Silicon Valley Moms Blog

Food Fight

Dinner is the only meal in which I require everyone to sit down at the table.  It’s an important tradition from my childhood.  As a busy working mom, dinnertime is the time to reconnect with my family.  We talk about our day, about current events, about really anything.  When I get home from a day at the office, I quickly get a wholesome meal on the table so that we can spend time as together as a family.

Yet dinnertime at my house is rapidly reaching Code Red status.  What was once a pleasant meal has turned into a power struggle of epic porportions.  No, my son isn’t refusing to eat dinner.  No, he isn’t exihibiting any bad manners.  In fact, my son will eat everything you put on his plate.

It takes him over 90 minutes to finish.  The battle I face every night is to get my son stay focused to eat dinner in a reasonable amount of time.   

Has the world gone insane? A “black” Friday indeed.

I’ll admit, we were at Sears Friday morning for Black Friday. We knew what we wanted, we found a great deal and we woke up insanely early Friday morning to go shopping.  My husband and I don’t normally shop on Black Friday, but we did this year and it was actually fun. But while we were there, we saw one middle-aged gentleman LOSING IT because he had to wait 10 minutes to get his TV. I mean, the guy was STEAMED. Come on, dude, it’s 10 minutes.  Big deal.  And it was obvious the employees were stressed, busy and doing the best they could.  I wanted to tell him to chill out, but I was afraid he might knock me out instead.

Then we got home and my sister shared this story with me (read it here).  A Walmart employee in Long Island was trampled to death by crazed shoppers when the doors opened at 5:00 am. Four shoppers, including an 8-month pregnant woman, were also injured.  It made me sick to my stomach.  I thought the guy we saw at Sears was out of line, but apparently he’s a saint compared to the crowd at that Long Island Walmart.

What is our society coming to?  Stuff was more important than life on Friday morning at that Walmart store. 

No More Toys!

“Do NOT throw those toys down onto the ground!  You’ll break it” I said to my son in frustration.  It was the third time he decided to throw down the special Transformers his grandpa had brought back from an international trip (my son’s specific request was for Bumblebee – and wouldn’t you know Grandpa just happened to find a toy store in France that had it).  The Transformers were supposed to be the ones to duking it out in an epic battle – but the pavement seemed to be winning the war.

“It’s okay, mom” he nonchalantly replied.  “”If it breaks, you’ll buy me another one at the store.”

Uh, excuse me? what did you just say? back up it up, buster!  My four year old son thinks that it is perfectly acceptable to trash his toys because he knows more are coming?  When did this kid put that reasoning together?  We aren’t at the store buying toys left and right.

My pre- post-racial birth certificate

On the eve of this historic election, I was reminded in a very personal way how far we have come as a country and as a society. I was copying my Michigan birth certificate (more on why below) when I noticed some of the boxes on the form.

I was born in 1966 and my parents had to fill out the field "Color or Race". And while my father had an "Occupation" box to fill out, my mother didn't have that.

This is a stark reminder that we are barely a generation into being a "post-racial" society. It's sometimes hard to remember that the Bay Area is an anomaly, a racial melting pot with half of the population being non-white. Being a highly transient region also means that we are much more open to new people coming from different communities and cultures.

My Green Pregnancy

It's been about three months since I've sorta fallen off the face of the planet. For the few times during the week I've managed to crawl over to my computer, I knocked off my work emails first and replied to a few personal emails.  The result is that I've failed miserably at responding to emails and voice mails within the unspoken 24-48 hour turnaround period.  I've lowered the bar, and figured if it didn't seem urgent, I tried to get back to friends and family within a week.

It's basically been a question of survival.  You see, I'm one of those pregnant women who end up incapacitated, flat on my back with morning sickness.  The really bad kind:  curled up in a ball and unable to get hardly anything down.  Even water repulses me.  And sleep?  Forget it. 

Since my nausea went past 18 weeks, I kinda lost it morale-wise. Just in despair. One of my friends said ominously, "Oh, no.  Maybe you are going to have a green pregnancy."  In this case, "green" does not stand for environmentally friendly.  Just kill me now, please..I implored Hubby.  I can't take it anymore. 

 

Love in the face of tragedy

NieNie, a wonderful mom blogger from Arizona, was recently in a terrible plane crash.  A wife and young mother of four, she is in a chemically-induced coma, sustaining burns to over 80% of her body.  Her husband is also in critical condition.  The pilot of the plane has passed away.  NieNie’s siter, CJane, has been writing about the experience and keeping people up to date on their progress on her own blog.  Her posts are heartbreaking, inspiring, sad, wonderful.  Last night my husband caught me sobbing at my computer as I read about this young family and the unreal tragedy that has affected their life in recent days.

This story has aroused so many different feelings in my heart.  Sadness, for NieNie, her husband, her children, her family and friends.  Gratitude for each and every healthy, wonderful day I have with my own children.  And awe at the outpouring of love for this family.  And not just from friends and family in their immediate circle, but from the blogging world.  It’s amazing.  Another fantastic mom blogger has declared today NieNie Day and has spearheaded a silent auction project to raise money for the family’s inevitably high expenses.  Guess how many auctions started today?  20? Guess again.  100?  Not even close…nearly 300! 

There’s been so much talk lately about mom bloggers and the power that they have...

News Media in a Toddler's Eyes: Old White Guys

At BlogHer recently, I attended a session on op-ed writing and media training.  Most of it was review, but the piece of the training that really shocked me were stats provided by Catherine Orenstein of the Op-Ed Project.  She said that 85% of op-ed pages are written by men - mostly older white men, 85% of Hollywood producers are men, 84% of books on the New York Times bestseller list were written by men, and only 1/20 of the top politcal blogs are by women.  She also cited stats about the number of women in Congress, which I already knew.  Looking at these numbers, it's tough to argue that women are getting our fair share of exposure in the media.  We have a much longer way to go than I realized.

This lesson didn't really hit home for me until this week, however, when I was sitting literally at home with my daughter.  At age 2 1/2, she's just learning about television and she's like a sponge, learning and repeating everything people say.  As I rarely get the opportunity to read the news, I took a few moments to see what was on one of the news channels one day and so I tried to get her excited about it: "Wanna watch the old guy with mommy?"  This was my non-PC way of describing whoever was anchoring the program.  She said yes at first, but we watched for about ten seconds before she realized it wasn't anything she was interested in viewing.  "I don't wanna watch old guy."

The Dream That You Wish Will Come True...Maybe

The other night while watching the Olympics I came to a realization.  The Olympics are heartbreaking.  Sure, the Games are exciting, unifying, inspiring. But more than anything, they tend to break my heart.  I had just finished watching a women’s hurdles semi-final, where the 2nd athlete in the world for that sport tripped on the first hurdle and was disqualified.  My heart went out to her and it just made me sad.  All that work, only to end up tripping in a semi-final.

Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing the underdog win, or one of the greatest athletes of all time take home 8 gold medals.  But you can’t help but feel bad for the countless athletes who walk away from the Games having not achieved their dream.  Despite the fact it can be a bit disheartening, it is, in fact, a great metaphor for life.  I have been thinking about this theme lately in relation to raising my kids.  The song from Cinderella says our dreams WILL come true. We grow up hearing that message, and we may even go on to pass the message on to our own children.  If you work hard enough or are good enough, you can achieve whatever you want.  But this isn’t necessarily the case. I am not the fastest woman in the world and no amount of running is going to change that fact.  But it’s okay.

Transformation of a princess

Something is happening to my daughter. That thing that no one warns you about when you have kids.

Sure, we’d heard about stranger anxiety. Our mothers warned us about the terrible twos. And we all remember what we were like during the teen years. But what nobody talks about is the fact that some most kids, when they reach the age of five, become (and I say this with the utmost love and affection) beasts.

My Dirty Little Secret

My palms are getting sweaty, my breath is becoming shallow, and my eyes dart from side to side.  I quickly walk up to the merchandise and pick one off the shelf and bury it under the other groceries in my cart.  When I check out, I refuse to make eye contact with the checker.  I am embarrassed.  When I get home, I quickly stuff the goods into the top drawer of my dresser.  I take a deep breath. 

I’m a 30-something mother who is mortified to buy *gasp* condoms. 

It’s like I’m a teenager again - doing something that I know I’m NOT supposed to be doing.  I am an adult in a loving committed relationship.  I’m not seventeen.  I’ve been having sex for all of my adult life and yet buying condoms still invokes a sense of shame in me.  I am mortified every time I buy condoms.

A Mother's Musings on July 4th

I should be honest.  It's kinda embarrassing, but I don't think I've truly celebrated July 4th every year.  Not on a personal level, in the true spirit of Independence Day.

July 4th has mostly been a date on the calendar to be out of school or a long weekend away from the office.   It's the best time to take vacation days off, to get more bang for the buck and go on a long trip somewhere.

But, to cherish July 4th as Independence Day?  ... To think about how a group of patriots struggled for many bloody years against the goliath, apparently stronger nation?  ... To imagine how an amazing group of independent thinkers, all determined (stubborn) in their own ways, could agree on the most important document that set the course of a nation?

... And to consider what does it mean to me, today as a woman, as mom?

I am a mother, "too happy to be comfortable"

“Too happy to be comfortable.” This is perhaps one of the loveliest phrases I’ve heard in connection with motherhood. I’m reading Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner, Pulitzer-prize winning writer, environmentalist and long-time Los Altos resident (please read his work, it’s beautiful). Last night I reached the point in the story where the protagonist has her first baby in the “wild west,” far from home and family. When she and her husband write home to report the good news, she describes herself as “too happy to be comfortable.”

I love it. I think it poetically yet accurately depicts what being a mother (and father) is all about. I would say for most of us, having children makes us happy, but that happiness comes with a serious amount of discomfort. From Day 1, we are exhausted. This new little person pretty much sucks the life out of us. They are completely dependent on us for survival. Then your child starts to grow and the challenges just get more, well, challenging. Despite all of that, having these two ‘little women’ in my life makes me deliriously happy.

And while being a parent causes discomfort and we are happy in spite of that discomfort, I think the other take on this line is even more beautiful.

My daughter's first long summer and she doesn't want to go to camp

My daughter is "graduating" from Kindergarten on Wednesday and so will begin her first official summer.  Sure she's had summer breaks in preschool, but I always signed her up for summer preschool.  Before any type of school, she simply grew as the seasons passed and I needed to put her in slightly different clothes.   For the first time, she has three months of no school aka summer.

My daughter has opted only to sign up for swim lessons half an hour a week for the entire summer, three days of camp at Happy Hollow and one week of gym camp.  So far she's refused repeated offers of other camps and classes and the bay area offers a ton.  I'm not sure whether to be pleased that she recognizes that acres of free time shrink smaller and smaller as one ages until they're reduced to a precious commodity, or that she simply can't comprehend how long a (relatively) hot summer can be.  Her younger brother will be attending summer preschool part of the time, so it will be just me and her for some of the day.

How To Get a Mom Excited

Wanna know how to get a mom excited?  Wax her floor. And, no, that is not a euphemism. I just finished waxing my kitchen floor and I’m SO HAPPY.  It’s this old yucky linoleum that I haven’t been able to get clean since we moved in.  It’s been driving me cah-ray-zeeeee.  I finally did some linoleum research and learned how to properly clean, strip and wax the floor.  So that’s how I spent my weekend.  And now it’s done.  And I’m thrilled.  Beyond thrilled.  Ecstatic.  (Of course, I'd be even MORE ecstatic if someone else had cleaned, stripped & waxed my floor, hence the title of this post...)

As I was thinking about how deliriously happy I am about this floor, I stopped in my tracks.  THIS is what makes me deliriously happy?  What is going on here?  What has happened to me? It’s pretty astounding what can get a mom really excited.  My daughter pooped in the potty! Butter is only $2.50 at Trader Joe’s! My kitchen floor is waxed!  Oh, be still my beating heart…

I saw a book at Papyrus the other day called something like “Porn for New Moms.”

I'll have the champagne, the halibut...and a label maker

Yesterday I awoke to the following:

Isaac: I want to play on the computer!

J [stage whisper]:  Okay, Bean, go wish your Mommy a happy Mother's Day, then you can play on the computer.
[poundpoundpoundpoundpound down the hall]

Isaac: Happy Mother's Day, Mommy!

Me: Thank you sweetie! Can I have a hug?

Isaac: No.  [Hugs me].
[poundpoundpoundpoundpound back down the hall]

Isaac: Step one, say Happy Mother's Day to Mommy!  Step two, play on the computer!

I fell back to sleep until 9:40.  Bliss.

Maria Shriver’s Journey: Up Close & Personal with Silicon Valley Moms Blog

“Change doesn’t have to be huge, but it may have to be deep.  A deep change for me was realizing I’d have to take the time to know what I feel, in order to know who I am and who I want to be.”

As I read these words from Maria Shriver’s new book, Just Who Will You Be?, I felt as if I was peeking into a page from her personal journal.  Last night, I got the chance to meet Maria up close and personal at a private book signing, hosted by Silicon Valley Moms Blog at Books Inc, Palo Alto.

Maria kicked off the evening by calling our time together a “neighborhood girls night out” and treated us to a sampling of Lovin’ Scoopful, a yummy new ice cream that’s close to her heart.  Maria, along with her brother and “two other guys”, came out with this ice cream, donating 25% of proceeds to go to Special Olympics.  (I was surprised to find out later that this creamy ice cream is only ½ the fat and 1/3 of the calories.  I should’ve eaten the whole scoop, rather than holding back the last few bites!)

With ice cream in our tummies, all the mom bloggers were all ears.  For the next 30 minutes, we listened and laughed with Maria, as she opened up about her journey to self-discovery and answered questions from the group.  Maria was as candid, down-to-earth, and humorous in person, as she is in her writing.  Passionate and kind, she was even more beautiful in person than she already is in her photos!

25 Things Worth Doing

I would like to be able to claim my inspiration for this posting as my own brilliant idea.  I would like to, but I can't.  Instead this random list is inspired by Maggie Mason's post on her website, Mighty Girl, of 100 Things Worth Doing.  It reminded me to take stock and think about my best moments.  Am I on track to where I want to be?  Is it about getting somewhere or just enjoying the precious joys as they happen? 

I have pared my list down to 25 for now, possibly the first of a couple of installments.  These are things that I have done in my life to date that I will always remember as the best of choices, adventures, etc. in my world.  It is in no particular order and at the end I added just a couple of things I would love to see on this list if I were to write it again a year or two from now:

xxx
1. Being Pregnant (even though I hated it at the time) Twice - for no other reason than the two beautiful daughters in my life

My Top 5 Mommy Guilt Offenders

Last week, I spent a good amount of the week in bed, sick as a dog. Because there was quite a bit of Mommy Guilt that accompanied my days curled up under the covers, I wrote up a posting on my personal blog about it: When Mommy is Sick.

This week, I'm back on my feet. Yeah, the things that made me feel guilty when I was sick have ebbed away. But, like the tide that always returns, a new list of guilt-inducing items washes up to greet me on any given day as mom.

I try not to let these things drag me down. I kinda picture my days as mom like my walks on a beach. Sometimes, the beach is totally beautiful and clean, especially after a storm or a spelt of rain has hit. The beach is clear because not many people have returned yet. No paper bags, styrofoam cups, or broken beer bottles. Just smooth, virgin sand, waiting for my footprints, as I trek across, eager to make my mark.

Days like these with TJ seem magical. These are the times when I've just finished something major. Maybe I just completed ordering fabric and materials for the line of shopping cart covers I've designed. Or it could be something monumental, like clicking through that last screen on the TurboTax Wizard and all my papers are filed in newly labeled folders. Or it could be something as simple as getting my weekly grocery runs done. With my fridge newly stocked and meals fresh in my mind for the next couple of days, my time with TJ is filled with lots of fun, play, and creative ideas for first time moments.

Baby on the brain

Since Darius was born, I've been saying that he would be an only child.  And if not an only child forever, at least for a very very long time.  I was 26 when D was born - and in Silicon Valley, I felt like a teenage mother.  The women in my office and the women in my mother's club were, on average, 10 years older than me.  Darius was a surprise pregnancy.  My birth control failed after an antibiotic interaction.  10 days on penicillin and wha-la my precious baby was conceived.  So needless to say, we weren't in a phase of our lives where we really thinking about children.  We wanted to travel, to live through our twenties as care-free young adults, to pursue our careers.   And while my son has changed most of that picture, I didn't want to jump into my "baby-making" phase of life just because we made a baby.  One was enough, thank you.  I didn’t need to start having more.

I have held steadfast to my opinion that we wouldn't have more children until my spouse finished grad school and Darius was in school.  Until now. For the last month I have daydreamed about getting pregnant.  I have this fantasy about it.  About quitting work and staying at home for a year to nest and make a family.  About staying fit and having a clean house.  And doing crafts with the kids and going to the park.  And having a clean house.  Like I said, it's a fantasy.

Turn your kid into a couch potato in 7 days

My two year-old daughter has been kept away from the TV as much as possible until recently.  Most books say to wait until they're two before introducing TV and that was just fine with us.  She watched Baby Einstein a few times when she was little, but that was it.  Then she got sick recently and really didn't feel up to much of anything, so we went down the dark path...

J discovered Dora the Explorer first.  Lucky for us, a study recently came out that some of it is actually educational for kids.  Our daughter is learning some songs, letters of the alphabet and counting.  The show has a linear, simplistic pattern that works well for the little ones.  She's now totally hooked.  She gets up in the morning and asks for Dora.  She negotiates asking to "watch Dora a couple more minutes?!" with her angelic little eyes.  We're doomed.

Reinventing Date Nights

A friend and I were having breakfast one morning at the Woodside Bakery, catching up over coffee, a split fritatta, and fresh pastries. It was great to take a break from our grueling toddler-run treadmills and escape for a morning.

It's fun to hangout with this particular friend because we share a similar timetable for getting hitched and married with children. We became friends when we were both single and in our 30's. We met our spouses around the same time, dated and walked down the aisle within the same year and popped our first baby out after celebrating our paper anniversary.

During our precious time away from being time-crazed women back at home, we didn't talk about parenting or tantrums. Naw, that kinda stuff is left for everyday fodder, playground conversations. No, we got the scoop on top priority topics. One of which was the lack of time with hubbies and missing table-for-two evenings and weekends.

How realistic is it to inject romance as a regular part of life as couple with kids? And did we actually know any long-married couples who were "still in love"?

Redefining Progress: The Genuine Progress Indicator

At my son's preschool, teachers stuff the latest glue and glitter creations along with school newsletters in cubby holes for each student. Last week, when I picked TJ up from his morning class, I noticed that his was packed full. Shoot!  Because TJ's afternoon nap time is my break time, I tend to be in a rush, getting TJ in the car and whisked back home in time for lunch and down to catch a few zzz's.

I hate missing the occasional notes-to-parents or school newsletter. There have been too many times I sported the deer-in-the-headlights look when Mrs. Preschool Teacher asked for the whatever-you-call-it form.

So, as I'm stopped at a red light, I quickly scan the newsletter for any action items, when a line from the preschool director's letter catches my eye. 

An Incurable Romantic

A new year has crept up on me.  And I couldn't be happier.  Other than Christmas, there isn't a better time of the year for me.  Not because of any great New Year Party I often hear about or see glammed up in the movies.  Hey, I'm in bed by 10pm if I had it my way.  Sleep trumps all else for this mom of a toddler.  And it's not because I'm away on vacation somewhere far and away, like Paris or Hawaii. 

No, the reason why my world suddenly becomes shiny and new during the month of January is because I'm a  die-hard romantic.  Now, I'm not talking about the Valentine's Day, hearts-and-boxes-of-chocolate type of romance. I call it Life Romanticism, where I fall in love with life and look for meaning behind every little moment and significance in any old thing. I don't believe in circumstance or randomness. 

So, I thought I'd start the new year off with a confessional:  I am an incurable romantic. Yep, I'm one of those people who (tries to) save every card I get, scrapbook pieces of wrapping paper from my baby/bridal showers, have a box full of letters from my childhood friends, and is often obsessed with finding reasons to celebrate (Hey, it's the

Mommyblogger Tips for Avoiding Being Groped

Going to a recent fundraising event, the last thing I was thinking about was getting hit on by men.  My job was to cover the occasion, meet people, take pictures.  My friend and I made our way through the various areas of the venue with our purpose 100% in focus.  It was a fabulous organic event with one unintended consequence: a meat market on the side.  While the food was excellent, we were unprepared to encounter single men hitting on us and invading our personal space as we perused our surroundings.

Lucky for us, we learned a great trick that I'm going to pass along to all the other mommybloggers out there.  During that time between first contact (whether it be a look, an approach, a hello or some sort of line to get your attention) and the point where he discovers your wedding ring are some uncomfortable moments where you know there's... interest... from the new person you're talking with.  Sometimes that space can be more than uncomfortable - disconcerting, even.  In that empty space, the sooner you talk about mommyblogging, the faster you can get to the imminent disembarkment of the wannabe-beau, stalker, whatever.  Try it next time you're out by yourself and you get hit on or feel that vibe - watch the color instantly drain from mens' faces.  It's really a priceless social experiment.

The Right Outfit at the Wrong Time

I've always said any outfit is appropriate, it just depends on where you are when you wear it. For example, I wore a nightie and yoga shorts to a pole dancing class last year, but I wore a conservative tweed skirt and black sweater with an attached bow (almost prissy!) to my grandfather's funeral. Last Tuesday, forevermore to be remembered as Forgotten Child Day, I had slipped into an outfit to attend the Gorgeous and Green fashion show in San Francisco with fellow SV Mom Blogger Sarah G. who was covering the story for her blog, SF Bay Style.

I'm certain that when Forgotten Child's Mom rang my doorbell at 5pm and found me in a somewhat sexy backless black outfit and too much mascara for a playdate mom, that I got the Bimbo of the Day award in her world. I'm sure her first thought was "what is she DOING dressed like this while hosting a playdate??" If I'd danced Victoria Jackson's "I am not a Bimbo" song (1990s Saturday Night Live) in my entry , it might have actually helped the situation. My first thought was, "OH...MY....GOD... I forgot to calendar the playdate and left the boys at Kids Club." 

Dear Shutterfly: will we still be friends in the New Year?

Dear Shutterfly,

Thanks for the $400 credit to my Shutterfly account. Your customer service rep was very nice to me. However, I'm still more than a bit miffed that after I submitted my finished holiday card to you, the message text on the inside front cover reverted to my first draft.  Thank goodness I didn't write anything snarky or incriminating, or I would have a bigger issue with you.

I thought the worst part of the card would be our family photo.  While my 5 year old daughter, Kitty Cat, gave a half-smile and looked decent, her twin brother Guy-Guy refused to smile.  Actually, he refused to make a normal face. He looks like he's having an eye-rolling seizure in the photo. That was pretty bad, but his outfit was even worse - a camouflage shirt and pant get-up, otherwise known as "army-army" in our house.  This is one battle with my husband I should have picked, but didn't when he insisted that army-army on Guy-Guy was just fine for Thanksgiving dinner with his parents.  Maybe so, but it wasn't fine with me for our annual chance at a four-person family photo.  Why is it so hard to get four people in a photo? 

So, Shutterfly, how could our card have been worse?  Well, you know why.

Toys that will not be under our tree this year

Christmas is one of my favorite times of year. I have great memories of Christmases past. It was the biggest holiday in our house. A big deal. As a parent, I want to pass on the Christmas traditions of my youth. Leaving cookies and milk for Santa, reading the Bible and the birth of Jesus, and looking forward to opening what we called the "big gift." I didn't realize how hard it is to find that perfect gift. Kids are fickle. One day they want a bike. The next day, an iPhone. On my quest to find the perfect gift, I ruled out a few that fell into the "Is this for real??" category.  So for my humor, I present you with the toys that will not be under our tree this year.

Dora the Explorer Talking Friendship Adventure Doll

This Dora is lifesize and has the famous (infamous?) giant head.  And I really mean lifesize.  She stands nearly three feet tall. 

Boy I am glad that we never brought Dora into our house.  Her giant head is already giving me nightmares.

I swear, if this toy was around in the 80s it would have replaced the uber-scary clown in Poltergeist.

The Jessica Seinfeld Mystery - Gym Romance, Vegetable Plagiarism and 21 Pairs of Shoes?

Yesterday morning after I slaved over serving my three boys oatmeal for breakfast, I sat down to have my cup of tea and read my favorite section of the Sunday New York Times: Sunday Styles. Yesterday's Sunday Styles had yet another celebrity mom gossipfest about Jessica Seinfeld, Jerry Seinfeld's wife, in an article called "How I Met Jerry Seinfeld, Scene 1, Take 2".

At first I was excited to read some juicy gossip, but then I wondered if this is just another attack on a celebrity mom, well, because she is a celebrity (wife). I guess the hot issues are that she met Jerry Seinfeld at the Reebok Gym in Manhattan while she was still married, she is a accused of plagiarizing another writer's recipes for her children's cookbook "Deceptively Delicious" and gave Oprah Winfrey 21 pairs of Christian Louboutin shoes as a gift for inviting her on the show to discuss her cookbook. A blogger at the Huffington Post even calculated the cost of the shoes to be $16,000 - $20,000.

