Silicon Valley Moms Blog

Could I have had her baby?

I have a friend who, like me, went through agonizing years of infertility. Mine ended in my son Zachary through IVF,  followed by the double whammy of my two girls conceived of naturally just 18 months a part after that.  Three babies in four years. Whew. Blessed overwhelmingness.  Hers, instead, ended in endless failed attempts at staying pregnant, and then a vigorous double pursuit of her own child by a surrogate and the adoption of a child from a foreign orphange. The surrogate backed out. The orphanage came through, twice. Two brothers they now proudly parent.

Though she was on the East Coast, she was pursuing surrogacy in California, which apparently offers more flexibility in dealing with surrogacy than her home state did. Since I was in Palo Alto, we talked frequently during her visits of her process, its ups and downs, its “gotcha’s” around every corner. The surrogate’s psychological tests weren’t favorable. The next surrogate changed her mind just before the final stages. It was in these days that my friend, hit rock bottom emotionally. It was unbelievably sad to hear how so much disappointment could be shouldered by one person, two when you include her heroic husband who weathered it all with her, in such a brief time period.

Giving thanks for the original survivor

I love my mom. She sends my children wonderful, thoughtful gifts in the mail.  Things like Mathmania and Puzzlemania books and are helping my son build a collection of maps from each state in the U.S. Not crappy plastic trinkets or embarrassingly expensive toys. They, in turn, offer up gushing phone calls, illegible construction paper cards and letters in Spanglish because they neither read nor write in either English or Spanish terribly well yet as they are in the first few grades of Spanish Immersion program in our local public elementary school.

But if you hold their letters up, squint, cock your head and consult a phonetic dictionary and occasionally log on to www.freetranslation.com,  you can just about  make out all the symbols of how much they adore her. Each lays claim to her as “their” Grandma, certain they know more stories about her, secure in the thought that each is her favorite.

It was in transcribing my son Zachary’s last letter to his grandmother that I gave pause.  His last sentence was, Cuando tu puedes venir a mi casa? Basically, when are you coming to my house?

The answer is never.

A vein attempt to ditch the flannel

My children’s (now former) nanny felt it necessary to let me in on her little secret one day.

“Flannel no work in the bedroom, Pamela,“ she clucked in her familiar Spanglish, fingerwagging as she held up a well-washed, drawstring pants and natty print top ensemble, circa 1999.

She should know, she dresses better than me most of the time during the day, I can only imagine, what she considers “appropriate” sleepwear. She made the comment while rummaging around my drawer full of pajamas that don’t exactly say “come hither”. There was some comfy flannel I continue to wear even during the summer, another set that matches’ my two little daughters’ PJs (I’m sure the husband really finds that appealing) and a sweatshirt with the neck ripped out of it that Jennifer Beal called to say she wants back. 

Diary of an Accidental Soccer Mom

It’s 8:24 p.m. and I wonder where the time went. Not just the hour and a half I’ve just spent with a group of stunned parents (none of whom I know) starting up a new soccer team as one organization official after the another parades in and out of our room and the room next to ours “explaining” and “clarifying” all that needed to be done.

I mean, where did all the time go between the time my girl said “Mommy, BALL!” to her wanting to tryout for a competitive soccer team?

I am a volunteer. I know volunteering – you name it – room parent, PTA, library duty, teacher appreciation week helper, math center helper, field trip driver, noon art coordinator – I’ve volunteered for it. So, I know what a thankless, important job it is.

I also recognize the shortcomings of  a volunteer-run effort – especially a community sports one. I appreciate those parents that have gone before me, paving the way so that I didn’t have to start from scratch. You are truly heroes. It’s just that I don’t want to be one of you anymore.

It can get creepy for a mom without her wedding ring

I’ve encountered two pickups at Starbucks in the same week. And, although, I think that borders on “creepy”, it was nice to be hit on in between dropping kids off at 8 a.m. and taking a shower at 9 a.m. Especially since each guy had clearly taken a shower and dressed for the day, and therefore, I can only surmise, weren’t total dirtbags. Kinda cute, actually.  In a creepy way.

One comment as I pulled up: “Nice way to get around town”, he said, eyeing my black and pink cruiser bike with tassels (it’s a health midlife thing) parked just outside Starbucks (with attached babyseat in plain sight) as well as unattached kinder bolting for the entrance. "Thanks," I say "It gets me where I need to go," I say all neighborly like. “Oh, the bike looks good, too, but I was referring to your legs.”

"Honey, you're like a Mack truck"

Twenty four years ago today on our first Valentine's Day as a "sort-of-together" couple (depending on whom you asked), my then-boyfriend, now husband delivered his first Valentine's card to me. It was at my sorority house. I came home from my classes that day, opened the enormous glass front doors and gazed over all the over-the-top display of collegiate love on the entry table. Dozens of roses, balloon bouquets, huge boxes of heart-shaped chocolates...and a little white envelope, kinda crumpled and lonely at the end of the table. It had a name on it close to mine, but not my name. My name is Pamela. This card was going to someone named "Pamala".

