AMANDATORY READING

MORNING MISSONI MADNESS

2011-09-13T19:42:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'll admit it. About a week ago, I heard about the "Missoni for Target" line making it's debut today, September 13th. A google or two later, I was fully acquainted with the official look book and pretty certain that I wanted those zigzag rainboots for my five year-old daughter. So I typed in a little reminder in my iPhone and forgot about it. Then last night, I heard the ding of my alarm and there it was in bright, bold Helvetica staring back at me -- Target Sale Starts. I looked down at my screen in embarrassment. Who puts a Target sale on their calendar? I felt lame and super suburban but apparently not enough to skip my local Target after dropoff at 8:30 am.

The jam packed parking lot was my first clue that most people didn't need a reminder about this day. As it turns out, it was lame to write it on a calendar. Most of these women had the date memorized. In fact, my dirty, little secret was neither little, nor secret. But dirty? Oh, yes. This was a major event with serious players who had all intentions of getting down and dirty.

I walked in the doors and immediately saw the pretty and polished display rack topped with fancy lettering and chic floral patterns. The signage was screaming, Missoni in the house. Only it wasn't. The rack was completely stripped, albeit for a lone hanger and dangling hook. It was the same thing in women's clothing, the kids department, housewares and bedding. The shelves were disheveled. It looked like the place had been ransacked. So where was the merchandise?

This is where the story takes a turn for the worse.

In contrast to the lonely shelves lining the store was a mass of loud, rude, pushy, greedy, they-give-women-a-bad-name crowd. As for the merchandise? It was with them.

Without uttering a word myself, I began to gather information about what went down. Most of these women (and yes a few men) had proudly waited outside at dawn for the chance to be among the first to grab their mix and match Missoni wear. When the doors opened, they came, didn't need to see, just conquered. They grabbed everything off the shelves, piling their multiple carts with anything, any size Missoni. Only after hoarding what they could, did they go through their booty to choose what they wanted. As for what they didn't want...it wasn't going back. Oh no. It became a means to barter for other items.

There were serious trades going down--a floppy hat for two scarves and an umbrella. A throw blanket for a shower curtain. This was not done quietly. Women were yelling out their goods, wheeling and dealing as if this was the New York Stock Exchange. Luggage was king. Like scalpers at a concert, I was approached by whispering strangers asking if I had a traditional spinner roller bag (whatever that is). Then every so often amidst the frenzy, a fight broke out. "Did you just take that from my cart?" "That bitch stole my toddler poncho." Grown women were dropping the f-bomb at other women and I witnessed an actual tug-of-war between two soccer moms over a canvas tote.

It wasn't just women. There was a mom with her three teenage daughters, bragging about them missing school for Missoni. They took photos with their mounds of stuff and called the morning a bonding experience. There were also men. Specifically, there were two burly looking guys with four carts filled to the brim with kids clothing in multiple patterns and sizes. They had no qualms sharing their excitement about going to put everything up on ebay for triple the price. (By the way, I looked and they did.)

You can imagine what a fun morning it was for the Target team members. They were berated and yelled at for not being able to stop the stealing from one cart to another. They were blamed for having sold out in five minutes and they were physically pushed aside by eye-on-the-prize shoppers who would let nothing and no one get in their way. With a smile and an eye-roll or two, they each took it for the team.

At one point, I saw a huge line form at the rear of the store. Fully engaged in the human experiment before me, I followed the crowd. "What are we waiting for?" I asked the woman in front of me who had just told her friend she grabbed baby girl gear because one day she would have a grandkid and it likely could be a girl. The not-yet-expecting grandma excitedly informed me that there were a few more housewares items available and if I waited in line, I could receive two items. "Which two items?" I asked. She looked at me perplexed. Does it matter? It was Missoni. Who cares if I like it or if she likes it? It's Missoni and the price is right. I watched as the long line of people waiting to get their two items not of their choice elbowed their way to the front and then gripped their loot tightly beaming with pride at having such luck.

When it was simply too much to take, I started filling my basket with that other stuff that Target sells--Lysol wipes, Coke Zero, toothpaste. Back to the real world or so I thought. But then there was Tori Spelling with a friendly entourage walking the aisles. Could this day get any more surreal? Yep. Next came a booming voice from the Missoni masses sounding off for all (Tori included) to hear, "What is Tori Spelling doing here? Like she doesn't have enough!"

I wanted to say either...

a. Takes one to know one.
b. Don't you know...stars,they're just like us.
c. Maybe she's taking invenTori

But I was scared. These women were frightening. This scene was insane. I wanted absolutely no part of this. So I checked out and ran for the exit with my head held high.

Then I immediately called my friend and had her go on the website and buy me the zigzag rainboots before they sold out.

Amanda Has Honestly Updated Her Status

2011-02-01T13:39:00.000-08:00

I love scrolling down my Facebook page and seeing all the beautiful, smiling faces of my friends' children. I truly enjoy hearing about their accomplishments, successes and special moments. I browse through the enviable family vacation snapshots, birthday parties and celebrated milestones. Such joy. Such happiness. Such fun.

Such a complete disconnect from what’s really going on in my own family. Maybe it’s just everyone putting their best feet forward or maybe they are truly experiencing parenthood as bliss. I don’t know. But I do know that if I’m telling the truth, most of my days are not chock full o’ bliss with my children. For example, after my daughter chucked her bagel at me in the garage this morning because it did not have the precise amount of toasting she wanted, I wasn’t feeling all warm and fuzzy. No bliss today. Yesterday, when I stepped on the same Lego I had asked my son to put away for a week, it felt completely blissless. And really, I don’t have high hopes for happy happy tomorrow considering it’s my son’s first orthodontist appointment.

So here are my updated statuses, if you will. My truth for the moment.

My daughter is in a major tantrum phase. They are everyday and can last for up to two hours. She has been known to hit, bite and on many occassions tell me she would like to go live at her grandmother’s house.

My son has been in speech therapy, eye therapy and educational therapy. Sometimes it’s overwhelming.

My daughter won’t wear anything but leggings.

My son pukes when he is over-tired.

My daughter still has potty accidents.

My son is not great at sports but is a super star at trash talkin’.

I yell too much.

My son has a fruit roll-up everyday.

My daughter survives on pizza.

My son can’t read Harry Potter. It’s way too advanced for him.

My daughter knows all the words to Katy Perry’s, “ California Gurls.”

My son still struggles with tying his shoes.

My daughter comes in our bed almost every single night and we’re too tired to deal with it.

My son would watch TV all day, everyday if we allowed it.

I dread washing my daughter’s long hair.

My son has never met an item for sale he didn’t want.

My daughter hates dance class. No tu-tus. No tights. No recitals.

My daughter and son fight incessantly.

I hate making lunches.

This is the truth. The truth is also that in between all the tantrums, whining, homework, activities and fighting, there are glimpses of bliss, of love and of all the everyday highs and very lows being worthwhile. Still, we’ve never taken a family photo with everyone looking the same direction, let alone looking good and certainly not while on a fabulous vacation where everyone got along. So, don’t ever expect that picture to pop up on my profile.

Author's note: It's been a bad few weeks but the best thing about parenthood is that it's always dynamic. I know this too shall pass.

BEAUTIFUL

2011-01-10T13:24:00.000-08:00

I always wondered when it would happen. Would there be warning signs? Would I see it coming? And when it came, would there be an exact moment or would it be gradual? How would I know the invasion had begun? Well, it has. I knew it instantly. The clock read 8:02 pm last night. This was the moment my daughter's notion of beauty revealed itself to have been hijacked seamlessly by them. You know who they are--the perfect alliance of the media, the peer group and the constant chatter by well-meaning grown-ups (this mommy included) who have themselves been taken as prisoners of the beauty war long ago. My daughter is four.