First of all, after I came out supporting paperless thank-you's so how could I criticize someone for giving

There are some things money can buy, for everything else there's Mama

My favorite Halloween tale, told in the style of a certain popular ad:

Jack Sparrow costume (new): $40
Power Rangers costume (new): $30
Candy corn costume, used (from Craigslist):  $7
Wire, pantyhose, paint and glitter for wings, headband and purse:  $7
Nights spent turning a candy corn costume into a candy corn fairy costume:  4
Seeing the joy in my daughter's eyes when she won Best Costume at a Halloween contest last night: Priceless.

Bongga-mummy is currently suffering from Halloween hangover but trying to blog it away over on her personal blog, Finding Bonggamom.

Heather Mills: Victim or Phony?

I normally don't that involved in the whole "celebrity mommy meltdown" stories that are rampant in the press these days. But there is just something about the very public ranting of Heather Mills that bothers me.  I find myself having a hard time lending a sympathic ear to her.  Maybe it's because I love the Beatles.  Maybe it's because she seemed more wacko than victim.  I don't know.  All I know for sure is that the price of celebrity seems way too high these days. 

Doing maternity leave right

It's 7:30am and I can hear voices in the kitchen. I'm snug in my bed with my newborn snuggled at my breast and I hesitate to get up. Breakfast seems to be going well without me and it's so nice and cozy right where I am.  This isn't something new; this has been going on for weeks now. I'm doing my best to enjoy my maternity leave and milk (ha!) it for all it's worth.

The troops traipse in for their goodbye kisses, which I bestow upon them without unlatching the infant.
"Have a good day! Make good choices! Ask good questions! And no time outs!"
They yell more goodbyes on their way to the door and the house falls silent. That's it. Little L and I are all alone and it's up to us to make the best of our day.

Put That Thing Away!

For those family and friends that knew me as a young girl, they understand that I was a true "girly girl". As a child, I loved sparkly shoes and clothes, playing Barbie, doing art projects and pretend play consisted of tea parties with princesses. As I got older around junior high and high school, I never quite developed an interest in group sports. My activities included being on the school swim and track team, acting in plays, creating bigger art projects, and developing a strong interest in fashion. Even as a single adult, I only went to big Stanford, Giants or 49er sports events only if they included a tailgate party with single men or my gal friends. For exercise I did dance and aerobics. My favorite hobby became anything computer related and my fashion interest became an official obsession.

When I was blessed to have not only our first son, but then twin boys I was in a state of shock for some time.  My first thoughts after finding out my twins were boys were "WTF will I do with three boys?! Where do I learn about superheros, cars, trucks, building airplane models, how will I help them develop a love of group sports (really important for boys socially) when I don't play them???  And most of all, how do you talk to boys about care and maintenance of the favorite male body part I will call the "P thing"? Being the day caregiver will mean that I will be mainly in charge of potty training three boys! Help!!"  Luckily, my husband is all boy at heart and is coming in very handy during the most challenging of times.

More on the East Palo Alto Four Seasons. Chapter 4: the freeway exit

Hey there!  How's it going?  Haven't heard from any of you during this summer vacation and I've missed you!  Missed all of the svmoms discussions about  the silicon valley, missed hearing what was happening in the USA (we were out of the country), missed the chatter.   And as I drove home from our vacation, I kind of missed our old comment-wild blog posting about the East Palo Alto Four Seasons hotel.  (Remember Stefania's posting?  Some of those comments had such a warm fuzzy feeling!)

Which brings me to the freeway exit where you leave 101 and turn onto Palo Alto's University Avenue.  Have you seen that exit?  And excuse me, but would it kill someone to landscape it?   Go almost anywhere in California and you'll see beautiful freeway exits (by exit, I mean the land in between the looping drive to and from the freeway, by the way). Trees, freeway noise walls with patterns and ivy all over them, the beautiful sand gardens in Southern California, and then you get to the Palo Alto exit and what do you see?

It looks like a deserted parking lot out there.  All that's missing is a junker or two (up on concrete blocks, please), and about 450 broken beer bottles.  Perhaps an encampment of hobos.  And ... some feral cats, to add spice.

Every time I leave the freeway for University Avenue, I find myself (as a gardener) pondering the implications of huge behemoth businesses purchasing the only finger of East Palo Alto to poke into the opulent greenery of "greater" Palo Alto  (don't even flame me for that one. I have jet lag and I'm kidding.), only to leave the entrance looking like Chernobyl 2: The Empty Lot.

Palo Alto is supposed to be ... oh, I dunno... pretty!  Kind of classic, isn't it?  With it's 1920's bungalows and impeccably-landscaped lots.  With those amazingly expensive houses and classy restaurants like The Cheesecake Factory (wince).  I think that jet lag is getting to me here, but my point is that there's a lot of "house pride" in the Palo Alto area... so why does it look like a pit when you enter it?

Maybe I'm missing something.  Perhaps the Four Seasons really did hire an extremely esoteric and somewhat eccentric landscape artist who has chosen, like Robert Arneson did with his bust of Mayor Moscone in the eighties, to use a form of mocking in his artwork?  An extremely deep (impermeable?) depiction of the silicon valley's juxtaposition of wealth and beauty versus untended, unlandscaped earth?  Maybe a piece that calls attention to the deep chasms within our society?

Nah. 

Nice to be home, BTW.  And never mind about the University Avenue exit.  I can always use Marsh road.  Sorry to mention it.  I'll just focus on the lovely blue Ikea island instead.

More Rappin' - From A Dad In The House

First one of Beth B.'s favorite ma bloggers Paper Napkin (a.k.a. Supa Stank Couch Cushion Robba) wrote a rap song. That inspired Beth B. (a.k.a. 3Boyz-In-Da-Backyard Mama) to write her own rap song. A funny ma blogger friend even called her MC Bethie B after that. Now she sees that runs in da family, with Brother-in-law Barry B.'s twist to the ma blogger rap:

Dad’s in the House – A Rap
By (NYC) Barry Blecherman
(Lines in parenthesis are “crowd” (kid) chants)

(Dad’s in the house…)
(Dad’s in the house…)
(Dad’s in the house…)

Oh, Dad’s in the house –
    Turn down the TV!
    (Turn down the TV!)
Just give me a hug
    And I’ll let you be free
    (And I’ll let you be free)

Squashed on the bus
Sneezed on in the “A”
Chewed out by the boss
Had a cruddy day

Ma Blogger Rap-o-thon

Because I promised to cover my mom-friend Paper Napkin's back, I just have to linklove to her amazing rap song about being the new mom in town at her kids' school.

So, I will attempt my own rap to show her that other moms feel the same way. So yo - check mine out! Maybe my other ma blogger friends can also share their mom rap thoughts...And have a mom blogosphere rap-a-thon.

from 3Boyz-In-Da-Backyard Mama
By Beth Blecherman

Getting three boys outa the house in the mornin'
Is like trying to move a pack of monkeys - swarmin'...

Towards their instincts which leads boys to the mud or in the pool
Instead of having an interest in goin' to school

Boys learn by doin'
But end up with lots of booin'

From perfect moms and kids who believe sittin' still
Makes ya king of the hill

In Silicon Valley, some of the Billionaire Geeks
Used to be the school boy freaks

Now they can say Muck You
For those who did not have a clue

And did not see that original thinkers
May start out as stinkers

And for those perfect moms who come to school drop-off
With their clean white outfits without a drop of...(mud)

Next time ya see boyz-in-da-school playing in the tree
Do not wonder what they will be

Because they have momz-with-sweats who have hair all over the place
That are just trying to keep pace
With their original stinkers thinkers
Who will one day be the "King"sters

Hey this is fun....Thank ya Paper Napkin -Supa Stank Couch Cushion Robba for the inspiration.

To Blog Or Not To Blog

Do you ever have a really hot topic that you are dying to blog about...but it will really piss people  close to you off, so you do not post it. I just deleted a post from the line up twice. I wrote an honest, emotional post, and then stressed for hours about the fall out. I know that others struggle with the same issues, but I came to the conclusion it was not worth sabotaging relationships for a good post- or is it ?

It is so hard for me to bite my tongue, silence and censor my thoughts. But I guess part of growing up is knowing when to shut up. That has never been easy for me. I talk too much, share too much. So I sit here, still annoyed, still wanting to share my frustrations, but realizing it is not worth the cost.( Yahoo groups will be used for moral support, not this blog.)  I like to share with the blogosphere, even if I attract trolls. But this time, I will plead the fifth. Oh how frustrating !

Good Clean Fun

One of the odd side effects of having a child on the autism spectrum is that it's actually a little contagious.  By which I mean that, if part of the compact of parenthood is learning to see things through a child's eyes, having a child who sees things differently means that you will probably start to change your perspective too.  Lately, my four-year-old has become deeply interested in several things: numbers, transportation, and the song "Do-Re-Mi" from The Sound of Music, the combination of which can make for a fun, if quirky, day out. 

On Sunday, our little family embarked on one of Isaac's favorite walks: from our house to the "F" streetcar, which has become almost like a family friend.  We trudged over hills, counting out street numbers and buses, humming the theme to "The Pink Panther" (a new favorite) and looking for different-colored houses.  Near Oak Street, we passed a group of 20-somethings, all garbed for some reason in combinations of red and black, one girl in bright red fishnets, shorts, a tee shirt and...kitten ears.  We sang "Do-Re-Mi" several hundred times, complete with Isaac's new lyrics: "Do a deer, a female deer. Re, a drop of Golden Gate Bridge..."  When we got to the Castro, Isaac walked straight into Hot Cookie, where he decided on a small chocolate chip cookie and thankfully missed the more, shall we say, fanciful (think anatomically correct) confections on display.   

From there, we got onto the orange F streetcar, still sporting signs from its previous life in Milan (my favorite being "Vietato Sputare," or "Spitting is Prohibited").  We sat, happily jammed between a group of Castro residents and a boisterous family of tourists on their way to Fisherman's Wharf.   Despite a few tantrum-y moments, it was a great day, and all told we probably spent $10: $3 for bus fare, $4 for bottled water, and $3 for cookies.  Next on our list: miniature golf.  Any recommendations down the Peninsula?

My Time of Day

My favorite time of the day is 1:00 p.m.  It is the time of day when my daughter goes down for her nap and I have 2 hours all to myself.  I can pee alone.  I can browse blogs without having to hurry through them.  What I do is up to me.

Our family spent the last week in Hawaii.  While it was wonderful, my husband has been home for the last month.  Spending 7 straight days with him was not something I was looking forward to after being together non-stop lately.  Today was the first day that I have had naptime all to myself.

I caught up on lots of blogs.  I had a cup of coffee and got to drink the whole thing while it was still hot.  I also curled up on the couch and napped!  I haven’t done that in a month for fear my husband will think I don’t have enough to do at home.  It was amazing.

I have a tough time giving up my 1:00 p.m. date with myself for anything.  It helps me make it through the day.  If it is cut short I am off the rest of the day.  It allows me to keep my house running, to keep myself together.  It is my time…all mine!

What is your favorite time of day????

Hagmama Does Not Do Fireworks

BK (before kids) I used to be the first one to organize events on July 4th, including staying out late watching fireworks. I would strategize to find the perfect spot to watch fireworks with my friends, even if it meant walking for long periods of time. I even enjoyed going to big, crowded July 4th events around town during the day.

I would like to say I am one of those moms that takes their young kids to fireworks so they do not miss out on the excitement. But, openly, I admit I am not. As a mom of three young kids, there is one rule that I rarely break: DON'T STAY OUT PAST BEDTIME.... I am happy to break the rule if we are at a kid-friendly house for dinner or a child friendly nighttime show. Because by 9pm this work at home mama turns into hagmama if she does not have some downtime. I talk about hagmama to my family like she is my alternative personality. If my kids keep popping out of their bed after they are put to sleep I say "mama has lots of work to do tonight, please go to bed or mama will turn into hagmama". I knew that hagmama could not go to see the fireworks.

Instead, our 4th of July was celebrated during the day at a family friendly resort (my neighbor's house that has a pool and kids similar ages to my own). The kids spent the whole day playing in the pool and we ended the day with the classic July 4th barbecue. No naps, no downtime - just a whole day of family time.

At 7:30 pm, when other families were packing up for an exciting night of fireworks, we were putting the kids in the shower and reading bedtime stories. By 8pm, my twin preschoolers were sleeping and by 8:30pm so was my 8 year old son. By 9pm my husband was relaxing reading a book while I blogged about Wikipedia. We opened the windows so we could hear the fireworks. My concept of July 4th excitement has changed for the better, celebrating with family during the day and enjoying the sound of fireworks at night from the windows of a house quiet with three wonderful sleeping children. No hagmama in sight.

Economies of Kids

To inject some humor into my mom day, I play a game where I use business concepts I learned in college to describe concepts I learn as a mom. One concept I remember from economics is "economies of scale".  Like economies of scale, where an increase in the scale of the firm causes a decrease in the long run average cost of each unit, an increase in the number of kids causes a decrease in the effort to move them from point A to point B. Add that concept to your research Federal Reserve!

This week I used that concept to describe the addition of two boys (my older son's age) into my morning routine. I already have three boys in my house (four year old twins and an eight year old). With two more boys (six and eight years old), that makes FIVE boys. I set up carpooling this week with two other moms in my neighborhood who do camp pick-ups for my eight year old so I took the morning drop-off.

At first glimpse, this may seem overwhelming. But I took solace in knowing that one of the calmest and together moms I know manages a family of seven (in the trenches of Motherhood).  What I found out is, that once you have three kids, when you start adding more then the "economies of kids" concept applies. Going out with two kids enables a one adult to one child ratio. Once you have three kids, all bets are off and zone defense does not work. So the tactics developed to manage three kids can be used with five kids. I have to admit that I did not need to feed or get the other two kids dressed, but I did need to get them into the car, have them all walk the 4 year old twins to their camp, get back into the car and then go to the last camp stop.

When I said (in a nice but LOUD mom voice) "It is time to get in the car now", moving five kids for some reason was easier then moving three into the car. When one moved towards the car, the others followed (pack mentality). Walking with all five kids to drop off my twins at the first camp was easier then three because they stayed together to whisper potty talk jokes I pretended not to hear (my "don't hear, don't yell at them" policy). When my friends drop off their kids for playdates, having five kids in the house is easier then three because everyone seems to play better in big groups. Now that I know about the concept of economies of kids I say bring it on - drop those kids off at my house of three boys.  The more the better.

Do We Know Too Much????

We are heading to Hawaii at the end of the month. Of course, we are going to be at the beach most of the time we are there. I started thinking about if I should get my daughter a sunsuit or a rash guard to help with the sun exposure.  I have done several hours worth of searching the Internet for the right one!  Seriously.

Then, while on a trip with my mom's group, we started talking about this website that rates products toxicity. I started looking at the site to find a good sunscreen that won't kill us when I had to sit back and think, "What the hell am I doing?"

Does our generation know too much information?  Are we running scared from things because we just know too much?  Does all this information actually help us or does it hurt us.

I remember while pregnant, I tested positive for the gene that carries Cystic Fibrosis.  My mom was shocked we could find out this info these days and when I told my mom all the things dr.'s tested for and she was floored. That was the first time (but not the last) that she said she felt bad for women these days because they have us scared of EVERYTHING.

Don't eat soft cheese, don't have too much caffeine, no alcohol, don't sleep on you back, etc., etc. Geez! So many of our parents probably smoked, drank and did whatever else while pregnant with us and we are fine! (I am not saying MY mom did this stuff by the way).  Of course, I know that these things have affected some children, BTW.

While raising kids it is even worse! No TV for kids under two. Sugar....NEVER! Breast is best. Limit juice. Does your sunscreen block UVA or just UVB? And on and on and on.

My first realization that I needed to do what is right for my family was when my good friend was consoling me when I hated breast feeding. She pointed out that she didn't nurse her first baby but she did nurse her daughter. Kate was sick more and had more ear infections that Jack ever did. If I followed all the damn things people tell me to do or not do I might never leave my house!

So yes, I will be getting a rash guard for my daughter to help with sun exposure. She will probably be on the beach at points without one too. GASP! Thankfully, my sunscreen was rated fine and won't kill us for now.

What do you think....are we better or worse off knowing everything that we know today?

Crossposted at my family blog, Freitas Family.

Not Exactly the Joneses

We're one of those families. You know, the kind where everyone has a different last name. The names my husband and I have kept and the combination we chose for our son are connecting and confusing and we love it.

It all began a long, long time ago when I was a little girl who had notebooks full of curly-Q cursive doodles bearing the name I would take when I married my grammar school crush. Mrs. Jessica Main. I wrote it out over and over. Sometimes it would be Ms. Jessica Ashley Main or Mrs. J.A. Main, but his name was always in there somewhere. The little feminist flashes went off when I was in my early teens and received a note from a lady at church. There, printed on the embossed card was her name. And it was altogether different from her husband's and children's last name. Oh, I thought, you can do that.

Close to that time, my grandfather made a casual remark at a holiday dinner about how my brother would be the only one who could carry on the family name. Without skipping a beat, I spoke up. I will carry on the family name, too, I said.

My grandfather blinked for a long time and then smiled at me and knew that even if he wasn't sure what to think of that, I was. And I knew then that I wouldn't ever really be Mrs. anybody. I would always be called what I'd always been called.

I knew that to my core for so long before I met the man who would become my husband that it didn't occur to me to discuss it. Until we got engaged, that is, and everyone we knew began asking -- assuming since they knew my independence -- if I'd be hyphenating or taking his last name. Neither, I'd say, I will still be Jessica Ashley.

How will that work? What will your kids be called? Won't that be confusing? There were always the follow-up questions. But I shrugged it off. It'll all work out just fine, I said. I was sure of it.

And it has. It has because we believe in our choice to keep our names. And we have a sense of humor about how other people perceive it and who we end up being to them in the process. All of Bruce's shirts from the dry-cleaner say Mr. Ashley on the inside and I smile to myself every time a solicitor calls and I stop their schpiel by saying, I am the lady of the house but I am not Mrs. Anyone -- a little name game that often works better than grousing that we're on the Do Not Call Registry.

Many members of my family, my own grandmother included, still don't get or refuse to admit that there's none of his name in mine. Anywhere.  Honestly, it really doesn't matter to me. I know who I am, Bruce knows who he is and we like our names just the way they are.

When we had our son, there was no pause in deciding he'd be hyphenated. We know he's smart enough and thoughtful enough to choose how to proceed with whatever name or names he chooses when he's involved in a marriage or partnership or has children. In the meantime, we're teaching him that he has more letters to write, but that having two names is special. It is a bit from Mommy and a bit from Daddy and a name that's all his own. For now, because he doesn't know yet that most other kids don't share this hyphenation situation, he's good with that.

It's not perfect. His whole name doesn't fit on the monogrammed stickers I bought for his lunch box and sippy cups. And people still shake their head in puzzlement when I correct them in how they call us. Sometimes, friends assume I will judge them for taking their new husband's last name or something ridiculous like that. This was and is the right choice for me and for us because it was our choice. We're that family, the one you can't put just one name on.

Revealing the Double Standard

Have you read I Don’t Know How She Does It? It’s the wildly popular mommy-lit book about a London mom (mum?) who works full time. Her kids and husband are neglected. Her life is out of control. She is the only one who does anything around the house. She is just a mess. This book really frightened me. I read it about a week before I started my own full-time job, and I worried that when I started working again, I’d turn into that mom.

Now that I’ve been working for almost three months, I am happy to report that I’m still a good mother (phew!). Sure, I’ve had my moments (sending my daughter to school with a sore throat because I had an important client meeting that I just couldn’t miss comes to mind), but overall, I think I’m managing okay.

There is one part of the book, though, that really rings true, and I’m wondering if the other working moms out there agree. Kate, the protagonist, is at a work meeting, and one of her colleagues (a man) excuses himself, explaining that he needs to attend his daughter’s swimming gala. The meeting attendees (excepting Kate) all smile at each other. One woman mouths the word, “Sweet.” Another woman says, “Oh, how marvelous, Andrew! You’re so hands on!”

This is the excerpt that really got me, though:

“Man announces he has to leave the office to be with his child for short recreational burst and is hailed as selfless doting paternal role model. Woman announces she has to leave the office to be with child who is on sickbed and is damned as disorganized, irresponsible, and Showing Insufficient Commitment.”

I feel this way when I need to come in late, leave early, or stay home. Is there really this much of a double standard or am I just overly sensitive?

_________________________________________
Disclaimer: I'm no SV mom. I'm a Chicago mom blogger (like Sara) testing the waters as we prepare to launch the Chicago Moms Blog. Thanks for letting us stop by!

Checking Out "Notes From the Underbelly"

I read a couple of articles recently about "Notes From the Underbelly" being the "Sex and the City" of mommyhood - I thought, no way it could match SATC so I setup Tivo and promptly forgot about it. Yesterday, I was watching another show and saw a frightening yet humorous preview for NFTU so I decided to see if Tivo recorded the show and watch a bit.

Skeptical at first, I waded into it with low expectations but gradually I began to like the characters. Rachael Harris (Cooper) is hilarious and I really like the lead couple played by Jennifer Westfeldt (Lauren) and Peter Cambor (Andrew). They reminded me of myself and my husband when we were just deciding to get pregnant. We had the same concerns and fears and the same issues with our FWKs (friends with kids) vs. our FWOKs (friends without kids). The show debates issues like whether to keep the Mini vs. buy the minivan, how to hide pregnancy from friends in the least offensive, most inconspicuous ways, how to not go overboard in the kid gadget department, and of course the important self-image issues for moms like saying goodbye to the "girlish" figure, caffeine, and booze. Suppposedly it will track the main couples through the beginnings of parenthood, like the early years pre-"Desperate Housewives".

Set in L.A., it has its eye candy like homes, shopping and clothes but the beauty of "Notes From the Underbelly" is that it tells a common, modern human dilemma and transition with humor. I don't know if anything will ever match "Sex and the City" in the way it blended fashion, culture, storyline and humor but this show does seem to have the same campy allure that DH has.

Check it out - it's moving to Wednesday nights on ABC.

Linklove: Giving a New Meaning to "Then I will just have a kid on my own"

A scientist friend of mine sent me two links yesterday (here and here) to articles on a new transplant technique that could remove men from the process of creating life. We could say this is liberating for women that have not found a mate but want to have a kid and same sex couples. Or will knowledge of this force men(that have issues) to become better partners and parents to prove their usefulness? I feel lucky to have found a male that I also happen to be very compatible with to have kids, but it took me years......And I almost gave up.

We are delighted that Strollerderby blogged about this because they always have a 'snarky' way with words: Dear Men: Sorry, We Can Make Babies Without You. Signed, The Women". 

Who needs privacy when you have kids??

D ran into the room to tell me that he needed to "make ca-ca."  We are just finishing potty training, but D still like some help getting onto the toilet. 

Me: "Great, let's get you to the bathroom."

D: "I gonna go ca-ca. in. THE. POTTY!!!"

pull down pants, pull down underoos, get special potty insert, place D on the pot

D: "Momma, please go away.  I need my privacy."

Me: chuckle.  "Oh, you need privacy?"

D: "Yes, Momma.  I need my privacy.  Please go shut the door."

Me: "Hey... You don't give me privacy when I go to the bathroom. "

D: "Silly, Momma, you don't need privacy.  You are the Mommy."

Daddy:  "Touché, Momma, Touché."

Mommy Swine

An article entitled "Pearls before Breakfast" is bound to depict someone as swine. In this case, the swine are the people who didn't stop to listen to Joshua Bell busking in a Washington DC subway. The nauseatingly pretentious tone is supposed to show that people don't recognize beauty. The writer Gene asks, "Do you have time for beauty? Shouldn't you? What's the moral mathematics of the moment?"

No offense to Mr. Bell, who is a genius violinist.  And yes he certainly sounded better than the average busker. However the acoustics were awful. Gene disagrees and says "The acoustics proved surprisingly kind." I agree with him that "[the subway layout] caught the sound and bounced it back round and resonant." To me, it bounced the sound around and around like a bad reverb. The notes ran over one another.

The acoustics of music matters to me as well the player and the instrument. If that makes me swine, so be it. 

Also to answer his question, "Do I have time for beauty?" Yes, I have a lot more time than I used to being a SAHM and less. I'm no longer corporate swine. Though I do have to rush sometimes to get my son to his various appointments and my daughter to preschool, but otherwise yes, I have time to linger dawdle when I walk from point A to point B.wander over to where my kids want to go. I have no choice. I herd swine walk with young children.

My kids aged 4 and 2 both make our walk to the library, a multi-sensory journey. They notice and comment on every flower, pebbles, the beehives.  Every difference is noted and stared at, even once a dead rat. Okay, the dead rat was really gross.  On my own, I wouldn't have looked at it so closely as I did with my daughter who was both repulsed and fascinated by its squashed dessication. And it did have a kind of stark beauty.

My children have no idea what "moral mathematics of the moment" means. And I don't know if faced with Joshua Bell in a confined space, we would have hurried on -- "Too loud!" my son might have exclaimed. Or if the video distorted the experience, and we would have found Joshua's playing beautiful even in the subway. If so, we'd have stopped and I'd have had time to notice, "Hey that's Joshua Bell!" disguised both musically and physically.

Either way, as moms, I think most of us recognize there is no standard of beauty we all can agree on. My swine son finds his toy trains a constant source of joy and beauty, as well as his dayglo orange pants. My swine daughter loves her garish sparkly shoes decorated with Disney princesses.

