A Deathly Reminder for Drivers to Slow Down

I'm disturbed. The story of Phyllis Seidman, who was hit by a car only blocks from my house, haunts me. Maybe it's because the woman was wheel-chair bound due to MS. Maybe it's because my kids and I ride our bikes on the same streets. Maybe it's the flowers a couple people have left near the accident scene. Maybe it's that there are only two bouquets of flowers there, and not more.

Maybe I'm bothered by the street itself which police spray painted to depict what they believe to be the sequence of events. I wonder if the marking next to the number "1" is where Phyllis Seidman originally was when she was struck. I wonder if the end of the markings means she or her chair were pushed a long distance before the car stopped. I drive by it every day and think about this woman whom I didn't know.

When the Palo Alto Weekly first reported that a woman in a motorized wheelchair was struck and killed by a car, Phyllis Seidman's image popped into my mind. I hardly knew her, in fact I didn't even know her name, but I saw her pass by my house almost weekly. I thought, gosh, I hope it wasn't that nice woman with the dog. Then my heart sank when I saw the published photo of her with her white Samoyed, a fluff-ball of a dog that was her constant walking companion. I learned her name from the article.

The Thanksgiving Turk-Off

My husband is massaging Kosher salt into the glistening skin of a raw turkey. He's balancing it on our granite kitchen counter on what used to be the dead gobbler's head. It's the Sunday before Thanksgiving.

He looks up at me and asks, "Are you nervous?"

"Me? No, you mean the Turk-Off?"

"Yeah, do you even have your turkey yet?" he asks.

I reply that I don't, but am smug that my simple recipe with a quality turkey will Out-Turk him for the second year in a row.

And so begins our second annual Turk-Off, a competition judged by the thirty or so relatives who attend my mother-in-law's elbow-to-elbow Thanksgiving extravaganza. Worn out by previous Thanksgivings, last year she asked us to bring the turkey, so I ordered the biggest one I could get from Whole Foods. A Diestel organic turkey.

Neither a Trick Nor a Treat

On Halloween night, my kids and I approached the final target in our forty-house candy shake-down. Their goal was to get one last treat, mine was to be friendly with the neighbor. Earlier that night in a courtyard, teenagers dressed as zombies over-acted their parts, moaning and holding their wrists up high with hands flopped down. They chased the Trick-or-Treaters, making some of the younger kids suddenly ask their parents if they could go home. This was the height of scariness for the evening, or so I thought.

The quest for one last treat turned into a true scare. I walked my masked Skeleton Guy and my Tigress up the driveway of the biggest house in our neighborhood, which spans a full six lots. The bright porch light shone from behind the owner's hunched shoulders, obscuring his face in darkness. He wasn't dressed in a white bathrobe -- his usual outdoor attire. The old man did not respond when my kids said "Trick or Treat?" but due to his age and curmudgeonly reputation, I didn't think much of the non-response. He hadn't bothered with a bowl like our other neighbors, but had bought a bag of candy which he patiently held open.  As the kids slowly made their selections, I watched the candy bag begin to shake in his hand.

A Six Year Old's Thoughts on the Election

According to my son's picture on the left, Obama ("OBomaE") is going to win with 59% of the vote "because everyone at school is voting for Obama." Illustrated in the audience of voters who are raising their hands are "two people in the back voting for McCain and 'McPalin,' Dad and my (twin) sister," my first grade son explains. In front are the two largest voters, me and him: we are the two Obama supporters in the family.

We are a divided house. People ask me all the time how we handle it. The answer is that my husband and I each listen to each other's point of view, challenge parts of it, read quotes to each other from our respective publications, return after some Internet fact-checking, and keep the debate going. I think my husband is resigned to the fact that Obama will probably win. He has convinced our daughter that "we won't be able to afford as many toys since Obama is going to take all our money." Whenever my son hears that, he trots out his big debate argument, sure to influence all swing state voters: "Eeewww, I don't want McCain because he's all wrinkly and has white hair." I guess he's an age-ist.

Mommy Salami

As I walked my kinder twins to school last year, I was proud they were greeting lots of "graders." (Anyone older than kinder, in case you are not up on kinder lingo.) As we approached campus, a first grade boy looked at my son, a bit wild-eyed and glancing around, trying to avoid us. Then, my son said to the boy, "Hi MOM!" knowing it would bother him. It did. The boy grudgingly said hi to my son and emphasized, "My name is Alex." All of a sudden I got it. My name is Alix, and I was the only "Alex" my kids knew until recently, so my son decided the boy's nickname would be "Mom."

I had to hide my face when I got the joke, but I felt sorry for the boy and quickly told my son that the boy didn't like that nickname.