"I'm not beautiful," my unbelievably beautiful (okay, I'm her mother but still) said, seemingly, out of nowhere. "Of course you are beautiful," I responded instinctively and completely without thought or meaning. "No I'm not," she repeated. I paused. I call this the parent pause and I highly recommend it for those moments when a child says something that you know must be coming from somewhere and it's your job to find out where without blowing this instance of guidance your child is clearly seeking. No pressure.

I collected my thoughts and did my best to push my own beauty baggage out of the way (no easy feat). Then I asked her what beautiful meant. She stared back at me blankly. This is my girl who proudly carries a Buzz Lightyear lunchbox to school instead of the more popular princess variety, who dresses as Woody (specifically not Jesse) for all costume events and who never allows me to put a ribbon or barrette (sometimes not even a brush) in her hair. I wanted to be certain what beauty meant to this girl before I entangled her in my own definition. So, I tried again, "Who is beautiful to you?" Suddenly, the lights went on and she began to talk about a few girls in her class, mentioning what they wear and how they do their hair.

Here was my chance. I knew it would have to be a careful balancing act so that she left the conversation feeling okay with wanting to dress up and be girlie but also knowing that beauty comes from within. I started to sweat. Then, I asked her if she would like to maybe change some things about the way she dresses for school. Her face lit up like a marquee. I could tell she was feeling understood. Point, Mom.

We perused Old Navy on the net and I let her pick out four new items. She felt very proud of her choices. We went in her room and I showed her many options already existing in her wardrobe that had been forcefully pushed aside by the girl of yester, well, day. She let me brush her hair (yes Grandma, you read that right!) Next, she looked up at me with those--I have to say--beautiful eyes of hers and asked, "Do you think you can do a French braid?" "Of course," I promised rather naively. I realize now I should have also promised her a trip to the moon because after two hours spent on the internet practicing on Toy Story Barbie, I now realize French braiding is right up there with rocket science but I digress...

After the fun was had, I laid in bed with my sweet girl and tried my darnedest not to overwhelm her with my definitions of beauty. Even I realized she was probably a little young for a bedtime story by Naomi Wolf. All in good time. But I did explain to her that while compliments are nice, they don't make you feel beautiful. Only she can make herself feel beautiful. We talked about taking care of the outside beauty with healthy eating, exercise and clothes that make you feel happy. I assured her that it was okay that she cared about what she looked like and that it was, in fact, fun to be a girl. And THEN, of course, I went into great detail about inner beauty--probably giving too many examples, using way too many over-her-head metaphors and too much jargon. But she asked!

So night one of the beauty battle passed and we, as mother and daughter survived. Today, I dropped my girl off at school in her carefully planned out ensemble and then ran into the market to grab a coffee. On my way out, I scanned the magazines and all the headlines seemed to shout out at me..."Lose Weight," "How She Kept It Off," "Diets of the Stars," etc...

It's going be war!

Where was I?

2010-06-16T22:29:00.000-07:00

June 10, 2010

I grew up privileged. I am an American Jewish woman who had the privilege of never truly experiencing prejudice due to religion. I have spent most of my life on the west coast surrounded by other Jewish people. Where I live, Target carries Hannukah decorations. The public schools are closed on Yom Kippur and the Coffee Bean sells challah on Shabbat. Israel is a destination vacation. This has always been my Jewish existence...except for the one week I spent in Poland as part of The March of the Living, an educational program that brings students up close and personal with the Polish remnants of the Holocaust, culminating in a silent march from the notorious concentration camp, Auschwitz to Birkenau.

It was there at Auschwitz that I stood on the railroad tracks and felt my body tremble. The Holocaust had always been this horrible nightmare I'd read about in history books and Elie Wiesel's profound writing. I'd met survivors and seen the tattooed numbers on their arms. But nothing prepared me for the real thing. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Why them? Why not me? How was I lucky enough to be born years later in America? As we walked from Auschwitz to Birkenau, I made a promise to myself and to them, those not as lucky, the souls I could feel surrounding me without a voice. I promised to be a voice for them. I promised to raise my children Jewish and give them a voice. I promised to Never Forget so that this would Never Happen Again.

I returned from that trip and began devouring all literature and film I could find on WW II. I remember becoming so angry that there was knowledge of the concentration camps in the U.S. long before anybody did anything about it. In typical Monday morning quarterback fashion, I judged my grandparents harshly. Why didn't they do anything? Didn't they notice the growing antisemitism?

Of course, as time passed, these thoughts and my March of the Living memories became less and less in the forefront of my mind. But in the last few weeks, hey have returned, louder than ever. I don't want my children to ever look back and wonder where I was when the world turned on Israel and the Jewish people. I made a promise and I intend to keep it. We need voices to express outrage at what is currently going on in the world. It has become clear to me lately that the liberal media will not be that voice. President Obama will not be that voice. And, sadly, the assimilated Jewish mainstream will not be that voice.

I find it hard to believe that I had to turn to Glenn Beck to hear shouts of anger and rage regarding the "freedom" flotilla incident. It was only on his show that I heard the first communications between the Israeli Navy and the "peace" fighters. When the Navy identities themselves and indicates that the boat is approaching a blockade, a voice responds, "Shut up. Go back to Auschwitz and then continues, "We're helping Arabs going against the U.S. Don't forget 9/11, guys." We all know what happens next...or do we? It recently came out that Reuters had cropped one of the most-seen images of the event. It shows a bloodied Israeli soldier lying on the ground surrounded by "peace activists." However, in the original photograph, one of the "activists" is holding a bloodied knife. Not quite sure what editorial reason they came up with for the blatant omission. Hard to believe this is Reuters--not Al Jazeera.

Then there's legendary White House correspondent Helen Thomas and her comments that the Jews are occupying Palestine and should return to their homes in Germany and Poland. Fortunately, she resigned, but apparently that was unnecessary. Just ask the women of The View. Whoopi Goldberg dismissed Thomas' comments as horrible and hurtful but wondered about a country that takes away a person's right to make a living because of something he/she says. I guess Whoopi and the gals never heard of consequences. Thomas is a reporter covering the White House. I believe the fact that she does not acknowledge the existence of Israel might make her just a little unable to do her job of unbiased reporting. But, hey that's just me. Many others feel differently like the man who wrote a letter to the Washington Post suggesting Thomas' comments simply made her "human" and then compared her "blunder" to the umpire who cost Detroit pitcher Armando Galarraga his perfect game last week. Yes, really!

The point of all of this is that I get it. My life of privilege has come to an end. I am no longer asleep. I am awake and vow to make good on my promise. I will not sit quietly waiting around for things to get better. I've seen what happens when we're too late.

The Helicopter Has Landed

2010-06-16T22:27:00.000-07:00

May 27, 2010

I don't consider myself a helicopter parent (does anyone actually?) but I have been known to hover a little too long on occasion. There are some areas where, as a parent, I've learned that my children actually do need an extra push, a bit more help, or even a personal cheerleader. But there are many areas where they do not need to be handled with such care. On their own, without Mommy, Daddy or even the security of a friend, they can be just fine. Actually, they thrive. This is something I have known about in theory for years but a lesson I recently learned from experience at, of all places, the baseball field (yes, the same one I moan and bitch about all the time).

Because my son is not a natural athlete, I am guilty of attempting to micromanage his sporting experiences. I worry that if he gets a coach he doesn't know or a team without a familiar face, he'll...well, I do not know what I think might happen but I definitely fear for him to have to step out of his comfort box. Now, I suppose, I also consider my own comfort box.