Ironically one of my daughter's favorite games is to address me as "Mommy [insert name of animal here]."  I must respond with "Daughter [animal].  So calling her "daughter swine" would be great to her.

I think they're the most beautiful fascinating children in the world. I pity the mom who doesn't find constant joy and beauty in their own children in between bouts of finding them utter pains.  Even with all his medical issues and multiple delays, I'd still choose my son, quickly won over by his sweet cry of "Mummy!" and the way he laughs and laughs until he's totally breathless.

But no, I personally don't find all children are beautiful.  As an ideal, yes, and certainly I tend to find most children cute. Yet though it may be unPC, I think a few children are just plain ugly and a few more are constantly annoying. And I honestly and sincerely hope that their parents think otherwise.   

I also hope that if Joshua Bell's mom was in the subway, she found her son's performance utterly entrancing.

Crossposted to Thida's blog Water Owl's Movements.

The Club

My daughter just turned eight.  This second grade year has been uneventful, at least academically.  When it comes to the social stuff, however, my girl has been really struggling.  It isn't that she doesn't have friends.  The problems seem to stem from her need for control - or her choice of "weird" games.  I don't know how to help her.

The last week has been sunny, so I've made plans to stay and play at the park next to the school for a few hours each day.  When I announced for the second day in a row that we were staying to play, my daughter flung her arms around my waist unexpectedly.

"Thanks, Mommy,"  she said.  "Here at the park is the only time anyone plays with me."

I watched her go galloping off towards the usual group of kids who hang out at the park, the younger kids checking frequently with moms sitting near benches or sprawled on the grass in groups, the older kids with siblings, awaiting a parent to pull up and honk impatiently.  At the edge of the park, there is a fence separating the backyards of the neighbors from the school yard.  A tall hedge grows all along the fence, and it is here that the kids tend to congregate. 

They've staked out an area and call it "The Club" - membership seems to be open to anyone who is around.  They nag each other, give each other chores to do, and assign each other roles.  In The Club, my daughter is an equal player.  She can choose to be the queen, or choose to be the stable master, and no one bats an eye.  It has a sort of Second Life feel to it, to be frank.  They could work together, but often times they are just sharing the space and doing their own thing.

I stake out a space on the lawn close enough to overhear most of the action (and to break up anything I don't like...yes, I'm one of THOSE moms) and feign disinterest.  My attention is often scattered between my three kids, but I'm always watchful with those kids in the bushes.  Because yes, I was one of THOSE kids.  I settled down and chatted with some of my fellow mothers, acting out some of my youthful stunts for cheap laughs.

As the afternoon passed, I broke up a few wrestling matches between kids other than my own, and brokered safe passage for the really little kids to tour The Club.  I saw my daughter lost in her own roleplaying adventure, eyes gleaming, and I breathed a little easier.  When we headed home from the park, my daughter hugged me again. 

"Thanks, Mommy!"

Curious about her difficulties at school, I asked a few probing questions while we cuddled and read before bed.  It seems that my daughter has been trying to get her Bratz-obsessed peers to role play scenarios from World of Warcraft, which she has apparently been learning about by watching my husband play.  The only other child on the playground who is into WoW is my son.  Every lunch recess, my two kids are pretending to be whatever the bovine race is and going on quests. 

I'll admit, that is a pretty weird game, and for most second grade girls, not a likely interest.  When I gently advised my daughter that maybe, just maybe she could try to play what the other girls are playing, she sniffed. 

"I'm NOT going to be some stupid princess who talks on the phone and paints her nails and likes boys."

My first thought was "Oh my GOD since when do second-graders like boys?"  Once I recovered from that, I asked if they play any other games.  Apparently, they pretend to be cheerleaders, and they act out scenes from Barbie movies, these friends of hers.  No wonder these girls don't want to be a large, heavily armed cow. 

I hugged my daughter close, and reminded her that she's very lucky that her brother likes to play the same games that she does.  She grinned, and pushed her hair out of her eyes.

"Yeah, and the kids at The Club?  They don't know about World of Warcraft, but they think it sounds cool."

My apologies to parents of The Club kids.  I blame my husband.

 

Up early

When I visited with two long-time friends recently, we talked about rising early.

Not for me, I opined. I need my sleep, and the thought of being up even a little earlier than just-enough-time-to-get-out-the-door-to-drop-the-kids-at-school seemed a little ridiculous.

Sheri and Kathy shrugged and told me what they do early -- take time for the newspaper, straighten things, walk the dogs. I decided to myself that I'd try it for a month to see what happened.

Well, lots has happened in the past month (don't get me started), but the net is that I'm now up by 6:30 or 7 at the latest, and sometimes much earlier. This morning my eyes popped open at 5:45 and I decided what the heck and got up.

The most amazing part is that there's time on my hands. Time to de-clutter a little (whooo boy, how much fun is that?), time to bake muffins for my children (they are in shock, and wonder why this is happening to them), time to take the clothes out of the dryer and put them in the drawers instead of dressing my family from a laundry basket (and looking like it).

Here's the weird thing: I also gave up my caffeine addiction in the past six weeks. It wasn't all by choice, but my intake is down from a couple of lattes and um, eight to 12 Diet Cokes a day to an occasional glass of iced tea and my morning pot of tea.

I have time in the morning for a pot of tea. Go figure.

Here are some things I've done in the past few weeks that I have wanted to get to: started an adorable quilt for a baby my niece will have any minute now, organized some kindergarten paperwork from my daughter (who is now in third grade), put a photo of my son's 2000 Little League team in a frame, on the wall, instead of leaving it hanging out in a drawer.  It's 9:30 now and I've already dropped two bags of clothes at Goodwill, had the oil changed in my car, left off the dry cleaning and visited with my buds at the coffee shop. Oh yeah, and I'm not dreading the day of work, either. I'm a little more centered than I used to be, I think.

I keep wanting to take my temperature. I'm not sick, but I'm not acting like myself. And I like it.

What a difference a year makes

A year ago today I was not writing for the Silicon Valley Moms blog.  Instead I was blogging on my personal blog about my son's upcoming radiation therapy.  Three rounds of massive amounts of steroids, chemo and Interferon had not been enough.  His GI system was failing.  He wasn't growing.  It was time to move to the next step.

Right about now we were sitting in the doctor's office dreading and hoping.  At his previous appointment, his doctor urged us to try and postpone radiation therapy by two to three weeks.  His tumor wasn't small enough yet, but it might be.   

In my dreams, my son would avoid being irradiated.  But even postponing seemed impossible.  My son had been measured and fitted for a custom cast that would hold him in the exact position for the precise shooting of radiation rays.  If we pushed it back too far, they would have to make another cast.

When we got home, we got voice mail that his radiation had just gotten pushed back by three weeks, because of scheduling issues.  The maximum time before a new body cast.

A year ago today, radiation therapy was still up in the air.  I cried after his GI appointment, because he was still vomiting every single day and food was just sitting in his stomach undigested.  This was something I allowed myself to cry about, because radiation therapy was just too big.

Two days before the new radiation therapy deadline, his doctor said his tumor was small enough and radiation therapy was canceled.

In June, my son almost died from sepsis.  An everyday germ had gotten through the IV line to his heart and infected his blood stream.  He had bouts of septic shock.  He experienced it once at home before I took him to the doctors.  He turned blue and stopped breathing.  I was incredibly lucky that I was able to  tickle him and get him breathing again.  At the hospital the monitors beeped like crazy.  Loud blaring of "code blue" on the speaker.  Doctors and nurses would rush in filling the room.  Lots of equipment and bustle. I watched and prayed.  He'd come back again, all pink and smiling.  But it was clear the cure was killing him.  As the bacteria died it dumped tons of toxins into his bloodstream.

Then in walked an unlikely hero -- a young intern on her first couple of days on the job.  She stared at us like a deer caught in the headlights.  Her eyes got even bigger as she saw his enormous file as large as telephone book.  I  watched her face sink.  She said "I can't talk now." in a very flustered voice.  I could smell her fear.  Yet she saved his life by suggesting an alternative new antibiotic to the attending doctor.  I will never forget her and I doubt she'll forget my son.  A few months later, I saw her walking along with some fellow interns.  She asked about my son and sounded like a professional doctor kind caring and confident.  I felt as proud of her as if I had taught her.

If this all seems unreal to you, it is unreal to me now.  We have passed through that stage. At least several months have gone by without hospitalization.  Sure my son has plenty of medical issues, but they are more chronic and a lot less scary.  He still receives 500 calories a night through a tube in his stomach, but he's growing and walking and talking.  Save for his left arm that twists at weird angles and can't do a whole lot, and a tube in his abdomen, he looks like an extra small two-year old.

So why am I telling you this story?  Well three reasons.  One is to show the incredible resiliency of children.  I can't think of a worse crime than deliberately poisoning your child.  Okay, it was in the name of saving his life, but the drugs caused most of his medical problems.   But I've found repeating "Children are resilient.  Children are resilient." often helps me then and now when I feel like a terrible mom.

Another reason is to show that I've found on this journey that people help you in the most unexpected ways.

And finally I'm writing about it here.  A year ago, I just couldn't have.  Blogging about the medical drama of my son in a public forum didn't feel safe.  This is a special place.  I started out slowly in August with Where Everybody Knows Your Name about why I liked being a "frequent flyer" at Lucile Packard Children's Hospital.  I continued with Top Ten Signs of Your Kids Live in Silicon Valley, continued with Blogging The Tumor about my personal challenges of parenting a child with many medical needs, and stories about my son and my typical daughter.   I also wrote a few political blogs including the politics of health care

I sometimes received nudging emails from Jill, so I have definitely not been the most regular contributor.  My posts tend to wax and wane with my son.  His progress has been like that of a startup with its imminent failures and shaky triumphs.  I suppose I should have been prepared for this as I met my husband while his startup was in code blue.   

But again, Jill and blogging a counterpoint to her dislike of Sanjaya  has forced me to post again.  Well okay, I don't like Sanjaya that much.  But things are going better.  Still I don't want to jinx things too much and to those who don't know me, it might sound weird to be all proud that my son is finally on the very bottom of the height charts.  But I am.  It's taken a lot of hard work to get there.

This week is also my five year anniversary of blogging on Livejournal.  I remember a fellow blogger at one of our Silicon Valley blogger get-togethers telling me quite earnestly that Livejournal was a blogger ghetto.  Well maybe I'm a ghetto kid, but I've found a sense of community there and here.

I've met some amazing folks through blogging and reconnected with others.  Thank you for reading and writing.  You've helped more than I can explain.

Powerpoint Passover?

So last night was Passover. We went out for tacos.  I try, I really do, to stay up with the various interdisciplinary nonsecular activities on the plate as a half Jewish /half non-Jewish/kind of "fun with pagan"/but basically nonbelieving kind of family, but hey.  I'm working too hard.  Everybody should just be happy that they have clean underwear.  My kid looked up at me and said "why aren't WE celebrating Passover" and I told him the truth: "Nobody offered to cook it."

Actually, though, I forgot.  We have done lovely Passovers in the past (hosted AND attended) but I'm falling behind on my social obligations this year.  I felt so terrible about forgetting (although there's really no reason - my husband was raised by Socialists and was only brought up to celebrate Thanksgiving) that I spent time today - valuable should have been working time - looking for a Passover Powerpoint presentation for my family.  I'm not sure why. For some reason, I just thought that it would be hilarious.

Don't you think that a presentation that says "Why is this night different from all other nights?," followed by a list of bullets would be amusing? Or perhaps my sense of humor just took a little detour and is heading somewhere strange.  Passover: the abbreviated version.  Glass of wine, a little haroset, a matzoh, and ... a laser pointer.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find a good Passover Powerpoint presentation.  (Say that three times.)

However, while goofing around with Technorati today, I found a link on Hoyden-about-Town blog to an old post of mine (About the Wired article called Powerpoint is Evil), with a gem of a comment that contained EXACTLY what I had in mind. Convoluted, sure, but check it out.  The Gettysburg Address in Powerpoint**.  I love it.

The reason that I wanted a Passover Powerpoint presentation is that my husband went to a tech conference last week (I have no idea which one. Pamela's husband knows.) in which, as a recreational activity, they did "Powerpoint Karaoke." How does this work?  They apparently pulled about 20 miscellaneous Powerpoint presentations off of the internet, pulled names out of a hat, and people had to get up and give a spontaneous presentation about the slides.  My husband's favorite was one about man-boy love, apparently, including a lot of statistical analysis pertaining to the British publish school system. (I suspect you had to be there.)

At any rate, it's raised the concept of Powerpoint as humor all week - no doubt keeping me sane.  The occasional chuckle is good, so I hear.  Screaming arguments with yourself in the the mirror while eating a solitary sandwich, on the other hand, is frowned upon.

Happy Passover!  Happy Easter! Happy Birthday, Silicon Valley Mom's Blog!

**Something that is even more amusing is that the Gettysburg Address in Powerpoint was written by Peter Norvig, Director of Research at Google. Here's the back story.

Planet Earth requires a movie star

I'm really ticked off. This wonderful show called Planet Earth will be aired on March 25 on the Discovery Channel.  It was originally produced by the BBC and David Attenborough. In case you're not living on planet earth, or at least not a nature show lover, David Attenborough is a wonderful naturalist who has produced many amazing nature shows. He also has a rich plummy English accent, and when he talks about certain natural wonders or discoveries, he brims with joy and enthusiasm. He literally becomes breathless with excitement. It's absolutely infectious, and wonderful to watch and hear.

When I was a kid, my dream was to become the next David Attenborough. Unfortunately I discovered that much of his work consists of sitting around for literally hours and hours waiting for that perfect shot. So now I just live vicariously through him.

But do I get my David Attenborough? Noooo. The American version of the show is narrated by Sigourney Weaver.  Now I happen to like Sigourney Weaver as an actress. And yes she has spoken up about conservation. But she's no naturalist.  It's not her work.

I want my David Attenborough! I am extremely disappointed. I'm also insulted.  David Attenborough has produced several highly-rated and watched nature shows that have been aired by the Discovery Channel in his own voice. Why do Americans now need a famous actress to watch a nature show? Yes, David Attenborough is grey-haired, and even when young, his looks were not movie star quality. But he's the man. On the other hand, this is the first time I've heard about one of his shows on the Oprah show. Though no mention of his name was made there either. Hmph.

Mojitos and Milk

My sister used to joke that our mother gave birth to us in a boxy little tweed suit, with a cigarette in one hand and a martini in the other.  When we were small, she would dash off, ruthlessly coiffed, to any number of glamorous social events, leaving us in the care of an elderly Irish babysitter who gave us milky tea late at night if we were unable to sleep.  (It didn't work very well, for reasons that are now much clearer.) 

Fast-forward 30-plus years and there I was, all grown up and making long and solemn promises about the parent I was about to be.  I would be a pure and organic pregnant woman.  I would not touch alcohol.  I would eat no processed food.  I would be a temple.  I would do nothing to jinx the precious, improbable child growing inside me.  And I would be a loving, nurturing, but never overprotective parent. (Are you nauseous yet? I've gotten over myself, I promise.)  All grand plans aside, it was a bit of a shock, this parenthood thing.  It took me a while to realize how much crap I had internalized about being a mother (cloth diapers? no TV? Was I insane?) and figure out what I really, REALLY cared about, and what kind of person I was going to be, now that I was a mother. 

So I had a sort of ambivalent reaction to the cover story in Sunday's SF Chron pink sheet: "Rockin' with Kids."  It's about a hot new trend in San Francisco: taking your kids to bars.  In case you missed it: we Boomers and X'ers, having rejected the strict boundaries of our childhoods in the 60s and 70s and the horrible kid culture of the 80s and 90s, are now happily embracing a new paradigm: hipster parenthood. (Read David Brooks' hilarious OpEd in the NYT a few weeks back).  In San Francisco, this translates to "Strollerbar" and "Tots and Tonic" nights at local bars, in which parents can rock out alongside their kids while they sip, respectively, mojitos and milk.  (Unintentionally hilarious moment in the Chron article: one regular bar-goer, irate at the number of strollers outside Vino Rosso on "Wine and Whiners" night, claims that "for the cost of a nice glass of wine, you can get a babysitter for two hours."  Well sure, if the wine in question is Opus One.  Or you hire a six-year-old to watch your four-year-old.)

I don't mean to be sanctimonious here.  I love mojitos.  I love Dan Zanes and The Sippy Cups.  I miss going out more often.  But as much as I would love to hang on to whatever shred remains of my younger, cooler self, putting alcohol in the mix is just stupid.  (Nevermind the thought of changing a diaper in a bar bathroom.  Eeeew.) And somehow I really doubt that when Isaac is 17 and mad at me for simply breathing, he'll be asking: "Mom, when I was little, why didn't you take me clubbing more often?" 

Sleeping Like A Baby

I admit it.  I am a person that needs my eight hours of sleep every night.  Actually, nine or ten would be ideal, but eight will do. I wish I was a supermom.  They can get on their laptops at 10 PM, get in a couple of hours of work, go to sleep and then wake up at 5 AM to hit the gym. I know that if I needed less sleep, I could be more productive.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t made that way.  God, I remember as a new mom, those first few weeks of round-the-clock nursing.  I was so tired that I would have dreams that I was nursing Meena only to wake up and realize that she was crying and I needed to get up and help her. I used to keep chocolate in my nightstand just to make getting up 3 times a night a little more bearable.

One night, Meena was super fussy and my husband was having a hard time calming her down.  She finally went to sleep, and he came back to bed angry.  He was livid that I didn't get up to help him deal with her.  I answered that I had been sleeping so soundly, I didn't hear her.  He was in utter disbelief.  A couple hours later Meena was crying again.  I sheepishly jumped out of bed to take care of her. My husband didn't bother to get up...I figured he was still angry with me.  However, the next morning, I found out that this time around, he had slept through her crying.  He was shocked at himself, but let's face it...sleep deprivation get's the best of ALL of us.

I remember the day that our pediatrician told us we could stop feeding Meena at night, I was so happy. I could have kissed our doctor. I had returned to work by this point so any extra sleep was a godsend. Meena adjusted really well to feeding only during the day, but she was still not yet sleeping through the night. She would wake up at least once or more at night and need to be comforted. She was sleeping in her crib and in her own room. So of course that meant (when she cried), one of us would have to get out of bed, go to her room (which seemed miles away) and hold her until she was sleeping soundly.  Of course, if she woke up on the way back into the crib the whole process started over again. (Sound familiar?)

I remember between 6 – 8 months, it got really bad; Meena was waking up several times a night. My husband and I were walking around like zombies because we were so sleep deprived. It wasn’t particularly great for our relationship either as our patience with each other was running short. Finally, we resorted to letting her cry it out.... and guess what, it worked. Within a week, Meena was sleeping through the night…Hallelujah! I could feel like myself again, at least for the most part.  I still don't relish nights that go past 10:30 PM because I know how I'll feel in the morning...but all in all...it's pretty good.

.........................

Good enough that I could actually think about potentially doing this parenthood thing again for the second time..... possibly.

........................................

These days, Meena sleeps from about 8PM to 6:30 AM.  Usually. But not last week. Last week she had a cold and a fever and was waking up several times at night. We were bringing her to our bed so none of us got much sleep. Ugh, by Friday, I felt like was hit by a Mac truck, and memories of those early sleep deprived months came flooding back.......

Comparing Ginormous Bellies with Surburban Turmoil

When MommaK sent me an email linking to a hand drawn picture of pregnant Lindsay of Suburban Turmoil, I had to take a look. The picture showed a freakishly ginormous belly, house shoes and cute black pants that she wears every day. Which made me think back to the my last pregnancy where I had a completely freakishly ginormous belly - because I was pregnant with twins. 

I started out a size 4 before my first pregnancy with my older son. Move forward to my second pregnancy with twins, where I gained 70 pounds! I really could not fit behind a steering wheel, the rest of my body joined in the fun by blowing up like a ballon, had to wear an Medela apparatus that I can only describe as a pulley under my belly and when I sat down I could not get back up. My favorite activity while laying down on my left side - where I spent most of my time at the end of my pregnancy - was watching the babies squirm around my belly. There was not much room for them to move, one of my twin boys was born at 6 pounds 8 ounces while the other was 7 pounds 15 ounces.

Lindsay, happy baby shower! Enjoy your special bigness and get some sleep if you can before the big date.

Where is the Swag Retreat For Moms?

I was recently at a media event that I was invited to as a blogger. I met up with another blogger who is a mom and we watched in amazement as the media folks buzzed around taking pictures, interviewing and taking notes to prepare for their articles. They were all wearing black, from head to toe. The other mom and I were wearing fashionable jeans and top, with some color.  I thought that my Michael Kors top would trump any color requirements, but a designer name did not top the press uniform of "we will wear black so not to stand out too much but that everyone knows we mean business".

Maybe the other mom and I did stick out, just a little, but we were listening intently to the product presentation. We even spent time looking over the product, discussing what functionality would be useful for moms.  While some businesses may not understand the influence moms have over other moms, many have figured this out (here and here for example). The PR folks were very gracious and led us toward the swag bags. We went to grab one and the people at the table stopped us and said "This is only for press". The kind PR folks said "But these are bloggers". The people at the table said again, guarding the swag, "The bags are only for the press". The PR folks told us to just take a bag. And we did. The bag was only full of information about the product, but I was still happy to have it. And I did read the information.

When I saw the New York Times article about the swag being given to the Academy Awards stars (Let Them Eat Foie Gras, Gift Bags Are So Last Year), I thought back to that moment. And decided all moms deserve swag, not only because of the mom influence effect but because of how hard we work. I read about the mansions being converted to day spas where stars come in for make overs and full spa services, on the house.

So, why are they not setting up mansions for moms to spend the day getting spa services? The stars don't need it, they already get those types of services on their own. Can you imagine how appreciative moms will be after getting those services? How they will tell all of their friends about their day?  The ripple effect of information would spread like wild fire to other moms.......

How about my friend that has 3 kids with the oldest under 4? She wakes up every morning at 4am and is kept up by one child or another.She also works part time. While the stars are eating Foie Gras, moms are eating left over mac & cheese. The list goes on and on. Hey Soho House, Mark Wahlberg may have influence over lots of screaming female fans but you should give moms a try. If you want to set up shop in Silicon Valley, I know lots of moms to send your way.

Top Ten Things Britney Spear's Mom Should Freak Out About

When I saw the picture of Britney Spears after she shaved her head, I finally felt sorry for her in a motherly way. Her career started at around 8 years old with off-broadway productions. From 11-13 she was on the Mickey Mouse Club. At 18 her debut album (Baby One More Time) topped the charts in several countries.  By 20 she had already struck a multi-million dollar promotional deal with Pepsi and was the only female artist in SoundScan history to have her first three albums debut at number one. She had a successful career, was every young girl's role model and some men's fantasy woman.  Enough to make a mom proud... 

But move ahead to Feb. 16, 2007 when she shaved her head and said "My Mom is going to freak".

Of all the things that have happened to Britney Spears over the last few years, do ya think shaving her head is what her mom should freak out about?  Being a mom has given me a different perspective on the situation. Here are the top ten things I would have already freaked out about:

10. Marries and Divorces first Husband: In Jan. 2004 she gets married to highschool friend Jason Alexander in Las Vegas. Their marriage was annulled 55 hours later.

9. Marries Second Husband who left pregnant girlfriend: In July 2004, Spears announced her engagement to dancer Kevin Federline, three months after they met at a club in Hollywood. Federline had very recently been in a relationship with actress Shar Jackson, who was still pregnant with their second child.  On the night of September 18, 2004, Spears married Federline.

8., 7, and 6: Mothering Skills in Question: Gives Birth to first son in September 2005 and second on September 2006 (at age 24 and 25).  In April 2006, the nanny drops son #1, Sean Preston, from his highchair, bruising his head, and child welfare is called.  In February 2006, she drives with Sean Preston on her lap. The public questions her mothering skills.

5. Divorce Number Two: In November 2006, She divorces K-Fed.  Her two sons are one year and 2 months old. K-Fed threatens to sell private video made by the couple if divorce demands are not met.

4. Loss of Ladylike Manners?: Also in November 2006, she goes out in public without undergarments, photographer takes a picture of her getting out of a car (with privates in view).

3. Drinking Frenzy?: The New York Post Page Six calls her a "train wreck pop tart" while documenting a frenzy of drinking, dancing, and making out.

2. Checks in and out of Rehab: .....after weeks of publicity surrounding late-night partying, alcohol, and possible drug use, Spears entered an offshore drug rehab facility, but stayed for less than twenty-four hours. The next night Britney was seen outside a closed hair salon in Sherman Oaks where she shaved her own head with clippers. She is reported to have complained to friends of a "strange itching" on her scalp, and said the "bugs" had "totally freaked me out". February 20, 2007 she checks back into rehab. Her kids are being well-taken care of - by everyone other then their own parents. K-Fed canceled his party plans in Las Vegas because he was, hmmm, concerned?

Lastly, the #1 reason Britney Spears Mom should freak out - TV Anchors and hired Psychoanalyst are analyzing her on national TV: Psychoanalyst says she is acting out... shaving her head is another form of self-mutilation. TV Anchor pointed to the impulsive decisions Spears is making and mentioned there have been reports that she has been fighting with her mother, that her mother urged her to get her act together and become a fit mother. You know that things are really bad when the TV Psychoanalysts are called in.