Could it possibly be after knowing him for an entire year he didn't know how to spell my name? That was  only the start of it. Opening the card ... things just got worse. The front of the card -- which I know I do have somewhere in the house but am too busy prepping crap for three elementary school parties today to bother to look for it -- showed a cartoon drawing of a large, roaring truck with a toothy grin with the words, "Honey, you're like a Mack truck" ... the inside verse I never can remember quite right because by then my sorority sisters were reading over my shoulder and my head was hot and buzzing with embarrassment at his awkward display of affection. It said something like " your sturdy, dependable and blah, blah, blah."

It was an unromantic beginning to say the least, and I'm sorry to say that all these years later he still really sucks at remembering people's names (and now as a CEO this is not just an endearing quirk but a notorious flaw). However his capacity for romance, as well as his spelling, has improved considerably.

Veterinarian pizza and other things I’m bracing for….

“Dad, we’re going into the pizza place now,” my then 6-year-old daughter shouted into my cell phone to my husband, currently traveling in China. “Dad, do they have veterinarian (sic) pizza there? It’s healthier.” 

Ah. My budding vegetarian. She speaks, and sometimes misspeaks, so convincingly about her passion for loving animals that she was the inspiration for her older brother’s science fair project which could have been titled “how to repel ants and other bugs without killing them with your bare hands which makes my sister scream and cry and without pesticides that aren’t natural and could harm the environment and make my little sister even sicker …” That wouldn’t fit on the display board, so we went with the catchier, digestible phrase: “How to kill ants without harming the environment.” 

The Sheep in The Meadow: An Afternoon at Oprah’s

Yep, it’s real. And so is she. Oh, he’s pretty cool, too.

I’m talking about the hair, the hostess and the candidate, better known as Oprah’s hair, Oprah Winfrey and presidential candidate Sen. Barack Obama. I’m just coming up for air after sending the husband off on yet another plane this afternoon, putting the three Z’s to bed and pounding out a bunch of emails for an upcoming children’s earthquake relief concert I’m helping to organize. Now I can focus. Let’s break it all down, shall we?

Obama, Oprah & Me, O My!

O-O-O-O. Oprah and I have something in common. We are both experiencing a political first on Saturday. She’s hosting a political fundraiser and I’m attending it. Something I’ve never done before. Should be interesting.

We have so many politically savvy or at least poltically aware bloggers on our flagship Silicon Valley Moms site, and even more on our sister sites like DC Metro Moms and especially on the Chicago Moms Blog, where they have extended an open letter of invitation to the Obamas to meet with the bloggers there.

Airing Our Laundry, Ourselves

We had settled into a new, welcome rhythm with this month-long vacation in southern Spain. Despite our rather rocky and injurious start with two of our three children suffering stitches and head injuries, we’ve adapted to the long days, late-rising mornings with ridiculously lazy, late family nights.

I’ve found that at home we just don’t have the luxury of honoring “work”. Chores are, well, chores and are a constant state of “hurry up and get it done” and very little of taking pride in demonstrating love through mundane ordinary things that get us through daily life. I’m coming around to realize that too much of that is redirected and paid for these days by us.

But due to this gift of time and isolation away from all sorts of even well-meaning distractions, we were finding our way back to the appreciation of pitching in, of contributing to the day’s success, however humbly it might be defined. My children now know how to make a bed – with tender love and care in the morning. They are spending some thoughtful time deciding what to wear, asking what the days’ plans are before choosing from their limited selection (a byproduct of living out of a suitcase).

We were back to making meals together, my husband (yes, I am marking this event) was doing the dishes by hand … and enjoying it he admits.  Even though there was a working dishwasher in the kitchen.

There are other “firsts”  that we’d made room for during this hiatus from Normalsville,  aka, Silicon Valley.

In this culture, hardly anybody uses the clothes dryer. My kids have had their first experience hanging laundry on a clothesline.  And they are fascinated by it. We were doing laundry three times a week here – and not because we were running out of clothes. It’s more because we (OK - I admit it - they) actually enjoy the process of airing the laundry.

Me? I’m breathing in deeply the process of airing ourselves  -–  letting go of the long list of must do’s and have to’s at least for now. I’m also finding that no matter where I go in life there’s always this little link or connection to my humble past – keeping me grounded. In this case it’s the vision of this beautiful and peaceful villa from the front and its interior  -- it’s just amazing. Meanwhile if you step outside and view it from the back, well, it summons up the Beverly Hillbillies in their “cement pond” – with our plastic pool toys strewn all over, and our multiple clothes lines blocking the view of the beautiful Marbella coastline from the sliding glass doors.

Gotta go. Time to drive the garbage to the recycling center at the bottom of the hill. Pack up our new pace of life and move it back to Silcon Valley. Please God, let us preserve this time and rhythm when we return to pseudo-reality in the Valley.