This season, my son's previous coach (a good family friend) and I broke a little league rule. My son is age-wise on the cusp of two divisions. The coach and I discussed my son, his abilities, his confidence level, etc... and decided it would be great if he could stay one more season in the lower age range. The coach suggested this to the baseball powers-that-be and, well, that's when the trouble started. Apparently, those powers really like their power and don't appreciate being told anything. To make a long story short, they eventually granted our wish but made it clear they would NOT be putting my son with any of his friends or on a team with a previous coach. We were clearly being punished--banished, if you will, to the much-whispered about "mean" coach who used to be in the military. Any time someone mentions this coach (someone who doesn't know him), it's as if his last name is "used to be in the military."

The first team meeting was, in fact, a bit intimidating. We are used to the friendly, neighborhood dads who admittedly coddle the boys and cancel practice if, say, Laker tickets happen to appear. Coach Jack* was different. He was serious about baseball and the boys' commitment to the team, serious about punctuality, preparedness and practice. He wanted the boys to be better. He wanted to win (okay, so we're not supposed to keep score but still...). And, he wanted the boys to work hard and feel proud of their personal and collective achievements.

I left the meeting a little nervous. I didn't really know any one on the team and I wasn't used to such discipline. But, I did not say a word to my son. Instead, I suited him up per my instructions and got him to practice with time to spare. Within the first hour, I saw my little guy working harder AND having more fun than I ever have in any sport. He was listening, learning and laughing with his newfound friends. I also learned in that first hour that Coach Jack was a stay-at-home-dad who devoted his life to his four sons, coaching everything for each one. He was a cancer survivor with a zest for life and tons of heart and passion. He wasn't mean, but he was different from the dads in my crowd.

The season was truly special for my son. He got hits, even two home runs and attempted to run to the ball, rather than away from it. He learned the value of practice. He truly improved. And his team became a force to be reckoned with on the field. There was definitely a little too much yelling for my liking and a bit too much intensity, but there was plenty of encouragement for all the boys, no matter what level. There was comraderie and pride. Most of all, there was a lot of good times.

Yesterday, one of those powers-that-need-to-be came up to me and asked with a wink, "How did your season go with Coach Jack? I smiled and surpised myself when I said and meant, "Fantastic. Thanks for putting us with such a great coach."

These days, win or lose, every kid gets a trophy. My son has a shelf full of them. But now, he has one that he truly earned.

I might even have to fight for Coach Jack next year. Then again, maybe I'll just stay out of it! This helicopter has landed...for now.

The Way I See It

2010-06-16T22:24:00.000-07:00

May 05, 2010

Vision therapy. Ever heard of it? I hadn't until twelve weeks ago when it became yet another piece of my mothering journey.

But first a little history. My husband was diagnosed with dyslexia after years of struggling with reading and writing. He was a freshman at an Ivy League college at the time of his diagnosis which made for some frustrating and stressful school years. My mother-in-law remembers doing some sort of eye exercises as a child and still hates to read. I was very aware of these things when my son was born.

My son sees a wonderful and highly-regarded educational therapist semi-regularly and I've pretty much been asking her if he is dyslexic since the first visit at 2 1/2. For years, she's kindly ignored me explaining that there is no way to tell at such a young age because many young children transpose letters, have trouble tracking words on a page and, well, don't like to read. I knew this was true but I also knew in my gut that his eyes were holding him back--not the sole cause of some of his learning difficulties but a piece of the puzzle.

Finally, with my son almost 7, we went to an educational optometrist (did you even know they exist?) for testing. And that's when my new journey began--a journey of research, instinct and ultimately, trust. Even before entering the office, the controversy began. It seems vision therapy is a hot button in the parenting world. One quick Google was all it took to unleash a firestorm of naysayers dismissing the therapy as a waste of time and money. I heard it from friends, colleagues and my pediatrician (more on that later). But I decided to trust my own mother inner voice and take my son to the top guy in town. In the waiting room, I met incredible mothers who had driven over 50 miles for their children's weekly sessions. They were all kind, articulate and passionate about this doctor and this therapy.

When it came time for our appointment, I sat in on the one hour testing and was truly amazed. I saw very clearly that my son struggled immensely with tracking words and numbers across a page. He lost his place as frequently as I lose my keys. He had difficulty distinguishing patterns and could not stay focused while following even a pen light. The doctor took me through a series of diagnosis which I won't bore you with but it was very clear that the eyes were not working effectively together (commonly referred to as convergence issues). He recommended 30 sessions at which point we would be done with vision therapy. Apparently, once you retrain the eye, it doesn't go back. If only all therapies were like that! But I digress...

To vision therapy or not to vision therapy? That was now the question. It's expensive and not usually covered by insurance. It's time consuming with a one hour weekly visit and half hour home exercises daily. And there's no guarantee it works. While debating the topic, my husband and I were bombarded with a chorus of nos, most notably from our pediatrician who actually chuckled at the idea, insisting that the American Academy of Pediatrics found no scientific evidence to claim that academic abilities can be improved with treatments that are based on visual training. She further dismissed my point that I wasn't looking for better grades, but rather less frustration and straining on the part of my son. When I asked her if she had any patients that had found success with vision therapy, she simply could not recall. I left that appointment pretty disappointed. Luckily, I wasn't a first time mom, new to the game of parenting anxiety. So, I made some calls to people I trust, educators and child advocates to gain more information. Then, I took to the mommy blogs to hear what those in the trenches had to say. And, finally, I used my mommy experience, wisdom and instinct to make my own decision.

Yesterday, my son was tested after completing his first ten sessions. On one test, he jumped from the 16th percent to the 75th percent. On another test, he went from the level of a 4 year old to a 7 and 10 year old. The improvements were staggering. Then again, I didn't really need the doctor or the tests to show me what I've seen with my own eyes. My son is more focused. He gets his reading/writing homework down in twenty minutes, down from an hour and a half. And he reads willingly every night with excitement and confidence.

Is he fixed? Of course not. Is vision therapy right for everyone and every diagnosis? No way. But as mother's day nears, I can't help but think, sometimes moms really do know best!

Snack Attack

2010-06-16T22:23:00.000-07:00

April 21, 2010

When it comes to Jamie Oliver and his food revolution, I am so in. In case you missed it, the so-called Naked Chef is leading the fight against childhood obesity, specifically by taking to task the American school system for the crap they serve in the cafeteria labeled as nutrition. He has already changed the way Brits serve up students and now he's come stateside to do the same. Sign me up.

I am astonished at what passes for fruits (ketchup) and vegetables (french fries) in school lunches. I am sickened at the thought of children eating pizza for breakfast and vending machine Cheetos for snacks. I am not a vegan/granola girl (although I see nothing wrong with that) but I do try and eat healthy and TRY to help my kids do the same. We eat hot dogs but they are made of lean turkey. We eat chickenless nuggets (don't knock 'em 'till you try 'em), baked chips and lots of fruit (still working on veggies). We also eat pizza, ice cream and donuts but in moderation--and not for breakfast.

I live in a suburb of Los Angeles where eating healthy is truly a way of life made very easy with ready-packed fresh produce available everywhere at reasonable prices. The beautiful weather makes it so kids can play outdoors year round. And the Hollywood adjacent thing means that fortysomething women out here live and look as if they are keeping up with the Kardashians. Every mom I know uses her precious free time to get in some sort of daily workout be it running, Bar Method, pilates, yoga, spinning, or time with a personal trainer. Lululemon active wear is practically a uniform around here. These moms are the picture of healthy living but for some reason, it's a very different picture when the moms show up at the baseball field.

Which brings me to the snack shack at my son's much ballyhooed baseball park. Despite its location, smack dab in the middle of the place we bring kids to exercise, it is truly a crap shack -- a beacon of unhealthy eating. The most popular items include blue or coca-cola slushies, hamburgers and hot dogs on white buns, churros, sour-patch kids, nachos, blue or yellow Powerade, corn nuts, drumstick ice cream cones and my personal favorite, Fritos covered in thick straight-from-the-can chilli with sprinkled cheese on top. Nestled among the fields, as the sole food provider, this calorie-packed cafe is a cash cow feeding the players and their schelpped-along siblings who return over and over again to feed their boredom.