Moms, any advice for Britney or her mom?

Is Moms Washing Clothes Sexy or Sexist?

I was looking at the Digg front page for the most popular news stories and I found this link: "Funniest Sexest Washing Machine Tag Ever". Now is that sexist or sexiest? So I had to take a look.  It is a picture of a shirt tag with wash instructions. The bottom of the tag says: "Give it to your Mom, it's her job". Now why is this such a hot offbeat news story? The post had 2,496 diggs and 90 comments as of 5:30 pm tonight. All for a shirt tag?? Some called the submitter names I won't repeat, and he even replied that he goofed and meant "sexist" not "sexest". Well, with a large population of Gen-X males reading Digg, you can imagine the comments:

• Yashar said -" haha nice, i'm going to show this to my mom. I'll probably get smacked.

• to which  YOtsuya  replied: On the other hand, giving laundry to your dad would probably earn you a whipping.

• Morriscat: Dr. Freud, what say you?

• GawtMilk: SEXIST, as in: "Honey, I need a new watch". "Why? There's a clock on the stove" Not SEXY, as in: Ooh, I'm a real naughty freak!

• neoform : It's an edit. Here's the exact same picture, but this one says "Give it to your wife"...

Another mom with three sons said:

• siszam: I'm the mother of three sons. I do laundry all the time and the tag IS funny. You people need to lighten up and laugh a little.

Moms make note: start your kids at an early age doing their own laundry (or at least helping).

But I do want to pass on a secret to those Gen-X guys. What I remember from being a single gal is that my friends and I found men that do their own laundry very sexy. That is one of the things that attracted me to my husband.
 

Airport Musings

As I navigate my way through Terminal 3 at Heathrow Airport, I experience an exhilarating sense of freedom. I rarely travel anywhere alone these days; with two small children at home, just being alone in a public place is a sort of vacation for me.

For the first time in years, it seems, I am walking through the airport actually looking around me. My world on this day does not consist of a three-foot circle around me, the space normally occupied by my children as they grip my hands and pull me in every direction. Today I don’t need to keep one eye on my three-year-old to be sure she doesn’t trip on anything or run into a pole. Today my eyes notice the people around me instead of keeping watch over my 6-year-old, who normally busies himself by keeping tally of the number of fire extinguishers we pass, noting their type (water/dry chemical/CO2) and making sure everyone around us knows where the fire alarms are, just in case.

I anticipate a quick trip through security, seeing only 20 people or so in front of me. I soon realize, however, that this is one of the least efficient operations I have seen in a long time. Not only is there just one security station open for the entire queue, every time the machine “beeps” the person walking through is made to endure what practically amounts to a full body search. The fact that there is only one machine running means that everyone in line ends up staring at the person going through. It’s a little disconcerting.

I know the machine will beep when I walk through. It always does. Something about me gets me flagged for the seemingly random security checks. I’ve come to expect it. Years ago in Portland I was selected to have my bags swiped by the “new” material that tests for explosives. More than once I have had my checked baggage searched at Heathrow; they opened up my suitcase and started rifling through my underwear right in front of everyone. (I later discovered that the culprit on one occasion was my travel alarm clock – in the years before children when I actually needed an alarm clock). In Hong Kong I was made to stand on a small platform while the security guards frisked me so thoroughly that if I hadn’t been fully clothed it would have probably amounted to something bordering on assault! And just last month I got chosen to go into the new puffer machine in New Jersey – apparently they test for explosives by blasting you with air for a few seconds inside a machine that looks like something out of an episode of Star Trek. Resisting the temptation to shout “Beam me up Scotty!” I fortunately remembered to hold down the front of my shirt as the blast commenced, confident that none of the other passengers would have appreciated the view had I not remembered that particular instruction.

One time they actually had reason to search me at SFO. That day, while my kids became enthralled with the new “sniffing machine” that apparently tests your luggage for traces of explosives (yes, my bags got sent through there), I got some suspicious looks from the guy who was scanning the carry-on bags. After spending a few minutes waiting for my computer bag to come out the other side of the x-ray machine, I was asked to "kindly step aside ma'am.” They were very courteous, but ended up emptying nearly everything onto the security table, which apparently I wasn't allowed to touch or come near (“stay behind the line, ma’am.”) They mumbled something about having seen "something that looked like a corkscrew" in the bottom of my bag, but they couldn't find it in the twenty or so compartments in there. Then I remembered that when I was on a women's retreat with my sister a few months earlier I actually had dropped the corkscrew into my bag when we were doing our scrapbooks! Yikes. I thought I was going to be arrested, and so tried to be helpful, "try that pocket there" etc. But they couldn't find it, so they packed up my things and sent me on my way. I couldn't decide whether to feel like the most smug person in the airport  (“I got through with a sharp object…I got through with a sharp object...”) or to feel utterly terrified at the thought that they just let me through since they simply couldn't find it. Who else had they let through?

So on this day after an excruciatingly long wait in the Terminal 3 security queue it was finally my turn. I waited for the green light and the signal from the body-frisking security guard to proceed through the metal detector. No beep. Excellent. Twenty minutes later, after arriving at the gate, the security staff at the door selected me for – you guessed it – a random security check. “Would you kindly step aside ma’am….” Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know the drill.

Just a word of advice to fellow travelers: if you are in Terminal 3 at Heathrow and heading to Gate 22, do not under any circumstances look to your left as you near the end of the last corridor unless you are really comfortable with your body and would enjoy having a close-up view of your backside projected onto a large monitor there (and subsequently burned into your memory for the duration of your journey). Next time I’m running. Backwards.

iPod deemed a "criminal tool" in high school security breach

Every morning my husband and I make sure our 8 year old son does not have his ear phones when he puts his iPod in his pants pocket to bring to his second grade class. He knows that it is against school rules to take out his iPod during school, but he brings it as a security object. We threaten to take away his iPod if the school tells us he takes it out during class.

My son is addicted to his iPod, listening to the music keeps him calm. I have come to accept the iPod as an appendage on my sons body. And fool myself that it could do no harm. Then I read the Engadget story posted on Digg entitled "iPod deemed a "criminal tool" in high school security breach". I was waiting for this to happen. I hope he can still bring it on the plane with him.

100th day of school

Today is the 100th day of school.  It's a real event at my daughter's school; it is clearly marked in the school calender and the whole school is celebrating.  Natalie's kindergarten class is having a 100th-day festival.  They are bringing the "100" theme into all their lessons today.  They are making 100-day hats (whatever that means; I worked until midnight last night on prep work for these hats, cutting, marking and stapling big sheets of paper that look nothing like a hat).  They'll be counting 100's of anything and everything.  Each child is bringing a collection of 100 of anything -- beads, buttons, coins -- to school.  Natalie has collected 100 stickers and made a beautiful collage with them.   Her friend has fused 100 Hama beads together.  Another has made a valentine with 100 little paper hearts on it.

It hardly seems possible that my child entered kindergarten 100 days ago, and has only 80 more days of kindergarten left!    I can think of so many other things she has collected in these first 100 days:

Jumps.  During the early days of school, Natalie watched longingly as some of the kids played jump rope outside the classroom.  At first she could only jump one or two times before getting entangled in the rope.    But with our encouragement, she practiced at home.   One or two turned into five, then ten and twenty.  Hundreds of jumps later, she proudly and confidently rejoined the kids at school.

Blisters and bars.  Early on, Natalie made it her goal to be able to make her way across the monkey bars.  A hundred days later, hundreds of blisters later, after hundreds of hours of practice and hundreds of bars crossed, she can make it to the other side.  Now she and her friends effortlessly swing across, looking just like little monkeys.

Artwork.  She comes home from school every single day with some kind of drawing or craft, so her art folder has at least 100 new entries.  She spends hours over the weekend making drawings for herself, her family, her friends and her teachers.  Our "finished artwork" drawer is constantly overflowing; occasionally I have to sneak in and throw away some of them; most of them I have to photograph and store in a folder on our computer.

Books.  Every Wednesday at 10:00 is library hour, and every Wednesday Natalie comes home with one or two books she has chosen from the school library.   Every Wednesday night, the whole family looks forward to reading those books.  And lately her teacher has been lending out beginning reader books as well, so the children can practice reading by themselves.   We already have a good collection of books and regularly check out more from the library, but I'm grateful for the hundreds of new books from school that have made their way into our home.

Friends.  Natalie's kindergarten class has 80 children, so including teachers and kids from other grades, it's entirely possible that she knows a hundred new people.  When she runs into them around town, at the supermarket or the park, her face lights up, she waves, and her friend waves back.  She proudly tells me, "Mama, that's xxx from school!".  She is happy that she has seen someone she knows and I am happy that we are becoming more and more a part of the community.

Smiles.  Hundreds of them.  Sure, there were some tears as well; tears when she thought her teacher didn't like her, tears when she had an argument with her best friend.  But the overwhelming majority of the time, she comes home full of smiles and giggles and tales of the great time she had. I hope her love of school and love of learning stay with her throughout the next 80 days and beyond!

100 days of school. I look back at these days and I understand why the school makes such a big deal out of it.   It has been a hundred days for me as well, a hundred days of dropping her off and picking her up, of listening to her stories and making her lunch, a hundred days of watching her grow and letting her go.  It's been great.  Makes me want to plant a hundred kisses on her fair little head.

NOT on the same page

When I read "Rachael Ray" cooks through 2010 on a Yahoo headline, I thought - holy guacamole, that's a long time.  It wasn't until I opened the article and read that he show has been extended two more seasons that it dawned on me; we are really close to the year 2010! I guess it hit me that time is moving so fast.  But it was the pending conversation that struck me. My husband and I are NOT on the same page.

Me:  "What do you think of when you think of 2010"?

Him: "eye sight"

I just looked at him dumbfounded.  The whole concept of 2010 hit me as such a milestone, and to him, well... the conversation ended there.

Getting To Know SVMoms Through More Tag Team Cocktails

Thanks to Beth Blecherman for tagging me in the Virtual Cocktail Party along with other SV Moms.

Five things about me that no readers, let alone most of my friends, would know...

- In a former life (aka college), I taught courses on etiquette and modeling.  Yes, it was a far cry from the t-shirt and jeans wardrobe I adopted a few years later as a post-grad sysadmin in Silicon Valley, but I learned some valuable skills that come in handy at cocktail parties!
- Chick lit is my literary weakness.  I gulp it down like water in a desert - cheezy, shallow characters and all.  Some day I hope to publish my own chick lit novel.
- I was offered a part as an extra in Robert Altman's film, "Kansas City", which I turned down because they wanted me to cut my hair to a period cut and I was getting married the following month.  The marriage was almost as short-lived as the film, but I'm still bummed I missed out on that opportunity being a Kansas City girl who loves jazz.  (At the time I didn't know the movie was "Kansas City"; I figured that out later.)
- I feel most at home under a starlit sky.
- Instead of attending my high school prom, I went to a Queensryche concert with 11 of my best guy friends.  We had floor seats and my view of Geoff Tate's gorgeous physique in leather pants was much better than what I would've had of my then-boyfriend in a cheap rent-a-tux.

From those not yet tagged (to my knowledge), I choose five people who have helped me out either with my blog or another area of my life in the past year: Maria Piccininni Ross, who incited me to get off my butt and launch my own blog, Cory Doctorow, who gave me some sage blogging advice when I first started it, Ed Vielmetti, who wrote some nice things about my blog and helped promote it, Alix Mayer, who provided me with resources to help turn things around after several challenging months, and Elizabeth Edwards, who inspired me in numerous ways through her book and our meeting with her.

Now for a tequila shot...

New Year's Resolutions for Women on the Verge

10. Resolve to put swollen feet up on couch, and read Oprah; pishes to dirty dishes
9.  Resolve to close door on child’s tsunami room; you don’t have to sleep there
8.  Resolve to accept wrinkles both in cloth and skin; you’ll suddenly notice you’re more approachable
7.  Resolve to embrace padded hips and padded bras; changing bodies house evolving souls
6.  Resolve to laugh louder than you yell; your blood pressure will decrease while your lovability skyrockets
5.  Resolve to let husband talk for 5 minutes daily and not say one word; we have two ears and one mouth for a reason
4.  Resolve to say no; this may be harder than you think!
3.  Resolve to stop envying that one friend; she needs a comrade, not another sycophant
2.  Resolve to do something, anything, for your planet; doesn’t our collective house deserve as much attention as your own?
1.  And finally…..resolve to be the tree, not the ornaments; you are not the child, job, husband, net worth. These are merely ornaments, some fall, some fade away.  Be the tree planted solidly in the ground that holds up what is dear and beloved…

Happy 2007!

HAPPY NEW YEAR - Resolution Summary

The new year is here, time to start feeling guilty excited about starting those resolutions. Our contributor's resolutions include loosing weight, getting healthy, trying some new things, accepting your inner-neatness, joining the anti anti-neatness movement, spending more time talking to your family, going green or just spending more time listening instead of yapping. 

Please join in and comment with resolutions. MomsRising.org also discussed resolutions.  HealthDay provides tips on the get fit resolution and on hangover helpers.

New Year's Resolutions for Women on the Verge

Lazy Top Ten Links for 2006

Resolving to Parent Unconditionally

Gimme my Crack Back

A Minute to Think about Resolutions..

Weighing in on New Years Resolutions

Resolving to Plan for a Family Dinner

Starting the New Year with Healthier Choices

I am thankful for not having an appendix

Green Year Resolutions

Guess This is Not a Good Resolution

Confession and Resolution

My attainable resolutions..

Late Night Humor

If you are still up at this time, you probably need a little humor.

The Best Geek Quotes
Humor Quotes
or a full list of quotes.....

Happy New Year!

Baby's First Christmas

My daughter was due last year on Christmas.  We waited and waited and waited... no baby.  We had a bib ready.  We had clothes for her.  We had hats, a stocking, gifts, ornaments, holiday music for baby but still no baby.  We had family in town, friends calling every day, and everyone wanted to see the baby.  Nope, no baby!

The story goes that I began having early contractions before 30 weeks of pregnancy but when week 30 hit, they were often enough doctors put me on medication and partial bed rest to keep the baby from being born.  After several weeks of that, we expected certainly when I went off the meds she would appear; alas, she was comfy as could be.

Finally two weeks after her due date, I got desperate and one day before my self-imposed deadline to gulp a bottle of caster oil, I ate a magnificent Indian dinner and went to a woman chiropractor who reportedly had luck inducing labor.  She said my pelvis was blocked, adjusted it, and as I got into bed that night, my water broke.  Baby was here!  But she was quite late for Christmas, so all of her presents became birth week gifts.

This is her first real Christmas.  She somehow knew it was a special day.  She went to bed early with little fuss, she ate a bite of a gingerbread cookie, and she snuggled her new baby doll, patting its head happily.  She smiled and cooed, she giggled.  We spent all afternoon swinging in the park and she loved that more than anything else.  She played with a stuffed cat given to her granddaddy for Christmas when he was 4 years old.

I don't remember much about Christmas from before I started Kindergarten.  Most of my holiday memories blend together during childhood, and I certainly don't recall my first ones.  But watching my daughter's awe at the lights on our Christmas tree and fascination with opening presents, it gives me a renewed interest in the holiday and anticipation for the years to come.

Excuses, Excuses... Too Many Excuses

I'm sick of making excuses. Sick and tired. Excuses for being late or being early, excuses for having money or not enough, excuses for missing an event or postponing a lunch, excuses for underdressing or for overdressing, excuses for eating too little or too much. Excuses for other people, excuses for being female. The list goes on and on. It sounds like a Dr. Seuss rhyme, I know, but that's how I feel about it - dizzy and overwhelmed.

Yesterday, I attended an event with a wide spectrum of attendees. Some people there were staunch environmentalists (my leather jacket provoked sneers) and on the opposite end of the spectrum were the suits - to them, the fact that I was not a businessman wearing a suit made me not worth a second look. Sigh. I had a good time at the event, so this is not about that. I'm just tired of nothing being good enough for people, and I came home wondering how it all came about. And this was on a night when I didn't really care so much what other people think. What about the other nights?

I don't get out much, but when I do, I want to enjoy myself. I don't want to feel unwelcome. I don't want to waste time. How did it come about that our appearances and opinions need so much justification? I thought the Bay Area was the land of openmindedness. Perhaps it's just my own pathetic insecurity resulting from growing-up with a bunch of stuck-up, downright mean girls (see? another excuse!) but I just want to have a night where I can go out and feel like I belong.

So ladies - if you're out there - anyone else who feels the same, how about a Silicon Valley moms' accept-a-thon? We could get together and compliment each other all night, saying how great we look in our 3-day-old bedhead and spit-up stained jeans, and commend our vices (you know what I mean). No more excuses, no quarantines. Just ourselves, whatever the theme.

On little kids "helping"

Its at this time of year that I especially think about the kids helping to make Xmas cookies. They are now teens-boys-and when they were toddlers I would gather up all the cookie ingredients and
have them "help" me. Pleasant picture? Sometimes--when I was in my "patient mom/free afternoon" mode and was ok with having flour everywhere. Those days are but a dim memory-here's the truth:
I think that toddlers "helping" is a great idea in theory. It teaches them to chip in as a family member and contribute to whatever it is you are doing.  All of the books (who writes these books, anyhow?) suggest that having them help with healthy meals will get them to eat the sweet potatos and broccoli and tofu. In what world does this happen? No matter how much stirring and (kid) chopping we had our sons do, they still wouldn't touch the healthy stuff.  They could pick one piece of red pepper out of a salad at a range of across the room. I know that there is a parellel universe out there of toddlers who prefer vegetables (really? or do parents just say that?) but this was not where we resided.

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Something about heightened senses.....the same senses that could hear the cellophane unwrap of gum/whatever from yards away. How many of us out there honestly enjoy it when toddlers "help?"  I always found it a huge chore with extra mess to clean up. Maybe its the control freak in me. Yes, yes, it was cute and all for photos and they did have a good time, and I was doing the "right thing". It had to be one of those "patient mom/free afternoon" days, though.  Where are those days now ?

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I don't have a lot of them.....as for having toddlers help clean up, thats another story. Kids need to pick up their toys and and have them experience the fact that this is life and ya gotta clean up your stuff, kid. I think the same toddlers who eat all of their vegetables also clean up readily..(do these kids exist or do parents just say this?)

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But, have you ever found yourself in the mode of "Geez this is taking an eternity and what am I doing I can do it in a minute." The "experts" say to resist the urge to do it yourself and have them pick up their own toys. Nice theoretical advice if you have one of those rare aforementioned free afternoons. But what if you have dinner cooking and a dog underfoot and a friend coming over etcetera.. oh, and work-lets not forget about work. Such is my world.

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With teens, I strategically place the handvac next to them or the broom or whatever appliance that I hope will incite the male cleaning bug (oxymoron) to action. Deluded soul am I.. It sits..I then move into round two; I then tell them they need to empty the trash/change the cats water/whatever. They'll do it. When I ask them why I always have to ask as opposed to them seeing that things need to be done I get a blank stare of "What?"

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So..life isn't fair this way..when they are little and want to help its a chore most of the time, once we dust off the Norman Rockwell-esque imaes of baking cookies with Mom. And, when they're teens and amply able to help, the "help" button switches to off . Is this nature's little joke on us?  However, they now eat their vegetables

Silicon Valley Moms at the LA Auto Show?? This should be really interesting......

Sometimes bloggers get the oddest opportunities...

This past week, General Motors contacted us. Would any of our bloggers like to go the the LA Auto Show? 

General Motors said that they would happily pay our flight and hotel, and would invite us to their bloggers dinner and unveiling of their new minivan with Tiger Woods. Huh? They explained that their new minivan has some real "fashion aspects" that they'll be reviewing.

So, we asked some of our writers.

Beth Blecherman said that she'd be happy to go as long as she can look at cars that have Bluetooth controls (for her Blackberry) on the steering wheel and GPS systems. And amusingly enough, Kate Sanford, once she stopped giggling, said that she, too, would be happy to go "as long as she didn't have to be pleasant."

We're not quite sure what that means, but starting on Monday, two of our moms will be in Los Angeles, at the Auto Show. Anybody else out there want to send us on trips? We'd like to go to Cabo, Sundance, The Four Seasons in Hawaii, NYC, shopping spree in Paris, cooking school in Italy, and, as one of our writers put it "almost anywhere with child care".  But for now, it is off to the LA Auto Show for two Silicon Valley Mom Bloggers.

We look forward hearing about the adventures or misadventures of our two new "LA Autoshow Correspondents"   You just never know where your blogging will take you!

Happy Blogging from the LA Auto Show - hopefully, they will come back with a lot of shwag for the rest of us!  Stay tuned for Beth and Kate's most 'excellent adventure'......

The big high school down the street

Cross-posted by Stefania from CityMama

This past weekend, J. took Bunny about 30 minutes south of San Francisco to Palo Alto to see Stanford play Oregon State. They went with my brother (who went to OSU) and his family while I hung out with Wallie Tamale. Despite Bunny being motion sick on the bus (and puking) and on the train (and puking), she had fun. (Miraculously, she waited until she disembarked both times to puke.)

She came home all decked out in a new, pink Stanford sweatshirt and told me that "the Beavers beat the Stanfords." Seeing her walking around wearing that sweatshirt...well, one can only hope.

Seeing her walking around wearing that sweatshirt also brought lots of memories flooding back of growing up in the shadow of such a prestigious university.

I went to high school in Atherton, California which is just minutes from the Stanford campus. At my high school as many people wore Stanford sweatshirts as sweatshirts from my high school. Mr. Hasbrook, my AP European History teacher, referred to Stanford as "the big high school down the street." When I was a senior in high school and working on my huge, your-grade-depends-on-it AP English thesis, we had study privileges (though not lending privileges) at the various libraries on campus.

I should say that we didn't exactly have study privileges. This was in the days before students had to show student ID's before entering the library. It was also the days before the internet. AP English students at my high school had for years used the Stanford libraries as the main source of information for writing papers. It was just a given that once you were a senior, you'd do the same and no one would bat an eyelash. And no one ever did.

We would walk into Green Library (or just "Green" as we liked to call it) feeling super-intellectual as we unpacked our dog-eared and hi-lited copies of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? or Rosencrantz And Guildenstern Are Dead (purchased at Kepler's), our fresh stack of note cards (for note-taking, of course), and our contraband snacks (New York Seltzers and sandwiches from Draeger's). Food and drink were verboten in the library, but we were a bunch of punk-ass high schoolers sitting in a corner. What did we care?

For months I spent every free moment in Green working on my paper, but it would always take me a little while to get settled because I would people-watch wondering what other students were working on. It seemed like no one ever socialized*, everyone was focused on their studies. Back then there were brand new Macintosh computers strewn about the library that any student could use, and I remember thinking that was so cool.

Those were good, good times.  However, those weren't the best times I had at Stanford while still a teenager.

During football season, Stanford had an arrangement with the kids at my high school where we'd wake up bright and early and sell football programs and, in exchange, we'd get a free ticket to that day's game. We'd be handed an apron stuffed with maybe 50 or 60 programs and we'd walk around the stadium and through all the raucous tailgate parties selling our goods.

Now. Let's not fool ourselves. 

The whole reason why my friends and I did this was to meet guys.  Tailgate guys. College tailgate guys. College tailgate guys who had no problem sharing their keg of Coors Light or plastic Solo cups of Bacardi 151 and Coke with a bunch of silly high school girls. 

Whoever was selling programs that day (male or female) was supposed to scout out the best tail gate parties (locally referred to as "steak and bakes") and then tell everyone else about them.  Once the programs were sold, we'd all converge on the party and sit under the eucalyptus trees drinking the keg dry. By that time, the tailgate parties had pretty much come to a grinding halt because everyone was in the stadium watching the game. During that whole season, I think I saw one game. Maybe.

I can't imagine doing that now. Honestly, we were pretty responsible kids, the underage drinking and snack smuggling aside. We never really got out of control, never drove drunk, no one ever got hurt. We all went to school, did our homework, finished our theses, went off to college (some to Stanford). Or our parents would have beaten us silly.

Looking back, I only have fond memories of that time in my life. And if Bunny or Wallie wanted to go to Stanford, of course, I'd be delighted.  But I'd tell them to stay away from the tailgate section to the northeast of the stadium. And never ever drink the Jungle Juice.

*At my university, the library was for checking out the athletes who had mandatory study time every week night. They'd sit at a bunch of tables on the second floor of the library opposite the front entrance (the best vantage point to check out the comings and goings), and the surrounding tables would be packed with co-eds trying to get noticed.

Women who pee on toilet seats

Although I am a fifth-generation Northern Californian, I subscribe to very few of the traditional Northern California values.  Many of these values (which include, apparently, a lifelong focus on "healing yourself," a love of massage, a devout knowledge of herbs and berries, and saintly tolerance when your neighbors tell you how you're eating/recycling incorrectly) irritate me, but I can understand the one about "figuring yourself out." 

I have certain relatives (who shall remain unnamed), who still have a "wow, did I do that?  How odd!" attitude about their actions, even up to and including several marriages.  "Ha!" I say.  Here in the silicon valley, we've all had enough therapy so that we understand exactly what motivates us, why we are neurotic, hard to live with, and terrified of, for example, desk drawers or clowns.  The therapy hasn't changed anything, mind you, but we understand.