It wasn't the first time my son had made up nicknames for people. Pretty much everyone has one or more nicknames in his world. Some like them, some don't. Joshua didn't initially like being called "Squashua." But, the next week, the name had caught on in Joshua's family and his grandmother and mother were calling him Squashua, which he liked. It became a pet name in his family, but kids were not allowed to use it.

Nutritionist Mom Gets "D" from Snacker Tracker

This nutritionist mom was excited about a new product called the Snacker Tracker, that is, until I used the magnetic wipe-board to mark how many fruits, vegetables, dairy, protein and grains my kids ate in a day.

Day one, I graded myself, and got a big fat "D" for my kids' intake of nutritious foods. As usual, I'd encouraged my six-year-old twins to eat "something colorful" at each meal and snack, yet it wasn't enough to fill up the fruit or vegetable columns and, much to my chagrin, I needed to draw extra boxes in the grains column. I was frustrated.

From my extensive nutrition research, I know that grains, even so-called whole grains, are the least nutritious of all foods. I try to use them as a condiment, yet here I was, outed as a grain-pushing mom. Wheat is known as the "staff of life" not because it's so healthy for us, but because it stores well.

Moms, Do You Know What Your Skateboarder is Doing?

Helmet-less boys soar twenty feet in the air. A trick biker skids eight feet on his shoulder blade, stopping inches from my feet, while his bike careens in another direction. He yells, "F***!" I imagine the road rash under his t-shirt and cringe. And I hope my kids didn't hear what he said, but it was loud and he enunciated quite well through the pain. The road rash boy reunites with his bike and pedals up another concrete slope, launching his bike and flipping it around in the air. This time he nails the landing.

I'm at the Skate Park in Menlo Park, CA and I've tentatively brought my six year old son, Guy-Guy, here to use his RipStik in the "shallow end." The park is a caged set of four connected concrete swimming pools, with no water. I'm letting Guy-Guy go in the "wading pool" - which is what it would be if it were filled. I tell him he's not old enough for the deeper pools. He complains as I suit him up in a helmet, elbow pads, wrist guards, and knee pads. Seven pieces of equipment. Ten minutes of tugging and adjusting. I'm freaking out that I promised he could come here as a reward for sitting through his sister's gymnastics class which has just ended. The skateboard park seems crazier and busier than other times we've looked in on the action.

Get Your Eight-year Old a Statin, Stat!

I am outraged that pediatricians will now prescribe statin drugs to children as young as eight. When I first read this news, I thought it was a parody of American Academy of Pediatrics guidelines, but I was wrong.

There is no research showing statins will prevent heart disease when our children reach middle age. No research. If there were research, it would take fifty years to conduct it on our kids. And, what would be studied? Heart disease risk, of course, but also the risk of developing severe liver disease, muscle problems, and other side effects from taking decades of statins. If the research doesn't sound ethical, how could it be ethical to start treating our kids without any studies?

Cholesterol is critical for brain function. Does the AAP really think that kids' brains will develop normally by reducing cholesterol in their body?  Remember, they haven't even studied it! Our nerves are surrounded by fatty insulation which serves the same function as plastic insulation around electric wire.

My Legos are Made of Dinosaurs?

"Hey, guys, let's read this book about oil!"

"No, mom, I wanna read the otter book," said my six-year old daughter, who wants to be a zookeeper when she grows up.

"Really, you guys, don't you want to know more about what makes our car go?"

Lately our family has been talking about high gas prices. Last time I filled up, my six-year old son made the following connection, eyes widening into saucers as he watched the price on the pump click upwards, "Whoa, mom, eighty dollars to get gas for our car? That's like a whole set of Exoforce Legos!"

We talk about how many miles we can drive after that $80 fill-up. My twins have been yelling "Glide, Mom, GLIDE!" to get more miles out of our tank. They watch our Saab station wagon's display panel like our lives depend on it. Distance to Empty is now the most exciting part of our day, and I can say that without hyperbole.

MacGyver Moms

Necessity may be accepted as the mother of invention, but I say Mothers are the mother of invention. For example, think of all the messes you've cleaned up without your trusty Mr. Clean Magic Eraser or without a paper towel or house rag. When I cleaned my car today, I found a used tampon under the driver's seat. No, not used in the way you are thinking. It was covered in dried up mango smoothie and reminded me how inventive we mothers have to be. So, let's begin there:

Better than Brauny! A few weeks ago, I drove my kids to tennis class as they snacked in the car. My son had band-aided his left eye shut (another story, but a hint that this was not going to be the best day). My daughter was drinking her favorite Odwalla smoothie - Mango Tango. We hit a speed bump a little hard and the Mango smoothie