I had the "opportunity" to volunteer in the shack this weekend and was literally sick to my stomach at the sight of children downing sodas and candy before 11 a.m. Moms, drinking non-fat lattes in skinny jeans, opened their wallets generously to stuff their kids with junk. And then came back for more.

I'm a mom so I am all too familiar with not wanting your child to feel like the odd man out. Of course I let my kid get a snack after playing a two hour game. But I try to teach him what exactly he's putting in his body and, honestly, does anyone even know what's in a blue slushie? How can we, as parents, allow snack shacks like this to exist without alternative choices? I realize cost is an issue and it's much more expensive to have fresh food but there are small changes that can easily be made. How about apple slices with string cheese? Turkey dogs? Veggie burgers? 100 cal packs? Almond trail mix?

After Jamie's done with school cafeterias, I say it's time he heads to the ballpark. We are way past three strikes. Snack shack revolution anyone?

I'm Hanging Up

2010-06-16T22:21:00.000-07:00

April 02, 2010

Yesterday in the car, my almost-four-year-old little girl and I were playing the "you're so silly game." It's pretty straightforward. I say, "You're so silly because you like to wear your converse with dresses," or "You're so silly because you won't eat jelly with your peanut butter." You get it. So we were going back and forth fast and furious like a good tennis match until she brought the rally to a dead stop. "Mommy," she giggled, "You are the silliest mom ever because you talk on the phone too long. Always on the phone. Too much, Mommy!" My instincts went into immediate defensive mode. I do not. I am not always on the phone, looking at my phone, texting, talking, typing. I am not. That is so completely UNtrue. I mean, there is not a morsel of reality in that statement. NO! NO!

And then I took a deep breath and admitted, she had hit it right on the nose. What I haven't been able to admit to Oprah by joining in her no car phone and texting revolution, I better be able to admit to my daughter and, well, my self. Uh-oh, I do have a problem and it's not silly at all.
Now I realize it's cliche to say I am a mom and I use my iPhone too much (I'm a mommy blogger too so apparently I'm into cliches!), but cliches are just that for a reason--they are more often than not, true. We all know that our kids are more likely to do as we do than do as we say. How can I strongly limit my son's DS and Wii playing while banging on my own mini-keyboard? I get that he is playing games while I am, for the most part, on the phone scheduling dentist appointments, taking a conference call or figuring out the logistics of the next playdate. BUT, there are also plenty of times I am out with one of my kids and the phone rings. I look down to see it is one of my most-fun-to-gab-with-girls and I pick up. Why? Can't the call wait until I get home? Do I really need to chat aimlessly at that very moment? Or do I truly need to reply to an email the second after it comes into my account? NO, I don't.
The other night my husband and I went out to dinner for our one night of the week sans children. There was about a 30 minute wait for a table so we went outside to sit on a bench underneath the beautiful night sky. There were others waiting nearby. It is not an exaggeration to say that every single one of the couples or groups had at least one phone out. Everyone was glued to their little devices. There wasn't much conversing or connecting going on and I realized, we have all become so afraid of dead air, of doing nothing, or god forbid of waiting with nothing to do to distract us from doing nothing. We don't know what to do with ourselves if we're not surfing the net, facebooking or playing with our of-the-moment app. I can't be the only one who recognizes this. My little girl is a pretty smart cookie. She obviously gets it too. I'm betting your little ones are just as bright.

And this doesn't even address what they think or take in when they watch us talk, text or type in the car. I have tried to cut it all off like Oprah wants us to pledge as part of her No Phone Zone, but I won't lie, it's been harder than I thought. Out of necessity, I do need to sometimes make calls in the car because due to my carpooling schedule I am often in my car for three hours a day. But there are plenty of other times, I do not need to be on the phone and I never need or should type or text in the car especially if some day I want to lecture my then sixteen-year-old driver about the dangers of doing such things while operating a motor vehicle. How can I stress this as a life or death situation if I'm not treating it as such? Sometimes, I'll notice myself glancing at my emails when I come to a red light for no other reason than I've grown accustomed to never doing nothing! That is not something I am okay teaching my children.

Enough is enough. This is one cliche I want to shed. I embrace the convenience my iPhone has brought into my life but it's time for me to be in control of it and not let it take control of me.

Great Expectations

2010-06-16T22:19:00.000-07:00

September 01, 2009

Yesterday, I was driving in the car with my college roommate who is visiting from New York. Now that we both have two kids, it is very rare for us to have an adult moment to talk about something other than tantrums, preschools or the latest "friend" from college to have surfaced on F-book. There's not much time for substance. So I was taken aback when she sighed heavily and said, "I am not the mother I expected to be." It was so honest, so vulnerable, so relatable. And I knew exactly what she meant. Her comment stayed with me all day like a bad headache that just wouldn't go away. At first, I felt sad. Then I tried to figure out where it all seemed to go wrong for me. Why wasn't I able to be the mom who rarely lost her cool? When did I start having to yell just to get us all out of the house in the morning? Why were there so many times I just wanted to walk out of the house and be alone without anyone tugging at my clothes or asking me repetitive questions? I thought about all of this for a long time and actually came up with an answer. It happened when I went from one to two.

I am not saying everything was happy and perfect with a single child. I was sleep deprived, impatient and often a nervous nellie. But as my son grew out of the baby stage, I was, in fact, almost the kind of mother I imagined or wanted to be. I hosted tons of playdates and planned lots of fun-filled museum/park/beach days. I read all the time with my son snuggled in his bed day and night. We cooked together. We played board games and worked on puzzles. We spent hours making train tracks and then testing them out with our coveted battery-charged Percy. Most of all, we laughed a lot. And when we weren't together, I had time for myself either working or reading or even seeing a movie by myself (my ultimate luxury). I even had time for my husband and my eyebrows were always waxed.

But being double teamed has certainly rocked my world. Time is at a premium. I hate that I don't have the same amount of energy and time that I did when I only had one. I feel like my family is always rushing. Getting the three of us ready in the morning puts me in a sweat. The car rides are now filled with shouting and fighting and phone calls because it's the only time I can actually make appointments or call people back. We are heavily scheduled with activities (which I limit to one per child). With practices and games and birthday parties, it feels like we are on a treadmill.

I love my youngest more than I thought possible. She's my only daughter and I relish our time alone because it is so infrequent and so different than with my son. I am happy I made the choice to have siblings as that is one of the most valuable and enjoyable relationships in my own life. And I glimpse that with my two every so often between the fighting when my son takes my daughter's hand and helps her climb something at the park or puts his underwear on his head in the hopes of making her giggle.

When I am one on one with either child, I feel like I'm doing okay. I can see the vision I once had of myself as a mother and I'm pretty close to the image. But when it's two on one, I feel like I am short-changing both of them. I can't fully help my son with his reading. I can't play dollhouse with believable interest and energy. So, I end up feeling torn, frustrated and ultimately, not at all like the mother I thought I would be.

I know the supportive mothers out there will say that I have to drop the great expectations of the mother I imagined and re-imagine myself in the reality that is my life. I tell myself that some days. But I also know I can do better. I can raise my voice less, not care about the legos all over the floor and feed the damn guinea pig without reminding my children that it's supposed to be their job. Basically, I can loosen up. But I'm still not sure that would be enough to bring me back to the joyful mother of one-child past.

I often wonder about the moms who seem to do just fine with being outnumbered. I've seen you at the grocery store, the park and in the carpool line. What goes on in the witching hours of your homes? Of course, I like to think there are meltdowns and tantrums. But maybe not. At the risk of being vulnerable and checking my ego at the keyboard, I'll admit I'd love advice. How do you do it with two? (I know a lot of you do it with more than two but I know my limits...)

I want to bring the laughter back into my house especially before the invasion of homework next week.