But even after you toss your therapist in favor of rollerblading lessons, and even when you've gotten sufficiently tired so that you no longer have time to be massively neurotic (selecting the more reserved "bitchy" instead), the thought process continues. Deep in the subconscious, a "what is the pattern here?" subprogram runs.  And frankly, that's not a bad question to ask.

With that internal subprogram in mind, I sometimes get a surprise or two.

The other day, for example, I realized that through the years my subconscious has developed a fantasy about women's bathrooms.  Specifically, a fantasy about how to deal with women who urinate on toilet seats. 

As we all know, a particular segment of our society is scared to sit on toilet seats.  Mythbusters apparently did a segment, by the way, where they actually tested the household toilet seat to see whether or not it was "the cleanest place in the house."  Amazingly, it was.  But I'm not talking about the household toilet seat.  I'm talking about public toilet seats.

And I'm talking about the segment of our society that apparently mewls in alarm at the very concept of touching their lily white asses (OK, OK probably multicolored, but it's a lovely phrase, isn't it?) to the seat.  I'm talking about fifty-something women in, say, Bloomingdales, who apparently see the other women as dressed in some sort of virtual maid's costume.  Or a nurse's outfit. 

From the time that my son was born, I thought about training him to say (in one of those piping children's voices that carries)  "Mommy, why did that woman pee on the toilet seat?"  I'm not sure, but it tickled the heck out of me.  I could just visualize a quiet, immensely disapproving line of bag-carrying women, heads swiveling in unison as they chilled the offender to the bone. 

Yup.  That's it.  That's my big fantasy. Or at least the best-developed one.  Of course I have other fantasies. I had one today when I inadvertently SAT in something that one of these nasty, horrible women left on the seat. I fantasized about grabbing her by the neck and screaming at her while shaking her back and forth.  But of course, that's not quite as civilized as the first one.

My son is six now, and we've only been able to do this once.  Now that I actually HAVE a child, I realize that children are more apt to pipe up with a "why do you want me to yell at that lady, mommy?" than the requested line. Darn it.   But I'd sure welcome any stories of embarrassment success for the sprayer coalition!

Incidentally, since we're moving into the holiday season, here's a little something for the "sprayer" on your holiday list!

La Streisand

I am in awe of and respectful of pure talent. Not the pop tart flavor-of-the-month "talent" that we are fed through mass media. Not the "talent" of those who are born to rich families and then become famous for having a familiar last name.

When Barbra Streisand opened her mouth to sing the other night in San Jose, magic flowed. The audience was a crazy kaleidoscope of all different people-who-need people. She mesmerized and hypnotized all of us with her voice of silk. The yahoo outside with the loudspeaker exhorting to us all in line that we were sinnners for seeing her and her "anti Bush" show didn't even detract. Neither did the rain or the ticket prices. Her political commentary, whether you agreed with her or not, was brief and somewhat measured. It was lighthearted and sassy. El Divo was a perfect match to her, with their operatic, can-fill-up-a-room voices. They are also easy on the eyes.

I wasn't offended. I was just there to hear THE VOICE. I loved the fact that she talked about having a steak sandwhich @ Original Joes, then on to Schurras Chocolates for..chocolate. She eats like a real person, not an anorexic waif. Whether or not she actually went to those places is beside the point, that she had the moxie  to mention two San Jose institutions was smart and the audience loved her for it.

I don't care that she's a diva or that she throws a hissy fit if the color of the microphones aren't correct  (they needed to be white when she was on "Oprah" I hear.) Genius sometimes is quirky, but its always interesting. Barbra with out the extra "a" had us in the  palm of her well manicured hand. She sang her heart out, and we loved her for it.

Why Politicians Love Kissing Babies

I always thought the whole baby-kissing thing that some candidates tend to do was hokey and just another political stunt, but that was before I got involved in political campaigns and had a baby.

I was offered a fantastic job opportunity on a statewide campaign the same day I found out I was pregnant.  It was a mixed bag - I was super excited about the job, but I wanted to make sure I didn't overdo it.  And I was suddenly thrust into the throes of the dilemma of all pregnant and working moms - when to stop, for how long, and how much to work in the mean time?

As it turned out, the pregnancy made the decision for me as I had to go onto bed rest, making it difficult for me to do much of anything, let alone work.  I helped via email as much as I could, but I didn't want to slow down the campaign momentum, so I decided to let go of that position.  In any other job, my boss wouldn't have understood, but part of the reason I took this job was because the candidate was a woman who I believe has great integrity and courage, who has two children of her own.  She understood, as did the other members of her team.  That made it all the harder to leave.

Fast forward to a year later and the campaign was in full force, I was recovering, and a campaign event was in my neighborhood.  I attended myself to show my support and say hello.  What I didn't expect was that everyone wanted to meet the baby!  So I called my husband and he brought her over at the end of the event.  Suddenly the candidate was no longer the star of the show - my baby was the center of the attention.

I had no idea this would occur, but I've since understood that politics is about making a difference, about caring, compassion and hope.  What better symbol of that than an innocent baby?

Here's the thing: negative campaigning and the media would lead us to believe in many cases that politicians are all slimy.  In my experience, it is the opposite.  The people who are willing to subject themselves to that kind of torment in order to serve their country are actually kind, committed, driven, compassionate individuals who really care about their city, state, country, world.  That's why they run for office - they really believe they can make a difference.  Sure, there are power-hungry people out there, but campaigning is hard work, serving in office is also hard work, and the pay doesn't compare to that in the private sector.

The other thing about politicians and baby kissing is that many people in politics are also parents.  And what parent or grandparent wouldn't want to hold a cute little bundle of joy?

My daughter has now been coddled and admired by 3 politicians, all on different occasions for different reasons, and during those few minutes, it was like all the world disappeared and it was just the two of them, sharing a private moment.  These are the times that those who really do believe they're making a difference by running for office can look in the eyes of a little one and remember why they want to make the world a better place for us all.

Girls will be girls

"When Mia wrapped the 'baby' in a blanket, C was just ecstatic. She rocked it and rocked it. She played with that doll for almost an hour!"

When K told me this as I picked up C from daycare, I wasn't surprised in the least. C is an enthusiastic little mama. She cuddles them and feeds them. She pats the dolls on the back to make them 'burp'. She puts their hats on and crams shoes on their feet. She sits the dolls in her toy stroller and parades them around everywhere.

I am determined to not encourage a gender bias, but so far my efforts have been futile. C has as many cars as she has dolls. We have blocks and balls galore. She wears pants and sneakers. It's all to no avail. Babies are what she wants. When she wakes up from a nap she asks for her baby and if she spots a doll she drops everything else. And her obsession doesn't stop at plastic babies! If no doll is at hand she will lavish affection on a stuffed toy, or the cat if he's around (and willing...). Really anything within reach will do; she's cradled our legs, a plastic dolphin from the tub, and yes, even her toy cars.

Flesh and blood babies are a special treat for her. When she sees one she tends to freeze and stare, mesmerized by this real live doll. When she can she likes to rock babies in their car seats, but if she's told not to it seems that merely gazing on their sweet faces satisfies her. After long quiet observations she'll turn to me and say "Baby" as if I hadn't noticed.

At the end of our conversation K said to me "Girls and boys play differently. It's not something you teach, and it's not something they learn. I've seen it happen again and again. Girls will be girls." She's been a daycare provider for 18 years. I'm leaning towards believing her.

This entry was previously posted at It's my life...

Bloody Eyeballs, Not Only for Crafty Moms

Crafty moms are the one you want as your child's room parent, on your child's sport teams, in girl scout or boy scout troops, as a neighbor or friend who entertains and invites you over for holidays. When I had one child, I attempted to become a crafty mom. And I pulled it off for some party events, but it was painful. And I found out it does not come easily for me. I blame it on the fact that I must be left brained; I would rather write program code then bake a cake from scratch. Now I have three boys and my current excuse is that they keep me too busy to cook things from scratch. So I have come to embrace it, but sometimes I digress.

My older son asked me in the beginning of this school year if I was going to volunteer in his class. He  said I never did that in the past and he felt bad about that (major mom guilt). When he was young I worked part-time, then I had twins and was too busy taking care of them to spend time in his class. So I volunteered to do anything that I could do after my kids went to sleep which usually included creating word documents or spreadsheets for his class or other school committees. Now my twins are in preschool every morning, so I finally have my chance to volunteer in his class.

At first I fell back on my old habits, asking if I could improve communication processes with spreadsheets and email communications. It was almost as if I was not comfortable with face to face meetings or phone calls. My blackberry had propelled me into an unrealistic world where email communications were sent right to my phone; so who needed to make a real phone call? I realized that the rest of the class preferred phone communication with email follow-up. So I scrambled to find something else I could contribute. Then came the Halloween party. I decided it was time to play crafty mom. But due to a sick kid, I did not have time to go to the store until the night before the Halloween party. And I wanted to do something with eggs to give the kids some protein before their night of candy.

It was 9:30pm at night when I finally arrived at Safeway to get the finishing touches for the Halloween egg craft. I had left my husband at home to boil 26 eggs. I had "craft block" and could not decide what to do with the eggs. I could not find anything that was hairy, black and edible to make spider eggs, pretzels were not good enough. I decided to call my one of my friends who is a real crafty mom. She was on her way home from a meeting, and of course had a Halloween entertaining book on the seat next to her. She pulled over and read through the pages until she found "egg eyeballs". I knew that was it, I was going to prepare egg eyeballs. After the 26 eggs were peeled, yolks deviled, pimento olive placed in, and red food dye spread around I had my crafty Halloween bloody eyeballs prepared. I was shocked because it was not as hard as I thought.

All the kids at my son's Halloween party said "eeewww" or "grossss" when they saw the bloody eyeball eggs, which made my son proud. But at the end of the party, there was only a few left. Some of the parents came up to me afterwords and asked if the eggs were hard to prepare, and I said that they were easy. Maybe even I could be a part-time crafty mom.

A Halloween birthday kid

I look longingly at those magazine covers with the artfully decorated (I am a watercolor painter) cookies that you can "easily make!" for "your Halloween event." Why the longing? Not because I am a Martha Stewart type-in fact I am the opposite-it is because I made them long ago for N's birthday .
You see, 15 years ago he entered the world. It was confusing emerging from childbirth to see the hospital staff dressed as vampires and witches. Please tell me that this was only the anesthesia and I was alive! Wait a sec, it was Halloween! (This is actually true..weird to wake up to everyone in costume saying "are you ok?"

It was fun when N was little and I could dictate the tone of his parties-it was easy. Never having the opportunity to celebrate on his real birthday, we would always pick a weekend before or after and the little princesses and ghouls would descend on our house for a toddler costume birthday party. Then, indulging the inner cookie Picasso, I would follow the "Fun and Easy!" instructions in making sugar piped skeletons on graham crackers and spider cupcakes with licorice legs. Never one to indulge in such domestic bliss, I took pictures of my work. Hmmm. maybe one day I will get real daring and actually use matching place mats. O never mind.

Flash forward to now..

N wants to do his own thing with friends and we cannot eat wheat. Rice flour pumpkin cookies? I suppose I can try. Now..about those placemats..

Top Ten Things to Do While Your Kids Have Tantrums

After a very busy day, we finally had all three boys bathed and ready for bed. While preparing their nightly milk cups  I realized I did not have a blue top for the blue cup I give J. With three kids in the house, I assigned everyone colors as an attempt to make them feel special. Now it has backfired; one of my twin toddlers (J) has tantrums if I don't give him "his" color. And that is just what happened when I attempted to give J his milk cup that night.

I have experience with tantrums, my first son had his fair share but now he is older and things have quieted down.  Being strong willed is a quality that can lead to success in a child's future, but it does make it hard for their parents. Now one of my twin toddlers has them but the other does not. So all my mom guilt is gone and I truly believe it is wiring. My boys are delightful most of the time, so I have learned to deal with some screaming now and then.

But I did need to find a good way to survive tantrums the second time around. After reading the book "Children The Challenge, by Rudolf Dreikurs M.D.", I used their "take away attention concept" to deal with my son's tantrums. And since my son's tantrums do not include head banging or any other life threatening behaviors, I felt comfortable using it. He does not respond to distraction. So I developed my list of things to do while my son has his tantrums.This is my home version, I also have my top ten list to do when I am out. Getting things done keeps my sanity. But I did have to choose things that can be done with screaming in the background. Answering emails is dangerous because the tone I used in the email had a distinct annoyed quality that came out in my writing. I try to do these things in the same room but make sure my son realizes that I am NOT paying attention to him. And I need to stay calm. No problem, I am a mom of three boys.

TOP TEN THINGS I DO WHILE MY KIDS HAVE TANTRUMS (at home)

10. File my nails, for long tantrums I can even put polish on my nails.

9. Go through the mail. This is really fun when I find clothes catalogs that I can look through.

8. Clean the kitchen since it is the last thing I usually want to do.

7. Vacuuming is good because it drowns out the crying.

6. Go through my kids toys and make a donate bag with toys not in use. Sometimes this distracts him because he thinks I am throwing away his toys. Then he is happy to get his toys back.

5. Go through my kids art supplies and throw away markers without tops. Markers without tops really bothers me.

4. Do situps. I have my exercise ball and Xerdisc in the living room for easy access.

3. Re-organize and clean kitchen cabinets. Another job I dislike.

2. Make muffins, then at least I have fresh baked good when all the screaming ends.

1. And my favorite, take a long shower and use my favorite lavender soap and french shampoo.

That night I walked out of the kitchen and took a long shower. It took J 15 minutes of crying before he even noticed I left the room. All the other kids were in my older son's bedroom listening to Dad reading Harry Potter. He came into the bathroom and peeked at me. When he realized I saw him he started crying again and ran away. Then he came back and did the same thing. The next time he came in I said "peek-a-boo". He started to laugh. It felt so good to hear his laugh. I dried myself off, put my pajamas on and took J into his room to read a book. It was like the tantrum never happened. Crisis averted, until next time.

What do other Moms do to keep their sanity during their kids tantrums?

Another item for the to-do list

My son skidded to a halt next to me, and turned his face up for a kiss.  Smiling down at him, I gave him a peck on his freckled nose, and asked about his day.  He held up an award for being a responsible student, and showed me a picture he had created with string and glue.  He is loving first grade, and I couldn't be more proud.

I won't lie - I expected a much different scenario with this child.  His kindergarten teacher and I agreed that he should be promoted to first grade, but I spent countless hours worrying over his social and emotional readiness.  He's a very young six, with a mostly sunny disposition, yet prone to tantrums and self-doubt.  My biggest fear was that he would lose his enthusiasm for learning, closely followed by the fear that he would lose his sweetness.

Instead, he's blossoming before my eyes.  I credit his patient and gifted teacher, and the supportive classroom environment that he is experiencing. 

Yesterday, as we drove home, he asked if I would sign him up for the after-school science program.  I hesitated before answering.  We'll look into it, okay?  I asked him.  I just don't know if I want to add one more thing to our schedule. 

On one hand - I know that the program is very "play" oriented.  He would have a blast.

On the other hand - I'm not sure if one more activity would tip the balance, and begin to sap the joy out of our afternoons.  We already have two different activities - my older daughter rides horses, and both my daughter and son have a gymnastics class.  Booking one more activity seems crazy.

Also part of the equation - my own need to get things done.  Despite grand plans to become super-efficient in the hours that the kids are in school, I struggle to accomplish my to-do list in the few hours between drop-offs and pick-ups.  Am I robbing my child of a chance to participate in a wonderful program because of my own need to squeeze in an extra load of laundry and load of dishes?  If I sign him up, would my work (and my temperment) suffer?

I'm torn.  He's got many years of activities ahead of him.  However, school is only going to get more demanding, and his extra-curricular activities may have to take a backseat in the future.  Indulging his love of science now could mean a Nobel prize on my mantle in a few years!  He could cure cancer!  Or maybe he might just learn how to make a solution that will eat through my Pergo floors.

I'm off to read the brochure again, and ponder the calendar.  I just don't know.

Sometimes It's Hard Not to Laugh

It's hard not to laugh at the days I call Murphy's Law Days, where anything that can go wrong will, and there's nothing one can do about it.  Yesterday's timing was dominated by Murphy to the point where I had to just laugh.

My daughter began the day in a brilliant mood - all smiles and energy, outgoing and happy.  We had a blast playing together.  When the normal time for her first nap had come and gone, she still showed no signs of stopping.  At the same time, I had the fortuitous opportunity through a last minute phone call to get a much-needed massage at home.  Knowing the timing was less than perfect, I wasn't about to miss out on that chance so I invited the massage therapist to come on over.

Leaving my daughter with the nanny in her room, I set out to become relaxed and enjoy my massage.  Not five minutes later was my baby screaming at the top of her lungs, not wanting to nap and being upset that I left her and didn't introduce me to the new person who came to the house.

She screamed and screamed, cried and screamed more.  We've been nap training her the past 2 weeks (and usually she still cries a little, but only for 10 minutes or so) and didn't want to go in unless it was absolutely necessary.  It soon became necessary, so the nanny went in, consoled, tried what she could, but to no avail.  She got the baby to quiet down a few times, during which my cat took the opportunity to start meowing for his lunch right outside the baby's door.  Then the mailman came (not the singing one, but still loud nonetheless), then the gardener, starting up the lawn mower outside the window.  Needless to say that didn't work out so well.  Each time the nanny tried putting the baby back down, she began howling again.

About five minutes before my massage was to finally end, I couldn't take it any more and felt so sorry for my poor crying baby we brought her out to join us.  Her eyes were all red and puffy and she was incredibly confused by the change, but loved the attention and became a happy girl again after a while, ate a good lunch and then went down for a long afternoon nap.

Rather than let anyone think I was mortified by all of this, I assure you I've been a mom long enough now to take it in stride.  It was one of those days where the timing of everything was off, the screaming was more of the over-dramatic than the truly upset kind, and the cat's meow was indeed the straw that made me break into laughter.  Luckily the massage therapist is a mom and understood it all too well.  We all had a good chuckle.  It wasn't the most relaxing massage ever, but it was one of the most memorable.

To Walk or Not To Walk

I've been feeling somewhat tired lately, and have noticed that in recent weeks I sometimes have periods where my heart does not stop racing.  I have been telling myself it's just stress.  That is, until two nights ago, when my husband put his head to my chest, listened for a minute, and told me I have an irregular heartbeat.  It went thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, THUMPTHUMPTHUMP.  A heart murmur.  It seems to happen infrequently and randomly (i.e. not when I exercise or climb stairs, or when my kids are running away from me, screaming and I'm gritting my teeth trying not to scream back at them), and it doesn't seem to last more than 5 minutes, but still, a heart murmur.

Of course, I freaked out.  Since it's the weekend and I have to wait till business hours to make a doctor's appointment, I called my dad (who happens to be a doctor) and told him what happened.  His response was cautious but optimistic.  Call a cardiologist, but don't worry too much yet.  It could just be stress, like I had thought, or an anxiety attack.  Or it could be a mitral valve prolapse (low risk, treatable condition that he himself has).  Or it could be more serious, like heart disease.

Oh, great.  Me, with heart disease?  But I'm only 34.  I'm never sick.  I watch what I eat (most of the time), I exercise regularly, and I don't drink or smoke.  I just had a general checkup two months ago, where they punched my BMI, heart rate, cholesterol levels and various other stats into a little computer that told me I have a 0.00 chance of heart disease in the next five years.  I'm in the lowest possible risk group for health and life insurance, for crying out loud!  If the bean counters at State Farm tell me I'm healthy, surely I must be?

So with visions of pacemakers, of my heart swelling up 5 times its normal size and yellow cholesterol clogging my arteries, what did I do?  I went and did 13 miles this morning.  Yup, I did the San Jose Rock N Roll 1/2 Marathon today.  I walked at an easy pace with friends, but still, that's 13.1 miles, almost 4 hours of walking.  Pretty stupid, huh?  My husband was seriously against it, convinced that I would either drop dead on the course or damage my heart so seriously that I might drop dead in the weeks to come. 

So why did I do it?  Well, my dad did say he thought it would be ok to do it if I walked (never mind that he's a gastroenterologist, not a cardiologist).  He said, just stop if I feel any discomfort.  I have been running or walking on the treadmill regularly, with no chest pain or shortness of breath.  And I actually felt great today, with no problems of any kind.  It was more of a stroll than a powerwalk anyway.  But the real reason I did it is that right now I just can't accept the thought of anything being wrong with me.  It's probably nothing, so why should I let my fears stop me from doing this?   I'll just go to the doctor and he'll give me medicine to deal with this occasional flutter.  Besides, I can't be sick -- too many people are depending on me!  And if something is wrong, just let me do this one last thing, one last activity that healthy, normal people can do, before my life changes. 

There are just too many possibilities, too many scenarios and situations to imagine.  It was so overwhelming that I could feel my heart racing just thinking about it.  I needed to clear my mind.  The best way to do that was to be with friends, listen to some music, hear people cheering me on.  I knew I could drown out my fears by concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.  So I walked.

I'm hoping I'm just being paranoid.  I'm hoping I've just been watching too much House, ER and Grey's Anatomy.  But I won't know until someone takes a look inside me and tells me what is going on.  Till then, I just have to wait and worry.  And maybe walk.

House-Rich, Cash-Poor

I love our home.  It's on a tiny postage stamp of a lot, and at 1700 square feet of living space, we constantly wish we had more space for our family of five.  But it's a four-bedroom Craftsman near downtown Palo Alto.  People walking by have rung our doorbell to ask who designed it, it has been entered in a couple of design contests, and will be featured in the local paper soon.  It's worth a decent chunk of change.

And oh, yes, this house constitutes almost 100% of our net worth.
 
My husband had the good luck to make some money from his stock options, and the good sense to put some of it towards paying the down payment on our house.  Unfortunately, we also had the bad luck to suffer catastrophic losses in the stock market when tech stocks tanked, and the bad sense not to have paid off the mortgage in full when we could afford to, and still have lots left over.  Yes, we were greedy and clueless.  Why pay off a mortage at 7%, we thought in 1999, when our portfolio was earning 20% or more per year?  Trust me, we are still kicking ourselves.

It sounds arrogant of me to say this in a world where the average family income in 2004 was $70,700 (and the median was $43,200), but we are barely getting by on our six-figure, single-wage income.  We are not extravagant -- hardly ever eat out, no ski or beach trips, buy all clothes on sale.  But there is still the mortgage, insurance, preschool tuition and cost of living.  And the little luxuries that seem like necessities in this modern world -- cell phones, internet access, cable tv, soccer lessons, music class, etc... After all that, there is barely enough to put into our emergency fund.   

As for savings... what savings?  We poured practically all of our savings into remodelling our house, going from a 2 to a 4 bedroom because we needed a bigger house and didn't want to move.  Our stock portfolio is nonexistent.   Our kids' college funds consist mostly of Christmas money from the grandparents; we try to put some away on the rare months we don't have unexpected car repair or dental bills.  We each have a small retirement fund, but at this point it is barely enough to support us for two years.  Our remaining cash asset is an emergency fund that covers 2-3 months' salary.  So all our eggs are in one basket, or in this case, one nest egg in the shape of a 4-bedroom house.  That we still have a mortgage on.

All it would take is one hurricane, one terrorist attack, one act of God that insurance doesn't cover.  Or a couple of missed mortgage payments.  Or a housing market crash.  And then we would be left with nothing.  It's a scary thought. 

You may be resisting the urge to kick me and say, grow up, spoiled b*#$&!  Your pathetic money management skills have put you in this position.  Stop moaning about missing your $100 port and getaways to France.  Ditch the expensive preschool and put some money into your 401(k) like every intelligent person is doing.  Or sell your home already.  In the grand scheme of things, we are still really lucky and better off than many, many families.  We could sell at any time, move and live like kings in most other places.  But we don't want to leave the Bay Area, and as long as we are here, we are living in this house.  Even if we were to leave, we'd probably rent it out.  Which is what we'll probably do once the kids leave home and we need some retirement income.   In the meantime, we are just praying that nothing happens to our home.

In A Rich Man's World

"Money, money, money...must be funny...in a rich man's world." - Abba

In the quest for posts about money, we SV Moms discovered that most of us feel as if we don't have enough - myself included. But one of the questions posed was: what's it like for those who do? I can tell you one thing for sure: they still gawk at the cost of housing in the Bay Area.

I've had the pleasure of knowing a handful of people who are technically billionaires and several who are multimillionaires. Those that I've known over the years - I'm sorry to disappoint - are all kind, intelligent, extremely generous, hard-working people. Maybe no more so than you or I, but I can't say anything bad about them. In fact, without their incredible philanthropy, many of the causes and arts we hold dear, like pure scientific research and local orchestras, would not be able to survive.

I'm not sure why, but I harbored the incorrect assumption as a child that all financially successful were mean and miserly. Then one day, I looked around and realized many of my neighbors were quite wealthy and were some of the nicest, smartest, most confident people I'd ever met. (For those of you who know the reference, I grew up down the street from the man who wrote What's the Matter With Kansas?.) While in college, I became friends with a few people who later fared quite well in the dotcom era and fit a similar profile.

So what's it like for those who have money? I've heard stories about private jet trips around the world, buying houses in cash, parties with Donald Trump and supermodels, having race horses as a hobby, collecting priceless works of art, second homes with multiple acres, and vacationing on yachts. I know, we're all feeling really sorry for them now. On the flip side, however, are the enormous insurance costs, realistic security fears (concerns for kidnappings and ransom of family members), constant media scrutiny and incessant panderers at every turn. Everyone wants something from them - their time, their endorsement, and/or their dollars.