ONE DIVIDED BY TWO

2010-06-16T22:15:00.001-07:00

March 07, 2010

My first born is the typical first born. He's needy, used to getting a lot of attention and admittedly a bit catered to by the family. He's also not typical in that in addition to all the regular trappings of being the first child around for everyone to dote on, he also actually has some extra challenges that create a need for mom and dad's attention and focus. Early on, it was his delayed speech and eye contact which took us to the speech therapist. Then, there was the search for the perfect school which took us out of our public school system and into an amazing, yet pricey, private school. Now, educational therapy and vision therapy are regular weekly appointments with at-home homework. It's a long journey but I have become a pretty good traveler--that is until now.

My second born is no longer a small baby or toddler with only basic needs. She's a burgeoning person with her own wants and desires. I want to be there for her but some days, it feels like there are literally not enough hours in the day. We wake up at 6, are out of the house by 7:15 for our 40 minute drive to school. My daughter, bless her heart, schleps with us despite the fact that her pre-school (ten minutes from our house) doesn't start until 9 am. I pick up my little girl at 1 and usually squeeze in one quick activity for her like a trip to Starbucks for chocolate milk and then we are off to pick up her big brother at school. She naps in the car for an hour and wakes to find her alone time done and gone for the day. We are either off to therapy for her brother or back home for homework which is a long and often draining process in our home. Sometimes, my daughter will sit and do artwork while I help my son with his work. Sometimes she gets to go play with her cousins. And, sometimes, grandma takes her for the afternoon. Then, it's dinner, bath and therapy exercises for her brother. Of course, she gets some bedtime stories of her own but then I have to go practice reading with her brother. She waits for me, often falling asleep before I get back to snuggle. That's her day full of his needs. (And let's not even discuss the days I have my own work to add to this mix).

I feel completely torn. I love my son with every being in my body and never feel like I'm doing enough for him. I also adore my daughter and and feel like she never gets enough Mommy time, not to mention extra-curricular activities of her own. I wonder if someday she is going to sit in her own therapist's office, complaining that she was always on the short end of things in her family. It's not her fault that she's so damn competent and independent.

I realize I only have two children and am so very fortunate that my son's challenges are completely surmountable. I know there are families out there with three, four and five kids (not to mention the Jon and Kate's of the world) who deal with much more severe health and well-being issues and undoubtedly more chaos. But I think the feeling is similar for all moms. How can I be everything I want to be for each child?

My daughter is almost ready for Kindergarten and I want more than anything to send her to the same wonderful school her brother attends but realistically, it may not be financially possible. Everyone around me says, "He needs to be there. She'll do fine anywhere." This is true but not fair. I know, I know, life is not fair. But isn't my little girl too young to have to learn that lesson?

TRASH TALK

2010-06-16T22:13:00.000-07:00

February 11, 2010

I thought I was being sneaky. I was certain I hadn't left any clues behind--no trace of my motherly wrongdoings. But last night, I was totally and completely busted by my 6 1/2 year-old son. He went over to the trash can in an attempt to clean up after himself and throw away his dirty napkin (an unusual happenstance in and of itself) and then I heard a shriek. "Mom," he screamed as if he had uncovered a dead body. But no...it was perhaps, worse. He pulled out his latest art project brought home from school earlier in the day. "My person is in the trash. How did they happen," he questioned. Um...well...I paused, panicked and then lied through my clenched teeth. "I have no idea." I pulled out his construction paper person, fortunately unscathed, albeit a tiny bit damp. "It's okay," I told my tearful son. "It will dry and be perfect." After a series of hugs and a bag of cookies, he had calmed down but still wanted answers. "I just don't understand how my person could have fallen in the trash," he whined, "I worked so hard on him." I took my lying to a new low and blamed it POSSIBLY on the housekeeper who, by the way, hadn't been to my house the whole week. I didn't know what else to do. I had been caught in my constant struggle of what to do with all the stuff that my wonderful, talented (of course) children bring home daily.
In the early days, I saved EVERYTHING including the projects that were definitely done 100% by the teachers. I labeled each piece of art and put it in a box for safekeeping but then one box turned to two which turned to three and then, oh yeah, we had another child. The house was overflowing with finger painted pictures and popsicle stick figures. I tried to do that thing all the parenting magazines suggest--cutting out parts of projects and then making a collage at the end of the year. I wish I had a better excuse for why this didn't work but basically, it just didn't. Maybe I was lazy? Maybe I didn't like the idea of cutting up the work? I don't know but I definitely failed on that assignment.

So, I decided to be a bit more selective in my art collection. I went through my older son's boxes and got rid of the projects that just didn't hold up the test of time. I started boxes for my daughter with milestone projects. And, well, I began throwing away a lot of the stuff that made it's way home. I am careful. I do it when they are not home. I always cover up the trash with other pieces of garbage (well, except last night but otherwise always). I even recycle in my own way. The art-of-the-moment almost always has a showing on the playroom walls. But then it takes a trip to either the trash or memory box so I can cycle in the more current projects. I really thought I had the whole thing down pat. I thought I had outsmarted the little people of my home.

But now, my kids are on edge. They watch their projects with hawk eyes, following them through the life cycle of our house. Which ones make it to the playroom? Which ones are in their boxes? And now, they want to know what happened to the unaccounted for Hannukah project from Kindergarten and that abstract sculpture from camp. It's startling what these kids remember.

So much for my New Year's resolution to follow Oprah guru, Peter Walsh, in his quest to declutter the world.

Stop Celebrity Marriage (and Mockery)

2010-06-16T22:09:00.000-07:00

January 25, 2010

Okay so I know ABC's The Bachelor is 14 seasons old and it's no surprise to anyone that it's often scripted, manipulated and (Trista and Ryan withstanding), always ends unhappily ever after. I hadn't watched in, like, six years but my friends were way amped for this season with recent castoff, Jake Pavelka, in the starring role. So, I turned it on ready to witness the usual fairytale fiction masquarading as reality. But let me say, this is a whole other bag of crazy. I mean...this show,this guy and these girls (and I do mean girls) are so much more pathetic and immature than I ever remembered. Not to mention perkier and way hotter.

In the first week, Jake is one hundred percent certain that his soulmate is in the fresh batch of babes cooked up for him by the casting agents who no doubt have Jake's best interest in mind. And every girl there is positive that she is the ONE for Jake. Without meeting him, each one can already tell that he would be the perfect husband and father. Bunjee jumping off a bridge in tandem, watching a private concert together and helicoptering over the Pacific Ocean only confirms their genuine feelings (Imagine that!). The girls want Jake to REALLY know them so they all seem to feel obliged to unload all of their relationship baggage complete with tears in the first five minute meet, greet and tongue-wrestle session. Oh, well, there was that one girl who wouldn't kiss but had no problem going in for the lip lock, asking Jake how bad he wanted it and then pulling away because being a tease is apparently a lot more dignified than a slut. But apparently not a winning strategy. She's already gone.

Lighten up! I know. I hear ya that I'm supposed to be watching the cute boy from Texas and his harem as escapism TV. My friends keep encouraging me to kick back and enjoy Jake's rock-hard abs and cheesey one-liners as the guilty pleasure they are meant to be. But I can't. In this particular time when there is so much discussion about marriage and so much judgement about upholding the sanctity of the institution, I find the mockery on this particular show unbelievably offensive. I think people should be a lot less worried about gay marriage between two committed people who have known each other for years and worry a lot more about the message sent by idiotic women vying for a diamond ring on a game show where marriage is the grand prize gained by flirting, canoodling and fawning.

I've always thought we should ban celebrity marriage for the careless way the paparazzi set enters and exits the altar. Kate Hudson seems to introduce her child to a new man on like the first date. Khloe Kardashian and Lamar Odom got married exactly one month after they met before KK even got to meet Odom's children from a previously failed relationship. Then there's Charlie Sheen, Tiger, Britney and the list goes on and on and on.

It's no wonder that these reality wanna-be celebs have such a warped view of what to look for in a potential marriage partner. They are looking up to the one group that single-handedly doesn't get what it takes to make a marriage successful. The Hollywood celebrity culture has somehow convinced the Bachelor beauties that being on a television show with one guy and a bunch of women auditioning for the role of wife is a legitimate way to find long-lasting love and commitment. As a woman, wife, mother and avid TV watcher (albeit just off the coveted 18-34 demo), I can't stand by quietly and watch the farce unfold.

But, alas, the show will go on. The giddy girls will keep applauding every time Jake enters the room (don't all wives do that?) Jake will continue his multiple make-out sessions because you gotta try on the merchandise before you buy it. The would-be couples will find themselves constantly in awe of the things they have in common like wanting a best friend as a spouse and hoping to procreate one day (talk about compatible!) And the ratings will climb higher than Jake's wings of love.

I, for one, will not be watching. If I want to see real love, I'll turn to Friday Night Lights and watch the scripted, fictitious couple, Coach Eric and Tami Taylor (Kyle Chandler, with guilty pleasure abs, and Connie Britton). They are more realistic than any couple I've ever seen portrayed on "reality TV" and they are fun and entertaining to watch.

And while I'll be out fighting for gay marriage, I just also might try to gain support for an initiative to ban the unholiest of marriages--celebrity unions.

My Husband Does Not Look Like the Man I Married

2010-06-16T22:07:00.000-07:00

January 08, 2010

I've known my husband since we were both 19-years-old. He was a cute guy with beautiful eyes, a sweet face and a just-needed-a-woman's-touch sense of style. But now, everything has changed. My cute guy is getting older. His hair is peppered with gray. He wears little rimless glasses. And his body just isn't what it used to be. I'm almost embarrassed when we go out because...he's never looked better.

Forty pounds lighter with a new and way improved body, my once chunky-around-the-middle hubby is no more. Now, he's a sexy, thirtysomething with the wisdom of age and the body of youth. I thought he was supposed to be getting bald and fat by now. I used to be the healthy one in the relationship who always worked out and kind of liked that I was in better shape than my guy. But now, he's Mr. Tight Abs and I'm still the same 'ol (okay, older) me.

Oh, sure, it was exciting at first to see my other half slimmed down to a college-guy size. It was delightful watching him buy clothes with ease and wonderful to witness him feeling good about himself. But then, he sorta stopped being fun. No more late night Ben & Jerry's pints to share. No more fries to steal off his plate (I haven't ordered fries in 19 years). And no more iced blended coffee drinks EVER! Even he was feeling a little deprived so he started running.

My husband doesn't do anything half-assed. His morning jogs turned into half-day runs. Before I knew it, ten miles was a quickie. He ran a half-marathon. Then a marathon. Then another. And there I was cheering him on from the sidelines with my double C-section belly as my own personal pom-pom, not to mention the other pom poms up top which could use their own cheering section.

Of course, I'm half-joking about being upset by the new man in my life. I love the fact that my husband takes care of himself and looks and feels great (Did I mention he can also eat almost anything nowadays?). But it's a bruise to the ego too. In addition to looking so fit, my husband has found a new passion with his running. We've traveled together to New York, London and all over California for his marathons. He has reached and then surpassed his goals and is hoping to make it into the Boston marathon soon. I feel envious of his personal achievements. No one slaps a medal around my neck when I complete a ten series of Bar Method classes. My kids don't get to see their mommy in any moments of glory. And like most moms I know, I haven't had the feeling of true accomplishment in a very long while.

So, as you might have guessed, I have decided to try a running challenge of my own despite the fact that I have never been a runner and used to get tired after five minutes of a jog. Thus, I won't be going for a marathon. I know better than to compete with my Type A-plus husband. I learned long ago to compete with myself. I'm going for a half-marathon next September. I started running three weeks ago and am up to 29 minutes. I'm slow as a turtle but I'm doing it. It's hard. It's uncomfortable. It's definitely out of my box. But that's exactly why I'm doing it.

Well that and maybe my pom poms will shake a little less!

When Baseball and Hebrew School Collide

2010-06-16T22:00:00.000-07:00

December 26, 2009

This post has absolutely nothing to do with baseball but like many of my past blogs, its origins can be traced to a day at the baseball field. I was stuck in a never-ending line waiting to register my son for spring baseball. This is the same Little League that last year introduced themselves to me with the warm and friendly line, "Welcome to the cult." Truth be told, we had a wonderful experience last season with kind, caring and "let's just have fun out there" coaches. But I'm in the littlest part of the little league. As my son grows bigger, the baseball world expands too. Parents seem to change the deeper they get into the world of sports. I hear them around me at the snack shack, a bleacher or two over and definitely while waiting in line for sign-ups. As the odd-mom-out in this baseball world (my son probably has a season or two left in him), I listen and observe, knowing full well there will likely be fantastic blog fodder. And this cold, winter morning did not disappoint. Actually, it did--disappointed me as a parent but inspired me as a writer.

Amidst the usual competitive talk of travel teams, feeder schools and questionable umpire calls, the subject of Hebrew school made it's way into the conversation. It seems one of the dads behind me was fed up with his temple. Now that his son was approaching Bar Mitzvah age (13), the Hebrew program was becoming more intensive. The temple, it seems, had the "audacity" to schedule his son for two evenings a week. "Can you even believe it?" he questioned his partner-in-conversation. "What the hell is he supposed to do, not play football and baseball?" I sat there letting the question hang in mid-air, wondering if this was how he presented the situation to his young, impressionable son. It's not that I cared one way or another if his son went to Hebrew school. That is a family's personal choice. It was the way the question and priorities were framed in discussion that struck me. And so I was truly glad when one of the other parents he was talking to asked what I was thinking. "Are you religious? Do you practice at home?" He answered, "This may sound bad but we don't have time. My wife and I both work." Interesting how these same parents found time to travel all over the state for baseball games and somehow got the kids to nighttime practices. Again, it's a personal choice. It wasn't the choice I was reacting to as much as the attitude. Kids can sense what is important in a family. They know what parents value, what they make time for and what ultimately is most important in the pecking order.

It was no surprise then when the father continued, "I want my son to see what religion has to offer and then after his Bar-Mitzvah, he can decide if wants to continue with it." As a side, the father offered up the information that his parents had done the same thing and after his own Bar-Mitzvah, he was done--until he had kids that is.

I find it interesting that this father felt that phoning religion in was, in fact, exposing his son to the Jewish religion and culture and giving him a foundation from which to build (or not) upon. Wouldn't that be like letting his son play a few games of baseball a year and attending a football game or two as a complete exposure to sports? I understand that many people choose not to bring religion into their homes. But I don't understand why I keep running into parents who offer up religion to their children as an extracurricular activity--and one that is not very high on the priority list.

This conversation stuck with me for a few days. On one of those days, I happened to run into my own Rabbi and shared some of my thoughts with him. He told me of an interesting study which had showed that one-day-a-week Hebrew school had been found to sometimes turn children away from identifying with their religion. According to an article from the Baltimore Jewish Times, a 1975 study by Harold Himmelfarb observed that fewer than 1,000 hours of Jewish education can actually decrease a child's Jewish involvement because Hebrew school becomes a burden. The child does not spend enough time to enjoy the rewards of mastery, knowledge and belonging. And this study did not include the effects of one's parents role modeling the resistance to Hebrew school.