Just because they're wealthy doesn't mean they blow money right and left, however. These people didn't become rich by squandering cash; they know how to be frugal, how to negotiate and get a good deal. I remember one of my friends bartering with the cashier at Just Desserts in Palo Alto for a deal for four pieces of cake. He was honing his skills for negotiating with VCs. Clearly, it worked.

In my experience, people with money also tend to keep their good friends very close. They're not stuffy about who their friends are and they don't discriminate about whether they are also rolling in the dough; on the contrary, they are generous almost to a fault in order to make their friends comfortable so that they may participate in the same activities. They just want to hold onto people they trust. It may be easier for them to connect with others in similar situations, but that's true for most of us. Overall, I'd say we can all learn from those with money - not just in how to make it, but how to make good use of it as well.

What can a Mom do to feel sexy?

So the Metro wants us mommybloggers to think like sexbloggers, or sexbloggers to think like mommybloggers, or something like that, I am not sure. Let's look at the facts:

• Childbirth, Not sexy. Enough said.
• Nursing. Oh, maybe on rare occasion, in the right light. But mostly, no. Leaky milk. Absolutely not.
• Sleep deprivation. Feeling delirious and feeling sexy do not mix.
• Not sitting down or getting a break from 6:30a.m. to 9pm each day. Does not leave much energy for feeling sexy.

But that doesn't mean I don't occasionally try to think sexy. That would be many times during the year including: while watching Sex in the City re-runs (which shows sexy people, sexy clothes and sexy shoes which works on a subliminal level), anytime I am alone with my husband away from the house with no signs of children around, or putting red nail polish on my toes.

Usually, I need a little help. And this is what works for me:

• Using my favorite expensive, smells so good, nobody in the family can touch, sounds sexy because it is French shampoo.
• Wearing a pair of completely impractical, highests heal possible, would trip and break a leg if worn with kids high heeled shoes. While wearing unnamed high heeled shoes I fantasize that they are Manolo Blahniks.
• Anytime I wear my Tahari jeans with my high heeled boots. I even feel sexier when I fantasize that I am wearing Jimmy Choo boots.
• During the day if I get to take an uninterrupted shower, blow dry my hair, put on make-up, any Michael Stars tee shirt, and my Calvin Klein stretch jeans. Which lasts for 10 minutes before little hands accessorize me with some mud or sticky food substance.
• While doing PIlates because my friends say it is good for flexibility and endurance. And because Madonna does Pilates. She is a Mom and she is sexy.
• Date night that starts at 4pm with a long walk, dinner at any Thai or Vietnamese restaurant that has creative drinks and ends at 9pm. Because even when a mom feels sexy, she still starts yawning at 9pm.
• Eating anything served at Micheal Mina's restaurant in San Francisco. Hopefully they will let me back after our last visit where I licked every plate clean during a multi-course dinner my husband and I will never forget. May need to re-think my low carb diet.
• While drinking any wine served at the Vintners Collective in Napa Valley. No more Two Buck Chuck for me.

And this is what hasn't worked:

• My old lingerie, for obvious reasons including that I wore them when I was size 4.
• Drinking a bottle of wine after we put the kids to sleep because we just end up falling asleep on the family room couch before we can even finish one glass.
• Getting a babysitter and going back to the make-out point in the Palo Alto Foothills that was an infamous hangout when I went to highschool in the area. Because it is still an infamous high school hangout. Ickkkkk.
• Morning romance now that our twins know how to take off their inside door knob lock.

Here's what I still have yet to try:
While I was a the park pushing my twins and talking with a group of mothers, one of them brought up the episode of Sex in the City that included Samantha and an adult swing. We all smiled as to say, swings belong in the park.

How many friends does a little boy need?

Lately I've been feeling bad because my  son has only three friends his age and two of them are twins.

I know that the term friend is stretching it a little for a two year old since he treats everyone about the same.  He smiles hugely at them.  He'll look them in the face and talk to them.  It's even odds whether the words will be English or his own special language.  Then later he grabs their stuff.

And then on top of that, he has an older sister who says she has "so many friends" (her words)
Of course we have to play with them, or she tells me "[X] isn't my friend anymore, because I never see her/him."  Yes my daughter knows the exact guilt-inducing words to get me out on a playdate.

But sometimes I feel my son could really use more playmates nearer to his own age.  Yesterday at a park he and an eight-year old boy were wrangling over a plastic spoon.  My son won, because the eight year old just felt too ridiculous fighting with a boy, the size of a one-year old, who was yelling loudly.  My son typically deals with older kids and this technique works for him almost always. 

I want my son to learn that while it's good to hold on to your stuff, but you can't win all the time with this technique, nor is this a good way to win friends.  His friends hold tight too and they just walk away holding the toy triumphantly.

I just realised I had the same concern about my son last year.  And then he had another relapse and secondary infections and even if he'd gotten more friends, he wouldn't have been able to see them since he was immunocompromised.  And I'm not sure where in the past three months of actually being able to see other people, I can  it all. And I thought maybe this is just a proxy for my worry that it's been so long since we've been out in the world that I've forgotten how to make friends.  And maybe my son actually doesn't care that much as long as we see people.

At age three he'll go to preschool (if he manages to stay off chemo and steroids long enough to get his shots).  I worry he'll get picked on, because he's small and grabby.  Maybe I just need to get out more and stop worrying so much.

Educating Boys on the Social Habits of Dating, or not

I usually don't like to blog about conversations I had with my kids, but this one was something he could show his prom date and not be embarressed. This was a conversation I had after I picked up my son from his first day of second grade:

Mom: How was your day?
Son: Fine.
Mom: No really, please tell me how was you day.
Son:  I don't want to talk about it.
Mom: How is your class?
Son: Great!
Mom: Then what don't you want to talk about?
Son: Recess.
Mom: What is wrong with recess?
Son: The girls chase me the whole time trying to get me to tag them.
Mom: What is wrong with that?  Most guys enjoy being chased by gals.
Son: Why?
Mom: Ummm, well, hmmm, it just means they want to be your friend.
Son: But I want to hang out with my friends that are boys.
Mom: That will change.
Son: Why?
Mom: Ummmm, well, hmmm, ask Dad.

Skinny Jeans Are Back (or How Madison Avenue Hates Me)

Skinny Jeans are back. Big f***ing deal. A few years ago "Heroin-Chic" was in and you didn't see me shooting up behind the laser printer. And, it's not as thought I'm not a slave (or at least an indentured servant) to Fashion - that heartless task mistress. I have a lifetime subscription to Vogue. I own and occasionally use a Neiman's card and have been known to risk life and limb to get to H&M during the 45 minute window when my children are both napping. But, "Skinny Jeans" - I mean really. Does any normal woman, ever, ever look at her backside and think - "wow, what I really need is SMALLER jeans?" I think not.

Even my most darling, svelte friends, look at jeans as a fashion comfort food. The thing you turn to on the bad morning - when you're tired and can't wear your PJ's out. Even the $300 Earnest Sewn, custom-made, distressed by pygmies, imported from Iceland, uber-cool versions generally don't need ironing and are rather comfortable. But now, they're supposed to be "Skinny?" Gag.

Nevermind the fact that, I have owned Skinny Jeans before. You probably did too. From approximately 1984 through 1988, when I really was skinny. You remember the look - peg-legged, dark blue, perhaps a zipper at the ankle? So tight that my dad used to say he could tell what year the quarter was in my back pocket. So tight that you laid down after gym class to put them on. So tight that having a friend help you zip them up seemed like a smart idea - not a Helmut Newton montage. Back then, I wore mine with pointing toed flats or pumps and I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts they were from Contempo Casuals. I thought they made me look sexy (which I wasn't).

But alas, time has passed. I've heard the old adage about how you can't participate in a fad twice

My mother's daughter

I've always admired my mother (although there were years that I would have adamantly denied that to the death).  She was raised in a most dysfunctional family; surviving alcohol parents and a verbally abusive father.  Yet she did all that she could to be the best mom possible - doing a lot of "work" (and by work, I mean support groups and therapy and active living) to ensure that my childhood was leaps and bounds better than hers.  And she accomplished that.  While we had our up and downs in our mother/daughter relationship, we've made sure that we had true healing to leave forth a legacy that was loving and supportive. 

When I became a mom, I thought of all the things that my mother did right and all the things that, well frankly, I thought I could do better or at least different.  It's the cycle of parenting - you either conform to how you were raised or make a conscience decision to change it.  When I think about it, there's not a ton I would change.  I'm a lot like my mom - a more moderate version of her.  I like to think that my strengths are her strengths, only mine are more pronounced - mainly from the loving environment she created.  Her weaknesses are my weaknesses, only mine aren't as obvious.  She's very sensitive; I was lucky to learn her empathy but not her co-dependence.

So when my mother was over yesterday, I sat thinking all of this in my head, in my heart.  Thankful that she is my mother.  I'm grateful that I inherited her nature (although being able to cry if anyone is crying or at a touching commercial is not a trait that I really need).  I ran upstairs to change and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  Whoa - I not only inherited her personality, but I also inherited her big butt.  I am truly my mother's daughter.

Rushing through The First Day

My kids finally got over their jet lag, 1 week after arriving home from England.  On the one hand, it's great not to be getting up at 4AM.  On the other hand,  I wish we hadn't chosen today to oversleep -- Natalie's first day of school.

To be fair, they actually woke up earlier than normal, 7:10AM.  But they are used to waking up at 7:30 and waiting patiently for mama to emerge from under the bedcovers at 8:00.  Or 8:30, depending on how late I slept the night before.  Then comes breakfast and a mad struggle to get dressed and ready for preschool by 9:30.  Given our pre-K morning habits, I knew that getting to school every day by 8:15 would be a challenge.  But with jet lag and the novelty factor on my side, I thought it would be a piece of cake, for the first few days at least.

I jumped out of bed at 7:15 in a panic.  I scraped my hair into a ponytail, pulled some clothes on, splashed water on my face and swished a toothbrush around my mouth.  Less than five minutes, that's all I could spare for myself.  I gained some time by throwing an Oscar Meyers lunchable pack into my daughter's lunchbox instead of making PBJ sandwich cut into the shape of a flower and tucking in a little love note, as I had planned.  Fortunately, Natalie was most cooperative and eager to get started, so I managed to get her ready in record time.

Then at 7:45, my planned departure time, the twins demanded to come along.  Uh, guys, that was NOT in the plan.  Getting them ready set us back by 10 minutes.  Finally, we set off at 8:55 at walked at a breakneck pace.  By the time we got there, I was sweating and stressed. 

We arrived at 8:05, barely enough time to figure out where to go, take a couple of First Day of School photos and greet Natalie's old preschool friend.  Then off they marched into their classroom, leaving us parents waving.  Natalie had no time to be nervous and I had no time to get weepy.  Everything happened so quickly.  Just like that, we sent our firstborn off to school. 

I'm a bit pissed at myself.  I should have gotten up earlier.  I should have planned it better.  That way we could have slowed down and made it a more special moment for Natalie.  I've got to get better at this.  I certainly don't want to spend the next 6 years rushing and stressed out.  I want to be able to relax and enjoy, otherwise it'll all pass by as quickly as this first morning did!

Our Singing Mailman

We have a signing mailman. I don't know what country he was from originally, but he has this thick, gruff accent and he sings quite loudly while driving and delivering mail. It's not just our street either - I encountered him at my doctor's office several blocks away today. I have no idea what he's singing and I haven't listened closely enough to determine his musicality. Usually I'm just rushing to close my front door so he doesn't wake the baby. I have never spoken to him, nor has he attempted to speak to me. He just delivers mail and sings.

I celebrate my son's half shoe size successes

My son has grown half a shoe size. I know for many parents this isn't a cause to jump up and down and celebrate, but for us with a child who didn't grow for months, we're so thrilled. 

On Friday, we had my son's Individual Family Service Plan(IFSP) for Early Start. We discussed his progress for the past six months, or in our case the past nine months because his IFSP got delayed like everything else. ;) The report and the goals outline which services he receives.

His ISFP report outlines how my son had another relapse of his tumor, his third, and a secondary infection.  After he started chemo and massive amounts of steroids, he stopped talking if one word a day counts as talking and he stopped pulling up.  He started pulling up again a couple months later.  He didn't meet his goals to walk or to be weaned off his g-tube, but he's worked hard. 

He met these goals:

get up on his knees, cruise 90% of the time, reach up on his toes and walk with assistance of another parent or a walker - hooray

He can also stand independently if standing for 10 seconds counts. :) Okay it doesn't, but he's working on it.

He initiates conversations.  He says these words all the time "go", "ball" "bubble" "bye" "yum" "uh oh" "wow" "yeah" and "mama".   He says "backpack" "car" and "dada" maybe once a week. He'll say "mo" (more) "baba" (bottle) "fire truck" "bird" and "ca ca" (cracker) if you say the word first.  He understands quite a bit, but other words he won't repeat.

I list these individual words, because now I'm a parent, I no longer believe the quote "The limits of your language are the limits of your world."  But these words surely reflect his personality.  He's a "yeah" guy not "yes" and "wow" is actually "wowwwwwww", a term of great approval. "go" tells me to go outside where he wants to play all the time and rush around.  He's so active.  Backpack reflects his and his sister's passion for Dora the Explorer.

He made some progress towards feeding. He eats like a typical toddler now instead of examining each bite like an inspector.  He eats 3 tablespoons at each meal instead of 1-2.  He drinks 3 oz of formula a day instead of 1.

His goals for the next six months are to walk, talk more and to to eat more.

And to me, half a shoe size symbolizes where we are right now.  It's not the full shoe size of typical kids.  But when I think about where those little feet have been in the past nine months, I feel incredibly proud of what he's accomplished.

Thida's journal can be found at Water Owl's Movements.

The long goodbye

I have two teenage sons, A and N. A is now entering his senior year in high school. N will be a sophomore. In a nostalgic moment, I began to reflect on the slow descent of separation that is happening. Healthy, I know, but heart- wrenching as well. The first day of kindergarten turns into playdates "alone, mom, you don't need to come." Whispers on the phone (boys do that too..) and social lives rarely talked about. Teen boys speak in monosyllabic answers of "its ok" or something like that when asked how their day went. And I , the mom who should have been an investigative journalist, wants to know every detail. I ask more, they cringe more..the dance begins.
Trips with other families lead to adventures in different culinary delights (kids always eat stuff for other people that they will not eat at home.) Friends appear that you may or may not like and the whole process of should-I keep-my-mouth-closed continues. Learning to drive is a marker for sure, and one learns to fear for ones life silently, as the invisible brake on the passenger side never seems to work, darn it.

And they survive, and thrive. You watch them morph from a little being spouting many of your beliefs to an almost-adult with political views that are well thought out. How did this happen? Isn't it fascinating? Now, as we are staring at a fall of college applications and talks with admisssions counselors, the reality is here. A will be moving away next year. I am so proud of him . Now, a hug with my man-child lasts just a tad longer, as I am starting to keep track of them.

This is Not Wisteria Lane

I was struck the other day at how far we have come from "Leave It to Beaver" here in the Bay Area when I requested a "home" category be added to the SV Moms Blog. You might assume that one would've been one of the first few on the list, but it was about 25th.

Who would have thought even fifteen years ago that the next generation of housewives would be blogging techie mommies juggling cell phones, combo laptop-diaper bags and ergo strollers? I would never have pegged myself to be part of this sisterhood, although I'm quite comfortable here.

Don't get me wrong - we have our fair share of soccer moms and mini-vans, but this is not Wisteria Lane. When we hear the word 'processor', we first think of Intel, not Cuisinart. To talk to the neighbors, we hop on their wireless LAN or send a text message. We're savvy, not desperate.

I grew up in the midwest in the 70's and 80's where most moms were still at home, in the PTA, at bake sales - not in jeans or on computers. Moms I knew never vented or had outlets for themselves. I had a good childhood, but times change. Something tells me mommy bloggers are here to stay.

Tales from Voicemail Hell

I push my answering machine Messages button: "One new message:...'Hello? Is Sarah there?'" Umm... it's a machine. Clearly the answer is NO. So leave a message. That is, after all, what it says and that is why I have a machine.

A woman leaves a message on my cell phone: "It's very important that I talk to you about something urgent." Okay. So why don't you tell me what's so important in the message so we don't have to play phone tag if it's really so "urgent"?

I call up to make an appointment for my daughter at her doctor's office. Instead of a person, I hear a "Please say the name of the department you would like." So how is saying 'Pediatrics' easier than just pressing '1'? If you're going to automate a phone system, I shouldn't have to talk to it.

"CallerID Blocked" the next call reads. The message doesn't include a number but requests I call back. Yeah, right.

Too much stuff

      You know it's time to recycle those cardboard boxes in the yard when there's enough to use for burying "treasure" (the tricycle).  I also find myself keeping random things which we clearly do not have room for (judging by the state of the playroom), because the kids seem to have fun with them.  An old juicer, lots of cell phones of course and conference giveaways (usually broken), one of the first electronic organizers (Diego’s journal), even a bjorn potty which was used well after it became too small – and not for dolls either.  And hubby struggles to give up or store his old furniture, his hundreds of photos and framing supplies, books and even the cute baby clothes.  I’m afraid even if we find a great organizer, it will just go back to the way it was.

Is wanting to get rid of stuff a good enough reason to move?  I have this fantasy of getting rid of half our stuff and buying a “reasonably” priced smaller house that’s closer to our work, in a nice neighborhood with a park, decent schools and good neighbors with a modicum of diversity.  Funny but it seems it’s that last one that might be hard to find.  Right now we live in a very Hispanic area and our son goes to preschool in EPA where he’s the only blond if not the only white kid. 

We’d trade in our “medium” house (1700 sq ft I think which is small in some neighborhoods of course) and with the profit made over the past 8 years, make a nice down payment and reduce our monthly mortgage.  I hear people saying you need at least $2M to buy a tear-down around here, but I simply don’t believe that.  I know our average housing prices are pretty high, but it seems everyone thinks they have to live in Palo Alto.  We do have the two kids and the two dogs (guess which ones I could do withoutJ).   I do appreciate that we have a house and can take our time making our next move. It could just be the other issues of my life making me feel this way, but I just can’t seem to relax in a house with so much stuff.

Boy Pocket Inventory #1

It's happening. All of that stuff I used to read (starting from "Huck Finn") about boys and their pockets is happening right now.

Today I am guilty of not doing laundry for a little while. (So? Want to make something of it? The Japanese have created underpants that can be worn for SEVEN DAYS!)

And let's just follow that train of thought for a minute, can we? They have also created Good Luck Underwear.  And did you know that there's now disposable underwear for travelers?  Truly, popgadgets is an interesting blog. They have a newsletter and I just might subscribe. It's NOT all underwear, BTW.  Honest.

You know, philosophically (culturally?) speaking, if you type things like "japanese underwear for seven days" or "Japanese underwear for multiple days" into Google, you get some very interesting products. Power underwear for businessmen?

OK, OK, enough with the underwear. I told my son that I would only type out what was in his pockets and then we'd go back to playing "robot" in the kitchen, so I have to hurry.

- eight "Cariboo" cards, apparently lifted from preschool (sigh)
- two rocks: one red and rough, one white and smooth
- one bottle cap (totally retro!).  Says Bawls Guarana on it? Huh?  OK, perhaps not so retro. What happened to Coca Cola?
- one seashell
- one piece of twistable golden crayon (a terrible investment for a five year old, BTW. He twisted them all out, broke them off at the base, and has carried them around for weeks. Back to old crayons.
- a piece of plastic pirate's gold
- Some wierd postmodern looking 2.5 inch by 3 inch plastic card with punchouts for... parts of an airplane?
- two twisty tops
- a small subway map of the Paris subway

Does this sound familiar, all you post boys out there?  Ah, Boy phenomena.

I’m a mother on a mission

…For the perfect coffee cup. Do not mistake that for the perfect cup of coffee. It’s the cup, the mug, the-whatever-you-pour-your-coffee-into-device. I need the perfect carrier for my morning coffee(s). With war and bombings and terrorist threats and our economy and my dad having cancer and everything else that I could be concentrating on, this is what I have picked as my latest mission. I need the perfect coffee cup. It’s trivial, I know. But we all need trivial in our lives from time to time.

It all started when I decided I’d give up using the disposable cups provided at work. Over the last few months, I’ve learned to keep the same disposable cup for the entire day – dumping out the cold coffee, filling up with fresh coffee, and occasionally sticking the cup in the microwave when I get pulled into a meeting and forget to bring my paper cup of coffee with me. I’m ready to take it a step further, and get my own REAL cup. I feel like Pinocchio wanted to be a real boy. I want a REAL cup – not some chinsy, environmentally irresponsible paper cup.

I’ve narrowed down my requirements to the following:

1. Has to be no taller than the 12oz paper cup (think “tall” size at Starbucks). Those tall and skinny car mugs will not do. Those one won’t fit under the coffee carafes we have at work – and I’ll have to ruin a paper cup anyways to get the coffee from the carafe and the pour into my real cup. That’s simply stupid, so it has to no taller than the 12 oz cups we have at work.
2. Has to be a wide cup. I don’t want a little 8oz mug. I need something  big; something that isn’t going to require me to walk back over to the break room every 30 minutes to refill. I am a serious coffee drinker (4-6 cups in the morning). I need a big mug that can handle my      addiction. And please don’t tell me to lower my coffee dosage. It’s what keeps me alive in the morning with a 2 yr old that still gets up at  least once during the night.
3. Has to  be able to keep my coffee hot for a while – the longer the better. I don’t know how it will do this. But I don’t want a mug that is going to suck out all the heat. I need one that will protect my coffee, keep it safe and warm – again, so that I don’t have to walk back to the break room to re-heat my coffee. I’m not against walking, but I’ve got a job to do and would rather spend those extra minutes doing some work.
4. It has to look cool. I don’t want pictures of my kid or some catchy “Mommy Blogger” phrase on it. I’m bringing this mug in to meetings with VPs and Directors and what not. I want it to look professional but trendy – an extension of my own self at work.

And I asking too much?? If you see a coffee mug matching this description, please alert the authorities (aka me).

The Tally Sheet

sometimes, I feel as though I should be carrying around a spiral notebook, so I can note each heinous grievance between my children. Example, at lunch today, child #2 got to sit in the corner seat, child #1 melted down and claims that next time is his turn. Or, at the grocery store, one kid gets to hold on to the handle of the shopping cart, the other is totally slighted.

If I had a little notebook, I could keep track of all this inequality and the next time we were faced with the tough decision about who gets to sit by the window on the plane flight, I could pull out the little book as a reference..."well, I show that in June of 2006, on our way to Minnesota, on the flight between Denver and Minneapolis, you sat next to the window, so now it is now your brother's turn".

I am sure this system would help.

Are We Blind??

So my mommy routine for the summer includes kid drop off at camps, and of course a mommy work out at the gym and then...pick up some groceries.  What I didn't expect to encounter was a woman in the back of the store looking lost trying to find her way to the front of the grocery store.  So what? Right?  But on closer inspection she had a cane.  She was blind, and not a single sv grocery shopper was there to help her out.  I approached her and asked if I could help her.  She said yes, and mentioned she got a little lost, and was trying to find her seat again after just getting up for water.  Well, she was way lost because she was on the opposite side of the store.  I gave her a detailed description to return to her lunch, and then I continued my shopping, and checked out.  Then I saw her right as I was to exit the store, and I asked her this time if I could walk her to her seat.  She said yes, and I felt like a good citizen, but also wondered.. are we so in a hurry everywhere that we are unable see when someone is truely blind trying to find their way around town?

Fully Booked

While going over my son’s busy social calendar, I asked my husband which extracurricular activities he participated in when he was young and he said guitar lessons and little league. I myself did gymnastics and tap dance. However, neither one of us did anything until we were at least kindergarten age and never more than one activity at a time.

Fast forward to today, my son (Boy #1) is only two years old and this Summer he is taking swimming lessons, art classes and on Saturdays a bunch of us get together to attempt a ‘soccer lesson’. For some of you that may sound like a lot, especially considering I still have to work in between those hours. But I will guess that for others that sounds like a typical summer or even an easy summer. I have acquaintances that have their two-year-olds in Spanish, music classes, swimming, pre-preschool classes and go to ALL of the mom’s group functions and still manage to take evening family walks past my house every single night.

The other day I was at the art class with Boy #1, as I struggled to get the glue out of his hand so he would stop eating it, I though to myself… Is he really enjoying this? Is this so much better than doing crafts at home? Is this worth the struggle and constant fear that a tantrum is coming on any second now? How am I going to fit in a nap before his swim class?

Sometimes it feels like we are all struggling to create ‘Super Children’. One Child Psychologist calls it "hyper-parenting," trying too hard to craft perfect childhoods for children and focusing too much on accomplishments.

When I think about my childhood, I mostly remember the special times I spent with just my family. Picnicking, going on a road trip, planting flowers in the yard, making sand castles at the beach; those were the most special times. It’s funny, I don’t remember tap class or gymnastics at all.

boys, guns and history lessons

After watching true alpha male energy with lots of shooting at a recent playdate (with my two girly girl daughters), I thought I would repost this very interesting piece from Silicon Valley Moms Blog May 2006.

Jill

Co-Founder, Silicon Valley Moms Blog

**********************************************************************************************************************

My son, almost 5, has a real fixation on all stories and products having to do with battles between good and evil: star wars, avatar, guns, lightsabers, samurai warriors, ninja fighers, swords and pirate battles. Despite our best efforts to interest him in books about more peaceful topics, he is mostly likely to become rapt in a story that has an exciting wartime drama. In an effort to direct his interest in more educational direction, we started to buy him history books, particularly books about George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. He quickly became fascinated with the revolutionary war, loving the vision of the American army, cold and wearing no shoes, beating the red coats at the Battle of Trenton, while George Washington led the way on a white horse and stood in the middle of the battlefield. For me, it was wonderful that he was finally paying rapt attention at bedtime to a story that I could also enjoy.

So, it was share day at school, and my son wanted to bring his favorite book to school. I thought it was a great idea. We brought it to class and a young female teacher volunteered to read to him and his friends.  She apparently stopped reading half way through because she thought it was too violent and inappropriate for school because it showed guns. The teachers got together to discuss, and decided that they would continue to read the book. Afterwards, they had a discussion about the book. The teachers told the boys that they needed to remember that this was HISTORY. Today, the teachers said, Presidents don’t solve problems like this. Instead they talk about their problems. They resolve them without fighting.

When this story was recounted to me later in the week, I could barely keep a straight face. I believe in peaceful resolution as much as the next person. But this is history, the real story of the formation of the United States, and, by the way, how successful has our current president been using his words. We have troops fighting, with guns and other weapons, all over the world. My son sees pictures of army people on the pages of newspapers and magazines weekly. How do you adequately express our desire for peaceful resolution with the need for Israelis to protect themselves against suicide bombers. It is really hard to educate young boys that fighting is bad, but then, they may be drafted to fight for their country one day. How do we prepare our sons for the real world, respect their interests, and yet teach them the idealism of peaceful negotiation, while acknowledging that sometimes fighting can be necessary. And yes, how do I tell him that guns are bad when he sees pictures of our troops carrying them to battle. It is complicated to be the parent of a young boy.

Perfect Mother-in-Law Gift

Finally took the minivan to Ducky’s Car Wash for a full-out interior vacuum and car wash over the weekend. I love browsing the books and designer gifts at Ducky’s while I wait. That’s where I saw Glovables. Beautiful, designer rubber gloves for house cleaning and doing whatever other activities one does while wearing rubber gloves.

I immediately wanted to buy a pair for my mother-in-law. My in-laws cross the Atlantic several times a year to visit us, and each time my mother-in-law brings her own rubber yellow gloves. Well, actually, she didn’t always bring her own. In the beginning she asked me for a pair. I was speechless. It had never dawned on me that this might be something to own in my household repertoire of cleaning supplies, and I most definitely had never, ever seen my own mother wear gloves made from anything other then cashmere, leather, or suede.

So now she visits with her own, well-traveled yellow rubber gloves. Even though I have weekly housecleaners, she arrives from a trans-Atlantic flight and cleans the bathroom wearing her yellow gloves. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that she must believe that her princely son and beloved grandchildren are doomed to live in squalor on my watch. My sister says that she would be thrilled if her mother-in-law came and started scrubbing her house. Good point.

Maybe she would be delighted if I left pink polka-dot rubber Glovables lying out for her? Or should I take the black leopard skin Glovables as a hostess gift when we visit in a week?  I’m partial to the ones with the ball fringe along the cuff. I think I’ll buy them for myself, and then just casually leave them “lying around” the next time they visit. “Oh these old things? I was just scrubbing the window screens before you got here . . . “

Closet Clean Out

Spent two hours last night trying on almost everything in my closet, and piling up decades old clothes for Goodwill.  Of course, the only reason to go to such extremes is to make room for all the new clothes just purchased three hours earlier.  Truth be told, I didn’t really need to try on most of the clothes I discarded.   I just had to hold them up, check the size, and toss them in the pile. 

Why did I still have clothes that were at least two sizes too small, and that I hadn’t worn in over ten years?  I’ve even moved house five times in the last ten years, and just kept moving these clothes with me. 

I suppose I never wanted to give up the idea that one day my post-babies body would look like it did when I was 27.  But if that fantasy day ever became a reality, would I really want to wear the same clothes I wore in 1996?  Fat chance.  I’m sure I would go shopping to celebrate.  So I donated my cool black pants that I can’t pull past my thighs, and the silvery sheer button down that now makes me feel like the Incredible Hulk.   I made  room for my larger sizes, in my closet and in my head.

A Day in My Life

At the request of the nice lady at Paper Napkin, I am documenting my life for one day. Don't get excited folks, this is nothing to write home about.

I would also like to preface this post by saying that this week at work is pretty slow. Since it is a holiday week, and because it is the middle of summer, I am between projects and not that busy. After re-reading the account of my day, I did not want y'all to get the wrong impression!

5:55 a.m.

We live in a pretty quite neighborhood. Since we are unincorporated San Mateo County, the parking restrictions are pretty nonexistant. A new neighbor moved in a couple months ago, and has a ton of cars. The new pain my neck is where they chose to park these cars. At 5:55am, I hear one of them park in front of my house. Not a good way to start the day.

Reflections of Stay-At-Home-Mom

I hope the title here isn’t misleading. It is not my intent to initiate another skirmish in the ongoing “Mommy Wars”; I don’t care to debate the issue of working mom vs. stay at home mom – in part, because I think that all moms are “working moms”, but more importantly because I think we’re all better off joining forces to fight common battles rather than turning on each other. But that’s beside the point. Instead, I merely mean to reflect on my first year of stay-at-home-motherhood. I have just reached the one year anniversary of my “retirement”. Do I have mixed feelings about leaving the workforce? No. Do I ever question my decision to stay at home with my daughter? No. Does that lack of ambivalence make me odd? Sometimes I feel like it does.

Don’t get me wrong. There are moments that I wish I was back in my cubicle – like the time that S reached into her diaper and smeared its contents all over my kitchen floor; or when she ran full-speed ahead into the corner of the bedroom door leaving her forehead with a nasty lump the size and shape of a golf ball. Hours of mind-numbing meetings looked downright festive at those particular instances. But these thoughts are short-lived. I actually did go back to work for about six months after S was born. I remember how tough life was when I was holding down two demanding full-time jobs – one at home and one in the office with sleep constituting my only “off” times. What’s worse is that I don’t think I was doing either job particularly well. These memories are what keep me from missing my career and fuel my respect for working moms who do manage to get through this juggling act with grace and sanity intact.

What seems to be foreign to others is that I have no plans to go back to work. I can’t begin to list all the times people have asked me when I’ll be going back to work as if it’s a matter of course. For me it’s not. I really like being at home with my daughter. I relish in the fact that I don’t have to answer to a boss (okay, well I guess that my daughter does count as my boss, but you know what I mean). I enjoy my role as CEO of my household, and I think I am pretty darn good at it. And yet, somehow I often feel as if I am missing some vital “super-mom” gene because I don’t dream about going back to work one day. Folks have outright asked me how I get my mental stimulation if I am just a stay-at-home-mom. Believe me, I recognize that raising small children doesn’t always provide the mental calisthenics that a “real” job does. This is why after the blissful honeymoon period of the first month of stay-at-home-motherhood, I commenced finding more ways to keep myself occupied than Elmo videos, Mommy and Me music classes, and the sandbox at the park. I’ve been volunteering and getting involved with my local mothers’ club; I am giving this blogging thing a try; and I’ve joined a book club. And truly, trying to find ways to enrich and stay one step ahead of a two-year-old can be mentally stimulating (as well as physically challenging!).

In looking back on this past year, I am completely satisfied with the choice that I made. I’ve gotten to spend so much valuable time with my daughter and see her grow in ways that I didn’t even anticipate. Equally important, this choice has allowed me more quality time with my husband. In all, this was the right decision for our family, and I feel lucky to have the option of doing this.  It doesn’t work for every family and not every family should take this approach. But, for us it works and it’s exactly what I want right now and for the foreseeable future. I am realistic: it’s completely possible that in a couple of years when my kid(s) start school, I am going to want to do something more to fill my time and stimulate my intellect. Perhaps at that point I’ll consider part-time work, or consulting, or getting more deeply involved in my volunteer efforts. I don’t know, and I don’t feel compelled to make those decisions at this point in time. For now, I am just enjoying my “retirement” without making any plans to return to work. Maybe in the Silicon Valley that makes me odd. You know what? That’s fine with me.

Happy Birthday USA - and thanks for the launch!

Today, NASA put a tent up right outside the Moffet Air Base so that NASA employees and the public could watch the space shuttle launch. A friend who works at NASA told us about it.

We got up today and wondered what to do. Hmmn. At 10 AM was a parade in Redwood City, 11:30 was the kid's parade in Menlo Park where you could ride your bike with the other kids, , and at ... lemme see ... 12:30 or so was the launch.

This is what we did. We had breakfast and hung out at home. At noon, my husband got into the shower. I did not harm him. I snarled a bit, and mentioned, using my family's patented "waspy clenched jaw" approach, that the shuttle was blasting off in THIRTY DAMN MINUTES AND HE BETTER HURRY.

He did. Shower finished at 12:15. My son and I were dressed, and we finally got dad out of there at about 12:20. I personally have lost years of my life because I married someone with this particular style of living life. Shall we say, on the edge?

We drove out and get onto the freeway. Yes, it's a freeway drive. Got there at exactly 12:30. Did I mention that the shuttle blastoff was at 12:38? But we didn't know that, actually. I think our interaction was: "Doesn't the shuttle blast off at 12:30? Honey, it's a blast-off. Those happen on TIME. We need to be there!" [insert chart of wife's blood pressure rising here]

Response:  "Nope, it's not 12:30. It's some other number."

Brilliant, huh?

Aargh.  The next forty years should be a real learning and growing experience.

But I digress.  We walked in, and ... it was perfect. It was a lovely tent. There were about 150 people there, maybe more. There was a curtained-off area that was full, where a real, live astronaut was talking with people, surrounded by three large screens. For the rest of us, there were about five more screens, all over the place. There was a really neato cool 10-foot long model of the space shuttle, which we pointed out to my squirmy son. There was a totally nifty real "insides area" of the space station, including the vaunted frog egg experiment which a profoundly didactic woman managed to explain to us at amazingly great length, considering the fact that we only had 7.5 minutes to blast off. My son interrupted her to tell her his version of reality, but I picked him up to go and look at mission control and the launch on TV.

So different from when I was a kid, but so similar. I remember watching this stuff on little tiny TV sets and now here it is on a big, six-foot screen. It's not funky little module now, either. It's a sleek, beautiful little airplaney-looking thing, that looks a lot like one of the Star Wars robots, if you consider the finish. I looked at my son. He seemed a bit nonplussed. Aren't little boys supposed to get stars in their eyes and try to salute or something when they are exposed to things like this? Important things? Cool things? Positive things that the whole country is proud of (rare though they are in today's nasty climate?)

Still, he fidgeted. Until suddenly he stopped and looked around him. "Twelve, Eleven, Ten ..." The whole building had begun to count down with the mission control man. This was little boy territory; why were the adults doing it? I pointed toward the screen, and we watched. It was a wonderful experience, being in a room with all of those people who were fans of our country and of what we'd made and what we were doing. And mommy's a bit of a softy. "Three, Two, One, and we have blast off."

He watched while the giant rockets left the earth, taking the beautiful little shuttle with them. And he listened while the entire crowd broke into loud, enthusiastic applause.

We live in the Silicon Valley, surrounded by "thing-makers."  The space shuttle is one of the coolest, highest-profile engineering projects around, and we thank the entire team for making it work. Wonderful to see such a great project in action.  Thank you for the tent, <a href="www.nasa.gov">NASA</a>.  It was way cool.

And happy birthday, America. May that shuttle of ours come down safely, and may our country traverse this difficult time and come out strong, and fair, good, and safe.

cross-posted on www.anachronisticmom.blogspot.com

The Wave

Let's bring back the wave.

No, not the audience wave that you do at a football game. I am talking about the wave that you do to folks as you drive by in your car.

Last week we were visiting family in Minnesota (another post, I promise you!) and with my in-laws, I had a lively discussion of this little bit of community acknowledgement.

In my cousin's hometown of Fargo, ND, folks wave to each other as they pass in their cars. In Randall, IA, where my husband's parents live, you wave to everyone as you cruise through the town of 180 residents. My aunt told me about a community where the waving is so automatic between the pedestrians and cars that the pedestrians do not even look up anymore, they just walk along, bringing their arms up like elephant trunks everytime a vehicle appears.

Why do I think we need to bring this back? Well, for some folks, I imagine it has never left, but here in Silicon Valley, we are more likely to use a different form of salute to a passing motorist. When someone waves to me, acknowledges me, it makes me feel like I belong to a community of people who care about each other, and less like another harried mom on the way to pick up her kids. It makes me feel as though California has a culture and depth that extends beyond the size of your house and which private school your kids go to. It makes me think about a time where there was still cherry and apricot trees on most corners, back doors were left unlocked and kids spent the summers running around the neighborhood with their groups of friends.

On this July 4th weekend, I would like to propose that we bring the wave back, in whatever form that works for you - the two fingers up from the steering wheel; the straight up palm ; the arm-out-the-rolled-down-window greeting; something of your own choosing. Wave to other parents with kids in the car. Wave to the friends who live down the street. Wave to someone who drives a car like yours. Wave to a stranger.

For the love of Mary!!!

This has got to be a Silicon Valley issue... appropriate for blog material...

I - can - not- find a carpernter / contractor...!!!!

All I need is a small pergola built over my deck. For shade. Wish that I had found the contractor / carpenter 3 weeks ago, when I began my search. It's 102 degress today.. (and will be for the next week)... shade would have been nice.

I had someone. We discussed, drew sketches, talked money and timing..... we had a start date.... 9 days ago. He still hasn't shown up. No calls, no explanation. I've called. Nothing.

So, I started my search again.

I have posted on craigslist... the end all, be all supplier of labor in this area (and now the nation and the world I believe). 1 reply.... a JERK who decided to reply that I 'must be a woman posting' since I said that references would be required. (I've had more than my share of fly by night, crappy workmanship, show up anywhere from 6-18 hours late .. regularly.. I'm tired of that. I need to know that they will be professional, or at least not insanely flakey)

I have submitted a request to www.reliableremodeler.com
From them, I received ONE lead. He was supposed to be here 90 minutes ago. Guess he's going to be a no show.

I have posted on my mothers club.

I've even posted in my neighborhood.

Nada.
Zip.
Zero.

It's so frustrating.

Are there no boy scouts who trained and got several badges in carpentry and woodworking? (5-10 years ago).

Are there no contractors' workers who want to have a small job on the weekend?

Are there no handy men and women who would like to do what is likely a 1 weekend or 2 weekend job.. and make some nice extra summertime cash?

Sigh.

There is such a dirth of good labor in this area... unless I'm willing to pay an hourly rate of $65-$85 ... is that really the 'rate'? If so, why aren't people quitting their jobs and becoming skilled laborers? They seem to make a huge amount of money and clearly there is no shortage of work.   Maybe it's NOT that hard to live out here money-wise. Maybe it's NOT as expensive and impossible out here as people complain. If it were, I'd think I could find people to take me up on this job.

Does anyone have a good crew that I can contact to build me a pergola? (the thingy that makes shade over a deck).

Help of the Domestic Variety

I'll begin by admitting that this is a VENTING entry. Venting usually comes when one is the most upset and most irritated. It might possibly be at the risk of overstating, or underestimating, or of absentmindedly saying the wrong thing. With that... I ask that you read in the 'spirit' of venting.

Here's my gripe: It is so hard to get good help.

I'm talking about help in the house, out of the house, hired help, temporary help and the like.

I think I'll begin by posing some ideas of why hard is so hard to find in the Silicon Valley, just to get this venting discussion going:

Sushi .... So Silicon Valley...

Last night, I told my husband... I'm too tired to cook, let's go out. His first choice would rarely be Japanese food, but sometimes, he's game. Hooray! I was able to convince him to go to sushi.

Our 2 year old son was delighted.... there is nary a food I can bring through my front door that he BEGS me for more than sushi. Yes.

My two year old son adores sushi like you cannot imagine! And... given that he eats few foods that aren't white (noodles, rice, crackers, toast, etc).... this is saying something.

So... perhaps you think he eats just the cucumer rolls. Or perhaps the tofu blocks from the miso soup?

Nope.

He reaches ACROSS THE TABLE and grabs the entire nigiri from my plate. Maguro, Hamachi, Sake, Albacore, ... it matters not. So long as it doens't have wasabi underneath... he will take the fish from the top, and put it in his mouth in the most methodical, efficient, taste buds BLOOMING way. His only problem is keeping his mouth closed as he is SMILING through it all.

People from other tables were laughing, gawking, engaging my husband and I with questions..... I know. But hey... all the kids in Japan and other fish-first countries around the world must be exactly the same.

It is just funny to see my 21 pound (I told you he was skinny, right?) 2+ year old blond haired, green eyed SUSHI MONSTER tucking into his food like this.

It just feels so California.... so, Silicon Valley.... that I felt I just had to post it here!

Give your couch a break..

Since we've moved here we've re-evaluated some of our habits and whatnot. Now that we have a child, we want to set a good example for her. Mainly through physical activity and nutrition. Don't get me wrong.. I'm not a vegan/fat-free/salt-free/taste-free kind of person. But we've changed our eating habits since moving here. We've also joined a gym and lost some weight. Between the two of us we've lost about 45lbs since March. People joked with us before we came here that we'd come back as tan vegetarians and we laughed it off.. but the truth is that in general people actually do seem healthier here. Or maybe it's just the availability of more healthy options. Either way you look at it.. yes, we've changed.

Exercise has gradually become more and more a part of our lives. Motivation, besides looking better and feeling better.. and being able to eat our cheat meals because lets face it.. sometimes you just want pizza or ice cream.. or whatever.. anyway..back to motivation.. It's having Grace grow up seeing us be active on a regular basis. So that she'll hopefully never know a time when she wasn't active or she didn't see us be active. Make sense?

For Mothers Day I got a bike. Chris has been into mountain biking, or was, before we met. Falling in love and getting married and having a baby kind of got in the way. But now he's back into that. I wanted something we could do together as a family that would also be good for us. So we also bought a cute little trailer thing to attach to the back of the bike so Grace can be comfy while we ride. So the past month has been spent trying that out. I hadn't been on a bike in years. You know what though? I love it. What a great way to get some exercise, get outside, and just...relax.. in a way. I live right off the Los Gatos Creek Trail so it takes me 1 minute to get to the trail. I love going out at dusk and feeling the cool breeze, listening to my iPod, seeing all the walkers/joggers/cyclists/etc... It's such a wonderful alternative to walking on a treadmill or a stairclimber. Not to mention that after a hard day of teething, or fits, or no-naps it's nice to be able to let Chris have some daddy/daughter time and jump on my bike and go for a ride by myself to unwind a little.

What I also love though is seeing so many people getting out there and getting some exercise. Especially families! I don't even mind when the kids don't stay on the right. And I've already mentioned how I feel about rule-following. I'm just that thrilled every time I see parents spending time with their kids that doesn't involve the Golden Arches or a television set. I do feel that it's okay for that stuff occasionally. Heck, I will most definitely admit to have the tv on from the moment Grace goes to sleep until the moment I go to sleep. I also admit to letting Grace watch lots of Baby Einstein, Boobah and Sesame Street. But I want her to be active in addition to that. It is a wonderful thing to see other families outside, exercising together. I could actually feel the statistics for childhood diabetes and obesity lowering..

Last Day Of School

O.K. so it's the last day of my daughter's kinder class, and I was so teary eyed and sad.  I could not believe that this was it.  My eldest child has changed and grown so much this year, and it just seems like a big teary eyed blur right now.  From the distance I could see the chairs being set up on the grass for the graduating 5th graders.  I started to cry some more.  I can't imagine ending elementary school and entering middle school.  Parents aren't even allowed on campus there.  At least in elementary school the parents are still tolerated, and there are quite a few kinder parents left hanging outside the kinder classrooms.  Well, as I left my daughter she gave me a smile, and then a look (like ok mom get over this quickly and don't embarrass me on the last day of class.....please).

New to California

I am new here. I have lived in Arizona for most of my life. With the exception of 3 years spent in a place where time stands still and spitoons are still legal in the work place. 3 years that I will never get back. That is okay though. That is, when I got back to Arizona it allowed me to be in the right place at the right time to meet my future husband. The rest of my life would spiral from there.

I got married to my geek nearly 4 years ago after a 2 year-courtship/living-in-sin/constant love-fest (or whatever you choose to call it). I never wanted to get married. Now here I am at the tender age of 28, married to my best friend. I also never wanted kids. Now here I am a mere two years after my biological clock went from the "off" switch to the "holy-mother-of-God-I-need-a-baby-now" switch, raising my best bud. Grace was born May 1, 2005. She's absolutely the light of my life.

I also find myself living in California. What? Whaaaaat? People live there? You mean it's not just a place you go to visit a giant mouse and see the ocean? Wow. People live, work, socialize, and exist here in California. Despite the insane cost-of-living. Despite having a Governor that is famous for his saying "I'll be back".

When Chris told me that he'd applied for a job with, well.. I'm not sure if I'm allowed to say it on here. Maybe there is some kind of stipulation that won't allow me to offer free advertising at all. We'll just call it "blahoo". They'll never be able to crack that code. Back to the story. He said "I've applied to ***** but I'll never get it". A week later it was "I'm going to interview with *****, but they'll never offer me the job". A week later it was "I've been offered the job with *****, but we won't be able to afford to live there on what they'll offer me" and the next day it was "I'd like to take that job with ***** anyway, is that okay with you?"

Okay? Okay??? Lets leave all our friends and family behind, not to mention the cushion of owning property in a very lucrative real estate market (at the moment) and move to a place where I didn't even realize people actually lived in..until just now. How can you say no to a person who has been offered a dream job in a dream field. That would be like me turning down an internship with Alton Brown from the food network. I couldn't do it. Chris wouldn't expect me to turn something like that down. So I wouldn't do that to him.

So, 6 months later. Here we are. Grace, Chris and I (plus a dog and cat).. In California. Silicon Valley to be specific. The verdict? This is the best thing that has ever happened to us. To our family. I love living here. Things seemed to have slowed down. I drive less, I eat less, I exercise more and spend more time outdoors. Which is easy because right now (June 10, 2006) it's about 115 degrees in Phoenix. I am so glad to be part of this community. I can't wait to raise my family here.

My Heart Just Dropped.... and then came back!

The decision to go back to work part time was not made in haste.  I have always LOVED working, my daughters are now ages 4 and 6, I missed that collaborative interaction with other adults and most importantly, IT WAS JUST TIME!

I found a great babysitter that was flexible with our ever changing schedules. Over the past month, everything has been working just fine and nifty.  That was, until today when I went into a four hour meeting and left my cell phone in the car.  I came back to my desk, checked my cell phone voicemail using my work phone and heard that dreaded "You have 16 messages".  My heart dropped... I never have more than 2 or 3 messages on my cell phone.  ... all I could do was panic! 

This morning, I left a message for our babysitter that J. (my older daughter) needs to be picked up at a friends home instead of school - she was going on a playdate before she would head to gymnastics.  On this message, I gave her the address (not the phone number) and said that pickup was at 2:00pm since our friend had to take her children to a doctor's appointment following the playdate.  (It was critical that J. was picked up on time).  Our babysitter confirmed that she received the address and time.  Ok....phew....

What happened?  Our babysitter wrote down the WRONG address and erased the message I left earlier today.  Starting at noon, our babysitter kept calling my cell phone asking for the correct address.  At 2:00pm my friend left me a message saying "Where is your babysitter?  We need to leave and she is not here....".  Before I had time to listen to the remaining messages (which told me that everything is alright and my babysitter found their house and picked up J.), I went into severe panic mode as my new co-workers saw my oh so ever unpleasant side and melt down.

All I could imagine is that J. did not get picked up, my friend is FURIOUS at me since she had to drag J. with her to the doctor, J. now missed gymnastics, I am an awful mother for not ensuring her pickup, why wasn't my phone in my purse, why did I accidently leave my cell phone in the car.... why is my heart racing... why did I GO BACK TO WORK PART TIME?????  As my heart is racing a million beats per second, I had to dig around my desk, find my personal phone list and try to unravel where to find my daughter and missing babysitter.... I was absolutely out of my mind and couldn't believe that I was so neglectful ..... why was I so neglectful you may ask?

• I forgot to give my babysitter my work number (duh!!!)
• I forgot to give my babysitter all my friends numbers (duh!! duh!!)
• I forgot to give my babysitter my husband's cell number (duh! duh! duh!)
• I never really thought there would be an emergency - I am the forever optimist.... and haven't given her their doctor's number.  (what an idiot!!)
• How did I neglect all the bullet's above????? 

The Irony:  A few weeks before I started work, I went to Target and purchased a beautiful white board and two gorgeous cork boards that I could tack on phone numbers and contact info.  Do you think that maybe it is the right time to fill in that emergency contact info?  Uh... YES!!!!