Why force your children to study a religion that is not practiced in the home and is clearly not an important part of your own life? When baseball and football come way before religious school, the writing is on the wall, certainly for the child who can sense hypocrisy as easily as we taste and smell. I hear parents complaining all the time about how hard it is to fit religious/Hebrew school into their lives. Let's be honest, baseball and Hebrew school or football and Sunday school can coexist if we, the parents, want them to. Baseball great Sandy Koufax illustrated that back in 1965 when he refused to pitch the first game of the World Series because it fell on the Jewish holy day of Yom Kippur. And, still, the Dodgers won the series!

NOT In The Twilight of My Life

2010-06-16T21:57:00.000-07:00

December 01, 2009

Twilight-new-moon-teaser-movie-poster My name is Amanda and I have a confession. I am so completely not a Twilighter. I have tried and failed to be a Twihard. I simply don't get it.

This is particularly strange coming from me as it is well known by my friends, families and acquaintances that I am a forever fifteen-year-old soul trapped in a thirtysomething's body. I can recite the pilot of Dawson's Creek verbatim, I have a season pass to anything and everything Zac Efron on my Tivo at all time. I am instantly sucked into any Freddie Prinze, Jr. movie that happens to be on cable and I am counting down the minutes until Diablo Cody's Sweet Valley High hits the big screen. I heart romantic comedies. I regularly read young adult literature (props to you Harry and Hermione) and I can't stop the waterworks when it comes to anything involving first love especially if Nicholas Sparks has anything to do with it (the cheesier, the better). I am a natural to fall for Twilight--it would seem.
When I first heard about the books, I immediately wanted in on the obsession. But a few chapters in and I felt like the girl in that song from the musical A Chorus Line--I felt nothing, simply nothing. The writing was so boring and uninspired. I figured I must just be jealous of the 35-year-old mom who had become a superstar writer. I didn't want envy to deprive me of a guilty pleasure so I forged ahead, forcing myself to finish. It took me about a week (which is six more days than it usually takes me to get through a solid read) but I finally reached the last page. It started okay for me. I mean, I got the beginning--the ultimate forbidden love. The fish-out-of-water story of the new girl in school with the drop-dead gorgeous, souless-but-oh-so-soulful misfit. I love all that crap but I can find that crap in much better stories written with much more passion and energy. I was not falling for these characters or this story. I absolutely could put the book down.

Despite the unbelievable casting of ethereal-looking Robert Pattinson as Edward, I decided against seeing the first movie. I didn't read the other books and I moved on with my life just fine. But, alas, the hoopla is again upon us and as a pop-culture junkie, I have truly been feeling left out. So I decided to give the saga a second look. Last night, I saw New Moon. Let me rephrase that. Last night, I suffered through New Moon. It was terrible, completely campy in an unintended, not funny kind of way. The acting sucked (please stop fretting, Bella). The writing was awful. The music was painful (toss up between Lifetime movie and vintage soap opera) and even the directing (by Chris Weitz who is usually fantastic) was totall off. I felt like I was watching a very long, one note Saturday Night Live sketch. The only redeeming part was when Edward literally glistened on screen. But unfortunately, due to the nature of the plot, Edward is a no-show for most of the film. I sat in the theater dumbfounded. This movie made how much money? This Kristen Steward girl fancies herself a thespian? What is going on?

It's unnerving that my pop culture radar could be this far off? Even when I don't get the craze (ie Miley Cyrus), I get why it works. Maybe I have to face the fact that my age is catching up with me. Maybe it's the mom in me that doesn't really want a movie about a girl who goes into a deep depression when she's not with her boyfriend to be so resonating with teens. Or maybe it's the writer in me that just can't accept mediocrity in her girl meets vampire/girl falls in love with vampire stories. I mean, Joss Whedon did it so much better, so much smarter and so much cooler with his Buffy, the Vampire Slayer long before Edward and Bella came forest frolicking along. Whedon's Buffy wasn't waiting to be rescued. She wasn't pouting. She was spewing one-liners and shoving stakes through the entire Hellmouth population. Buffy was fierce, dangerous and witty. Her vamp in shining armor was brooding, misunderstood, dangerous but also clever and even funny. Most notably, Angel was just as afraid of Buffy as she was of him. Oh and the chemistry between the two was tangible. You could literally feel the longing through the TV.

I guess it is my age. Not that I'm too old to appreciate teen angst. Never! Just that I've lived long enough to see it done better. I realize I am a lone voice in a world of mad Twilighters. Bring on the haters then because, Edward and Bella, I knew the slayer and her blood-sucking boyfriend and you two are no Buffy and Angel.

I AM NOT ADOPTED--JUST NOT A SUPERMODEL!

2010-06-16T21:52:00.000-07:00

November 10, 2009

My older sister stands at 5'11 and is a size four. Her stomach is concave and I'm pretty sure the only muffin top she's ever experienced is the blueberry kind behind the bakery counter. She has long wavy (easily straightened) brown locks and perfectly sized perky you-know-whats that have never had to be poured into an unsexy minimizer bra. She has a passion for fashion, exquisite taste and obviously the body to make it work. No sweats for sister. She is always looking fabulous even if she simply throws on jeans and a sweater. Oh...and she is truly one of the kindest, wisest and most beautiful (inside and out) people I know. She is my best friend, my confidante and the greatest blessing in my life.

It wasn't always this way. Growing up in the shadow of my super-model sized sister was tough. I felt less than, ugly and sick and tired of everyone always asking me if we were really related. But maturity, some therapy, a supportive mom and a stint away at a university where no one knew I was Lisa's sister helped me to move out of her shadow and into my own light. Then, I lived in San Francisco for six years where no one knew about my super svelte sibling so I kind of forgot about the daily dealings with people and their stupid, incessant comments.

Now I am back down south and living in the same neighborhood as my sister. My children are old enough to be in the same social circles as my sister's kids which means that we frequent similar moms' circles through schools, sports and other activivities. Thus, the comments have been coming so fast and furious, I am having trouble navigating my way through it all over again.
My sister is completely oblivious (and has always been) to the looks and attention she draws when she walks into a room. She knows she's unusually tall and she believes me when I tell her about the constant barrage of commentary but after our recent trip to the nail salon, she is really starting to get it. We walked in together and the women working there (speaking at high speed Vietnamese) were abuzz. See, last time I was in they disovered that Lisa was my sister and they simply couldn't get over it. There was a lot of laughing and a lot of sarcasm via Vietnamese but I could tell, it was sarcasm.

"She your sister?" they questioned as if it was a literal impossibility. "She really your sister. She your real sister? You have same parent?" I thought about bringing dear old mom in for show and tell but instead decided to come in with my sister. The manicurists stopped what they were doing to gather around us for a side to side look. I felt like an insect being inspected inside a jar. Finally, my sister looked at me and said, "I get it. You need to find a new mani/pedi place."
That is, of course, an extreme example. I don't feel like a science experiment on a daily basis. But, I actually started counting and on average, I get two comments a day about how much I don't look like my sister. Usually, it goes something like this...

"Lisa's your sister?"

"Yep," I reply, ready for what always comes next.

"She's so tall and skinny."

"She is," I answer back, waiting for the next predictable observation.

"You guys don't look anything alike."

"I know," I say as if on automatic pilot.

An awkward pause.

"I mean...(inevitable back-peddling) you are pretty too but she's so tall and skinny."

"Yep, she is."

Another awkward pause. And we move on--awkwardly.
I've pretty much accepted the routine dialogue as part of who I am and I'm okay with it. But once in awhile someone will say the darndest thing and I reach my limit. Like...today for example. A mutual acquaintance realized who my sister was and got that all-too-familiar-to-me look on her face. She stayed on script with her questioning but then added, "Are you from the same mother? Wait, are you adopted?" Really? Do I really have to answer such a question? I thought about it for a second and replied, "Believe it or not, we came out of the very same vagina." The poor girl stared back at me in horror. Maybe she was embarrassed or maybe she was offended. Either way, she was silent.

I guess I have my new response.