Balancing work, home life, parenting, chores, paying the bills, gardening, cleaning the house, exercising, making meals, packing lunch, driving the kids to karate and gymnastic classes, feeding the cat, making the beds, blogging.  I am just way out my league. Fortunately, everything turned out fine.... but I am still shaken up by my own stupidity, even if it was just for a few minutes of 'panic time'.

On soccer moms and minivans

There were two things I swore I would never do once I became a mother.  The first was, I would never own a minivan.  The second was, I would never be a soccer mom. 

The first resolution died once the twins were born and we became a family of five, with three kids under 3.  Not too many cars will fit three bulky carseats side-by-side (besides, where would grandma sit?), and I just could not see myself folding down seats to get to the third row of an SUV, four or more times a day.  So I weepingly said goodbye to my beloved X5 and drove sullenly to the Toyota dealer.  My husband has embraced the minivan lifestyle and can't imagine life without it.  Truth be told, I can't either, but I still mourn for the days when I drove a cooler car.  Ture, the Sienna Limited with AWD has all the bells and whistles that Toyota could fit into a minivan, but it's still a mommymobile nonetheless. 

On to the soccer-mommy phobia.  A "soccer mom" to me was a tried-and-true cliche of suburbia, basically someone who used to have a life before having kids.  A quick search online reveals the following results:

From dictionary.com:
An American mother living in the suburbs whose time is often spent transporting her children from one athletic activity or event to another.

From merriam-webster online dictionary:
a typically suburban mother who accompanies her children to their soccer games and is considered as part of a significant voting bloc or demographic group   

From wikipedia.com:
......in the term may carry pejorative connotations, where the soccer mom may denote a woman who is aloof and has little responsibility or occupation, other than providing basic transportation for her children. In feminist circles, the soccer mom may refer to a woman who has given up on a promising and successful career, particularly after having some early aspirations and achievements.

My visions of soccer moms involved a harassed-looking woman in a minivan with 3 kids, who can be heard giving criticism/instructions to her child/the coach, and giving other parents the evil eye when the coach praised their kids instead of hers.  But after 10 weeks of Natalie's soccer lessons, I have to say that it's not so bad after all.  In my case, I do drive a minivan, and I do have 3 kids with me.  But that's as far as the stereotype goes.

First of all, nobody's life is over.  My fellow soccer moms are all fascinating, intelligent women in their own right.   Aside from being mothers, we are lawyers, doctors, entrepreneurs, volunteers, bloggers, runners.  We have lives and identities apart from our children.  Second, nobody shouts at the coach or at other parents.  We cheer everybody's kids, not just our own.  We pay just as much attention to each other as we do to the kids on the soccer field.  Only half of our conversations involve our children.  And by the way, we've got just as many dads as moms.

Actually, we've turned soccer lessons into an event.  Someone brings a blanket, someone orders pizza, and after lessons are over, we all chow down.  One memorable day, someone brought mint juleps (I don't think we watched much of the kids' game!).  It's as much fun for the grownups as it is for the kids.  It has become a gathering of friends, something my kids and I look forward to every week. 

This is my last week as a soccer mom, for a while at least.  Natalie's last class is on Friday and we're gone for half the summer.  Given the number of afterschool activity options once school starts, I probably won't be a soccer mom again until the twins start taking lessons.  If it's going to be anything like this experience, sign me up, baby!  Me and my bourbon flask are waiting. 

Oh the Pace of our Lives here

Other than those who live in New York or London, I don't know anywhere where people are as busy, as programmed and has hectic as we are here IN THE SUBURBS. We don't even live in a city.
We live in the suburbs, in principle, to have a more bucolic life. I'm not sure we're succeeding.

How is it that this is the case?

I even have a child who naps like a champion, three hours per day, and sleeps very well at night.... and I still find myself busy busy. Actually, epiphany here as I'm typing, maybe it's because my child sleeps as much as he does, that I am trying to compact into the activities of our day and our family into few daylight, waking hours. Hmmm. Nope, I'm not going to wake my child ... I'll let him sleep. I'm not crazy.

We only attend one scheduled class a week, and my child isn't even in school.... the rest of the time, we just have a fairly basic life, .... it's the laundry, the grocery shopping, the cleaning up, tidying up the garden, and then doing all the right things.... reading plenty of books to our kids, making sure they get to go to the park a few times a week, an outing to the swimming pool......

All of these take packing, unpacking, finding, sorting, cleaning.... I guess that just eats up the day.

How do you make it simpler?

How can our days just seem more quiet, carefree, and 'childlike'.

How can I make it feel easy, breazy and vacation-like?

After all, it's the beginning of summer.

Leaving The Valley

One of the hardest things about living in Silicon Valley is watching your friends leave. The high price of purchasing a 'starter home', being a transplant from another part of the country or just from another country, this area is simply transient for many, many families. I understand wanting to be close to your family members when they are from another area. It is a treat for my daughters to have their grandparents and aunt/uncle.cousins just a few milesaway - But what about the families that would like to remain in Silicon Valley How can many of them afford to purchase a home for at least a million dollars and basically have to tear it down (and then spend another one million to rebuild)? For a whopping two million dollars, you can find a home that is at least habitable, but you won't really have much land - and by the way, you need to completely remodel! For two and half million.... well, you will find something decent - maybe.

My daughter made a really close friend in Kindergarten this year, YJ. YJ's parents are from Korea and have always planned on returning to their home country at the end of the school year. J. spent Friday night sleeping over YJ's house and then yesterday they spent a good part of the day playing and swimming. She wants to savor every moment she can with her pal. Last night she asked me about visiting YJ once she moves half way around the planet.

Can we drive to Korea and visit YJ?

Mommy: No honey, we would need to fly to Korea

J: Is it the same as a plane trip to Disneyland?

Mommy: No, it would take around 14 hours.

J: Oh, is that long? Like the time we spend in Kindergarten each day?

Mommy: No, it would take a little more than half a day

J: Oh, that is long. Do you think that YJ's parents would let her live with us? I can share my trundle bed and she can play with all my toys. I would even give her E's room (E. is J's younger sister). Actually, I have a better idea - why don't they take E. to Korea and we can keep YJ? I am willing to trade.

Ah, from the mouth of my Kinder.

Conversation Over Sushi

Tonight I took the girls and my 'gay' cousin out for Sushi.  My cousin B. has just moved to Silicon Valley from Dallas,Texas.  Yes, B. is gay, Jewish and survived George Bush territory while attending nursing school in the heart of Texas - what an oxymoron!

Over sushi, the following conversation took place with Cousin B. and my daughters E. and J.

B.  Girls, why don't you eat up!  Sushi will make you big, strong and help your hair grow.

E.  But cousin B. you are bald and you are eating sushi?  Oh.... your hair is invisible!

J.  Cousin B., maybe your hair will grow like our fairy, Iris.  (Iris is a wind-chime that is hanging outside of our house.  She has long beautiful hair).

E.  Cousin B. is a fairy!  Cousin B. is a fairy!

.....if she only knew......

Welcome to California Cousin B.  Fairy or no fairy, bald or with long, blond curly hair, we love you!!!

Have a Heart People

As many of you know - - I love to scan the newspapers, and share tid bits with you all.  Of course, we all should be reaching into our pockets and hearts to help the survivors of the Indonesion quake. ( If you have been on a news fast, almost 6000 people are already dead.) I am hopeful that the mom community will once again step up and help others in need.

On a  much lighter note... a call has gone out to stop the Brittney bashing. Brittney Spears has been all over the media, and a topic of many blog posts. Moms appear to feel that enough is enough.   One website claims that seventy five percent believe that the media has gone to far in its portrayal of Brittney as Mommy Dearest.  The media always goes to far. Brittney has really made some awful and dangereous choices. However, I do  feel a twinge of guilt judging another mother.  Moms should stand together-- this is of course ,the toughest job on earth.

When I had my first son, almost eleven years ago, I knew what was best for him, and all others. I was a judgemental parent. I could never imagine not attachment parenting, using a nanny, or ever eating non organic foods. Only woooden toys and classical music for my firstborn. Then I grew up, and grew wiser. Who am I to ever judge a mother's choices ??? Four kids, and two nannies later, I am on a different place in my parenting path. I am confident that I will never really be confident in any choices that I make. I will always question myself. Being responsible for four little lives is a challenge. ( I do not plan to drive with any of them in my lap to escape the paparazzi., that seems like a risky choice to make. ) By nature we humans are judgemental.
The  parenting world is one that is filled with unknowns-- despite the myriad of books that claim to have the answers.  I have learned one thing over the years, and that is to try not to judge.  Trust me, I can be a catty, snarky ( ooh, I have always wanted to use that in a blog post) bitch.  But in my heart, I know that all Moms are just doing the best that they can.

So please do not judge me. I am currently in the kitchen ignoring my sick daughter's pleas for a bagel.  I would not want to see a photo of my daughter, and the un -toasted bagels all over the blogosphere. " Selfish  Blogging Mom Lets Daughter Starve . " Give another mom a break today. Spread the love.

Wanted: a child-free vacation

I've just arrived from a 2-day vacation with a girlfriend and my two sisters.  We picked my sister up from SFO on Saturday morning and headed straight up to Napa Valley.  We feasted on delicious wine truffles from Anette's Chocolates in Napa and indulged in a mudbath and facial at the Calistoga Oasis Spa.  By some stroke of luck, we were able to sample some lovely fine wines at a small family-owned winery that normally conducts tastings only by appointment.  We shopped until closing time at the Napa Premium Outlets.  And we stayed up past midnight, laughing and talking.  Yes, the kids and the husbands played a big part in our conversations.  Yes, we did phone home several times during the trip to make sure everything was alright.  But it was a child-free trip, and I must say that was probably the best thing about it.

Two days was definitely not enough! I've read enough parenting magazines, mommy blogs and moms club postings to know that it's perfectly acceptable, even encouraged, to spend some time away from your children.  I sooooooo needed this break.  I don't even feel guilty about wanting to spend more time away from my kids.

I haven't had a sleepover since I was in high school.  I've never had a mudbath or a facial. Ever.  And I had never been away from my kids for more than a day.  Ever.  But after this weekend, the dam has broken loose -- I'm suddenly craving all these things.   I want to get facials from all the nearby day spas to see which one is the best.  And we're already talking about what we want to do for next years' trip.  Now I'm dreaming up all kinds of adult-only getaways -- particularly the kind that also involve my husband. 

Lack of nearby family and lack of babysitting funds have limited our kid-free couple time to evenings or, at most, 9-to-5 outings.  But now we have a trip to England coming up to visit my husband's family.  My husband and I plan to dump, er, leave the kids with my in-laws and hop on the Eurostar to spend a couple of days in Paris.  So I ask you, if you had two days to spend in the most romantic city in the world, what would you do?  What cafes, nightclubs, hotspots?  Anything where anyone under 18 would not be allowed?  Tell me your fantasy, and I'll make it my reality!

Tid Bits To Share

I just could not resist sneaking in a holiday posting. I know it is a holiday weekend, and I should not be blogging, but rather spending quality time with the family.  Oh well.  Here I am, and here are two tidbits from the Sunday papers that I just had to share.  Envy me, I got to read my Sunday papers with coffee and a bagel this morning. Thought I 'd share some things that may or may not interest you.

I am starting to think we need "The Mom News Network," a service that would summarize top stories that we as parents might care about.  Clear concise stories on issues that effect us (no need to hear what Britney Spears latest parenting mishap was).  I am an admitted news addict.  If I could be plugged into CNN, attached to Anderson Cooper 24/7, I would be a happy woman (especially the attached to A.C. part).  I have had to give up a lot of news viewing, as my kids are old enough to understand what the reporters are saying. I learned that the hard way after 9/11. The real world can scare the pants off of a kid. How often do you miss some major world event while driving between schools...God bless NPR.  I am able to keep abreast of issues while doing pick ups and drop offs.  How do you keep up with whats happening in your world?

Well, it is Sunday, so I get the NY Times.  All the news that's fit to print -- and smudge.  Love it.This is my time to catch up on all world events.But it was  The New York Times Magazine story "Can Bloggers Get Real" that caught my eye this morning.  There will be a convention next week of over 1,000 liberal bloggers (oh, let this be a good sign for 2008).  This will be the first ever mass meeting of the bloggers who are supposedly transforming American politics.  Being called the "Yearly Kos," bloggers from the Daily Kos will be gathering together with top Democratic politicians to discuss -- well, hopefully to figure out -- how to take back America (Gina Cooper is the woman being credited for putting this together -- girl power!).  Good to see that bloggers are doing their part to try to make make our world a better place (we already know that women bloggers are busy doing this).

Also in the New York Times today was a style section feature entitled, "I Confess: One theme, 30 writers, a Trend."  This article by Charlie McGrath is not about our SV Mom's Blog, Mommy Bloggers, or any of the other great group blogs you may read on a daily basis (or should read on a daily basis).  The article is about a new wave of anthologies out there that may as well have been blogs.  According to McGrath, the anthologies that are most popular push mommy hot buttons (breastfeeding, daycare, etc.).  The topics of these anthologies are  exactly the topics that our "mommy blogs" touch upon regularly.  What could be more controversial?  Seriously, look no further than your favorite collaborative blog -- no need to buy the books. Chick lit -- hooray, girl power again.  I seem to be a feminist tonight. 

Have a good Memorial Day weekend.  Hope that you find some time to read some mom blogs.  And check out some sales.

Partying in the streets of San Francisco

Yesterday was the 2006 Bay to Breakers race.  B2B is the longest consecutively running footrace in the world, a San Francisco tradition.  Every year, about 80,000 people walk/run/party the 12k (7.46 mile) course.  Many are in costume and many wear nothing whatsoever.  This is my 4th B2B; the last time I ran was in 2002.   2003 passed by (too busy), then 2004 (too exhausted) and 2005 (too disorganized).  By 2006 I had run out of excuses, so I recruited my friend and avid racewalker, the Divine Ms. B.  Since we walked most of the course instead of running it like I had in previous years, I had plenty of time to relax, observe, and really enjoy what was going on around me:

Pre-race (6:30AM - 7:59AM):  Here I am, runner #31495, waiting for the starting gun and raring to go.  People are warming up, chatting, tossing beach balls and tortillas into the crowd.  My daughter wished me luck last night with "I hope you win, mama!".  No chance of that.

Mile 1 (8:17 AM):  Finally!  I can't believe it's taken us 17 minutes just to get to the official starting line.  The road is already slippery from all the flying tortillas that have landed on the ground.  A group of about 20 people get a good laugh -- they're dressed as salmon, and they're running in the opposite direction to everyone else. 

Mile 2 (9:00 AM):  The seeded runners have long since finished, and we're just starting up the Hayes Street Hill.   I can't believe we are going so slowly.  We pass a group of naked people and I can't resist having my picture taken with them.  Farther up, we run into Thing 1 and Thing 2 from Dr. Seuss's Cat in the Hat.  Ms. B approaches them like a starstruck fan and has her picture taken with them to show her daughters.

Mile 3:  There's a little more space now, and we can finally quicken our strides.  The sun is out and we are starting to break a sweat.  People on the sidewalks and in buildings are partying and cheering us on.  We look up and see a half-naked Elvis partying away on a balcony.

Mile 4:  We slow down to get another drink at one of the official stations, but the volunteers have run out of cups.  A bit further on, we pass a church.  Services are over, and congregation members have set up their own little water stand.  We gratefully gulp down several cupfuls -- bless them!

Mile 5 (9:58 AM): I bid goodbye to B and I'm off and running, weaving in and out among the walkers.  The course starts to go downhill, the sun is shining, and I feel great.  I should have started running at mile 4, not 5.  Even more naked people, with yellow hats that say Bare to Breakers. 

Mile 6:  Here come the cameras!  Loudspeakers instruct us to show our race numbers and wave and smile.  More naked people, a couple of Elvis guys and some guys in suits with giant umbrellas, but serious runners like me have no time to gawk at these people.

Mile 7:  Another photo op, but this time I'm too tired to smile for the camera.  My legs feel like lead and I really want to stop and walk.  I'm bored, too -- these 2 miles have seemed longer than the first 5 because B isn't here chatting with me.  I should have started running at mile 6, not 5. 

Mile 7.5 (10:22AM):  Ahh,  The Finish Line!  I ran the last 2.46 miles in about 24 minutes, which is just under 6 mph.  I'm pleased about my willpower and proud of myself for not stopping.

Post-race (10:23AM - now):  My race is over, but my B2B experience isn't, not quite yet.  I turn around to look for B, camera in hand to capture her crossing the finish line.  As I wait, I study the people arriving.  Three blind mice, girls in bikinis, a naked and barefoot man, and ordinary people like you and me.  All of them happy and proud, with that same look of satisfaction, achievement and enjoyment on their faces.  Here comes B, running triumphantly.  We did it! 

We pose for yet another photo, this time with Britney Spears and K-Fed impersonators, complete with a baby doll with a bloody forehead.   On the way home, my butt and thighs are aching, but I'm already thinking about downloading the photos into the computer, digitally covering up the naughty bits, and sending them to my family. 

As the Tshirt says, I survived Bay to Breakers.  See you next year!

One last dig...

Dand then on to more positive thoughts, I promise!

I posted my last entry minutes before M (my husband), C (my one year old daughter) and I headed out to the beach for the afternoon. Anyone who has ever taken highway 17 to get anywhere knows that the traffic gives you lots of time to chat. On that day it was a good thing because within minutes I got the distinct feeling that M was annoyed about something. A little prying later("come on, just tell me, you know I won't give up...") he opened up. It seems that my post had touched a nerve.

M was born and raised right here in Silicon Valley. He felt that my post was one big disparaging rant about his hometown. I tried patiently to explain that I was too happy here and no I didn't hate it here, there were just some aspects of SV life that I had to come to grips with before really being able to accept it as my home. As we delved further we came to some interesting conclusions that I would like to share with you. However, before I do this, please bear in mind that we are in our very late twenties (so late in fact that one of us might not be in her twenties anymore in a month or two...). We live here by the grace of my in laws who are kindly paying our mortgage and putting M through law school. And we have a one year old daughter who has the youngest parents of all the kids in her daycare.

It would seem that all of my insecurities and feelings about the Bay Area arise from the fact that I feel inferior to the people I see and interact with on a daily basis. (Hey look! It's high school all over again!)

We discussed the fact that the Bay Area is different from anywhere else we've lived (Boston, NY, Paris, France) in it's total absence of a visible middle class. It seems sometimes that people here are either very affluent or very working class. It might be the fact that our lives keep propelling us into social circles of people better off than we are, but we can't seem to find more than a handful of people on the same social/financial rung of life that we are clinging to. Over the last five years many of the people we have met who could relate to have moved away because they just couldn't make ends meet here. This means that whenever we go to a social event, be it synagogue organized or secular, we know that we will be meeting people who have more money than we do. It's hard not to feel unsettled by that.

We discussed the fact that we are really young parents by Bay Area standards. Last year my OBGYN never stopped reminding me that I was the first pregnant patient under 30 that she'd had in the last TEN years. This means that whatever parenting class or playgroup that I attend is filled with moms who have accomplished and experienced more than I have. This makes it hard not to feel like the young sister just tagging along because mom said she had to.

We discussed the fact that we sometimes feel like impostors. We don't really have enough money to live here. We aren't really old enough to be Bay Area parents. We aren't as well read or educated as many people here. This makes it hard to be ourselves when we meet new people.

Now that I know why I feel like such an outsider I think that I can work to get over it. I can't believe that no one else feels intimidated by the Bay Area inhabitants. I'm sure that as I get to know more people I'll see that, just like in high school, everyone feels like they are somewhere on the fringe of the group. Now that I know what my insecurities are I know I can come to grips with them and start to call the Bay Area home.

At the end of our discussion M and I realized that although we often feel like we don't quite measure up, and although, if we stay here, it's doubtful that we'll be able to become financially independent anytime in the next couple of years, we wouldn't want to live anywhere else.

Go figure! we must be intellectual snobs. I mean, where else can you constantly come into contact with so many well read, well traveled and intellectually stimulating people without having to live in a major city!

Is there an "I" in twin?

I have always wondered how identical twins can be, well, not identical.  After all, they used to be just one egg, so they ought to be carbon copies, right?  Wrong!  Identical twins do have identical DNA but somehow (due to differences in placental environment) they develop differently.  So their fingerprints, though similar, are actually different.

To most people, my twins are like peas in a pod, but I'm finding differences all the time.  Some are more obvious -- the mole (Philip),  the allergies and eczema (Philip), the birthmark (James) the tufty hair (James).   Some are so subtle that I can't even say what the differences are (something about their chins and their hairlines?).  Even so, Graham and I confuse them regularly.  One memorable night, Graham put them in the wrong cribs and could not understand why they were screaming so indignantly.  He only found out when Natalie came in and told him, "You've put Philip in James' bed".

Since Philip and James already look so much alike, I usually dress them differently.  But I secretly envy the mothers of boy-girl twins, or fraternal twins, or "Irish twins" (i.e. siblings born 18, 15, 13, etc.. months apart).  They get to buy matching outfits, down to the shoes and hair ribbons, and people think, "Aw, how cute!".  When I do it, my friends groan, "It's hard enough to tell them apart when you dress them differently!".  So, sometimes I succumb to temptation.  Individuality be damned, they look so cute when they are dressed alike!  (One time we did this for a birthday party, and some parents thought that we had only 1 very mobile son, until Philip and James ended up in the same room together.)  But most of the time, they are dressed differently, so at least people can take note of who is wearing what.   I tell them, when in doubt, Philip is usually in green and James in blue.  Sometimes I put name tags on them.  When they start school, I plan to paint their names on their shirts.  And still people get confused.

What, I wonder, does that do to their sense of self?  When they look in a mirror, how do they know who they are seeing?  However did they manage to learn what "I" and "you" meant?  I worry about how other children will be able to tell them apart at school, and whether this confusion will make it more difficult to make friends (who did I just play ball with?).  Maybe I'm just being paranoid.  Not being a twin, I guess I'll never know for sure.  And short of giving them tattoos, I guess I'll just have to accept that people will always mistake one for the other, and they will get used to it, they will manage fine, they might even enjoy it.

All of Motherhood...

Many years ago, I was struggling to figure out if my first child was actually trying to wean, or trying to keep nursing, or if it was really just my attachment holding him on.  My boss at the time was a sage woman from the Upper East Side who had raised three children before writing biographies about pioneering women (who were mothers, and mothers who were writers) from the 20th Century.  She told me very simply, "all of motherhood is weaning."  Year after year, in ways small and large, her words have come back to me again and again. 
Last weekend I visited the Open Studio of another mother I truly admire, who also raised three boys to adulthood while pursuing a career as a painter and teacher.  As a mother, painter, writer and thinker, she always seems to me the essence of creativity, and always in full bloom.  In her studio, we chatted with another friend (poet, physicist AND seamstress--I'm telling you this place was bursting with creativity) who was deleriously attached to her beautiful 21-month-old daughter, but delighted to get away for a break.  When I mentioned my old boss, "All of motherhood...", the Painter said "Did you read the poem on my studio doors?"  I hadn't, because the studio doors were rolled open, parting the poem in two.  She led us out, closed the doors (temporarily trapping another visitor inside), and showed us the poem that a former Stegner Fellow at Stanford, Jen Richter, had written for her, and, at her request, had penned in bold, hand-written letters on the threshold of her creative space.  The Painter had told the Poet that, because she is entirely right handed except for painting, which she does exclusively with her left, she had named her hands accordingly: Intention and Revelation.  Also, her current paintings are all done on a thick type of paper used in house construction.  The Poet, naturally, saw a poem.  I offer it to you as a celebration on Mother's Day, because each of us knows the struggle and joy of creativity, release, and reflection.

She Names Her Hands
for Lea

She paints on paper meant to hold a home

together, rolls unscrolled to twice her height.

All winter she’s sketched pinecones, pinecones---

the hand she calls Intention is her right;

she keeps it at her side---keeps thinking seed

dispersal, all her children scattered, grown.

What mothers know of nature is release;

I’ve taught the last of mine to walk alone.

The female cone’s a show of growth exposed

so science calls the pine a Naked Seed.

I cry to her; she says I know, I know,

we have to back away from what we’ve made.

She reaches for me, takes me to her chest,

calls Revelation everything that’s left.

---Jen Richter

How do you make it 'home'?

When I first learned about the Silicon Valley Moms Blog I was really interested in joining, but it got me to thinking about how living here defines me as a mom and as a person.
I don't really consider myself a 'Silicon Valley Mom', just 'a mom who happens to live in Silicon Valley'. I think I would be the same mother no matter where I lived. My values would be the same. C's toys would be the same and, I truly think that, no matter where we lived, my relationship to her would be the same. Granted, she's only one. When she's older and more influenced by where we live and who she goes to school with things might be different!

My feelings about this might stem from the fact that I, myself, don't feel different because I live in Silicon Valley. I grew up in Paris, France. I went to international schools and was exposed to people from different walks of life from a very young age. I have always been around educated and well traveled people. I have always taken cultural diversity for granted. The downside to this is that I've experienced globalization first hand, and, for all that we want to think that the San Francisco Bay Area is different from the rest of the world, it really isn't. We may be at the forefront of technological advances, but next year everyone in Paris will also be sporting an iPod Nano, and maybe even a better European model!It might be because over the years I have lived in three different countries and over 6 different cities, but I can't seem to get attached to this area. I met my husband in Boston and, after spending a short year there, dragged him back to Paris with me so I could finish my Masters. We moved her