When Grandma Met Fabio

2010-06-16T21:43:00.000-07:00

September 26, 2009

My grandpa died sixteen years ago leaving my grandma alone. Since that day, I've watched my grandma desperately staring at his photo as if her penetrating eye contact would bring her true love back to life. I've listened to grandma's insistent rants about much better things would be if only he was alive. Despite the fact that she is now a 92-year old woman living in a retirement home, her intense longing for the husband she had for almost fifty years seemed to me romantic, heart-wrenching and completely normal even for, well, a very old, wrinkled and gray lady.

Even when my grandma developed a teenage-like crush on Tony Bennett, I accepted it. When we don't have love in our lives, don't we all like to fill the void with unattainable crushes? I devoted my junior high years to C. Thomas Howell so who was I to judge? I could definitely relate to my grandma's attachment to "her Tony." In fact, I aided her in the infatuation, ordering CDs and videos off of amazon and collecting articles and interviews from the internet so she could devour facts and stories about her amor. I even ventured out with her (walker and all) to the Greek Theater where we sat front row center at one of Tony's concerts. When she started talking to him (a little, well, a lot too loudly), I had to remind her that she didn't actually know him. But at her age, she didn't seem to care. I let this go as a sign of deep lonliness and promised my mother I would never show grandma how to use google (we didn't want a stalker on our hands).

But then something happened and we crossed the boundary of the granddaughter/grandmother relationship. It wasn't pretty. My mom had given Grandma the gift of Direct TV so she could see movies and feel part of pop-culture. But when her first bill came, it was way over the monthly amount. So I called the company ready to fight for what was clearly their mistake. They informed me that someone had ordered twenty or so extra pay-per-view movies. What? That couldn't be. My grandma didn't even know how to use the remote. It must have been one of the workers at "the home." How dare they take advantage of this little old lady. I called my grandma to vent my frustration but she didn't get it. It seems she had ordered movies. "It was easy," she informed me, "you just hit select." After a little talk with grams about staying within a budget, I called back Direct TV to give them my credit card and admit defeat. On a whim, I asked them about the movie titles ordered. Because this is a family site, I won't repeat the titles I heard that day but, well, it seems Grandma was getting all hot and bothered in her little corner room at the end of the hall. She was apparently over rom coms and, instead, way into Triple X. Of course, all the grandkids got a good laugh out of this including me but truly, I was surprised. Afterall, this was my grandmother--my mondelbread-baking, Go Fish-playing grandmother.

Since the great cable bill reveal, my grandma is not shy about getting her needs met. She devours Harlequin novels and scoffs when I bring her books from my own library. Just yesterday, she told me my Amy Tan book was horrible and she couldn't get through the first page of that Curtis Sittenfeld book I recommended. Instead, she handed me her newest obsession--a book by Anna Leigh Keaton entitled, One Night in Paradise (which by the way, she had borrowed from another resident). She "adored" this author and wanted other books. I typed in the name on my computer and could hardly muster shock when a site appeared with the warning:

Please be advised this site is intended for mature visitors
who are 18-years old and older only

The self-proclaimed "sensual romance" novels with such titles as, Desiring Dixie and Pursuing Penelope offered up a fantasy escape and for me, the final realization that my grandma wasn't just a grandma or a great-grandma or even a mother. She was a woman with wants, needs, passions and a jones for Fabio-looking guys. A little too much information? Yes. But sometimes the truth hurts.

FACEBOOK KILLED THE FANTASY

2010-06-16T21:41:00.000-07:00

August 21, 2009

I am a total daydreamer. I'm always creating stories and inventing situations in my mind. I'm also often thinking of what might've been. Thinking of the people who have passed through my life and imagining what they're doing and where they're doing it. But the dreaming has stopped since Facebook entered my life. There's really no use imagining my hot seventeen-year-old boyfriend as an athletic grown man working as a professor at some small liberal arts college when I can log on to FB and learn instantly that he is... "having a case of the Mondays" from his bureaucratic office downtown. And I no longer have to wonder if that hot midwestern TA I once knew is sipping a latte in a cool coffee house, browsing a copy of Wuthering Heights, lost in thought (maybe about me) because I know he's not. Instead he's "off to the Tigers game with the kids."

Don't get me wrong, I am not a Facebook hater. I really do love how it connects me with my friends from all over the world so that I can keep up with their lives and see photos of their ever-expanding families. I find it amusing to read what my close friends are up to even though I probably already know or could call and find out. The part of Facebook I'm having trouble with are the faces that I'm not supposed to have daily contact with--the exes, the strangers who for a brief time touched my life and then exited without a trace. Thanks to over-friendly Facebook, there is now a clear-cut trace leading directly to each and every one of them. Those likes, loves and lusts of long ago are easier to find than Hansel and Gretel.
So you find them or they find you. And then what? Idle chitchat. Obligatory catching up. Followed by awkwardness. Do you keep the conversation going or go radio silent? Are you telling too much or too little? Should you allude to a shared memory or keep it light and airy? Suddenly, this person who once filled a meaningful spot in your past is colliding with your present. To me, it feels like a betrayal of the time continuum. It's messing with the universe. And it starts messing with my head.

I've always known my imagination was far extending but now I realize that it needs its own passport. My invented ideas of what had become of my first walk-of-shame, that passionate indie director who once crossed my path and my college crush are so completely fantastic and enjoyable. The pictures I've conjured in my head are exquisite if I do say so myself. But thanks to Facebook's technology-made-easy, I now have too many real pictures (one click does it) of actual people doing grown-up life stuff like taking kids to Disneyland, coaching soccer games and the worst--posing for corporate photos with a lot less hair than I remember.

So much of adult life is designed to squash our inner-dreamers, our imagination and creativity. Every day is a fight between my dreamer and the real world. I guess Facebook is simply my newest challenge. And challenging it is to get used to the heartthrobs of my youth complaining of lower back pain and midnight baby feedings.

WHAT THE FEMINISTS DIDN'T TELL ME AND MY MOM DIDN'T KNOW

2010-06-16T21:39:00.000-07:00

July 05, 2009

My mom was raised in the fifties by well-intentioned parents who didn't really intend on her becoming anything other than a housewife and mother. She was never offered college. She wasn't pushed to study. She wasn't told to have a career or to be able to take care of herself. And she did exactly as she was told. She became super mom. My sister and I grew up in a home with a true caretaker. There were always home-cooked meals, clean clothes in our drawers, on-time carpools and plenty of mom and me time. Even now, my friends reminisce fondly about how my house was always the house to be at because mom was always available to everyone with food and an ear to bend.

At the same time that my mom was modeling truly being a present and available parent in my life, she and my father were, of course, raising me to be an independent woman with my own career and bank account. My parents had two daughters growing up in the seventies and eighties. As parents, they were following the new feminist wave and encouraging their girls to live up to great potential. We were rightfully told that we could be anything we wanted to be. We were urged to travel, go out of state to exciting and stimulating universities and pursue our passions.

I feel very lucky to have had parents pushing me and giving me every opportunity in the world. I am part of a generation of women who kind of took for granted our feminine rights. We were too young to be engaged in the feminist struggle but just right to reap the benefits.

Or so it seemed.

Cut to life as a thirty-something with a husband, children and a household to run. Plus, an expensive college degree and a life mind set built on ambition and success. This is me. But it's also a description of many of my peers. I don't care what anyone says but it's impossible every day to give 100 percent of one's self to a husband, children, a household, job and, well, one's self. Thus, the term balancing which is basically a way of describing how many of us have to give less than what we would deem a successful amount to any one given area at any one time. And this, of course, makes us, at times, feel like we are failing.

I've been thinking about this a lot. I've been speaking with other moms (both working and non-working) who feel similarly caught between the kind of mother they want to be and the kind of stimulation they crave--and were raised to crave. It's quite a predicament.

As a professional writer, I am always at the mercy of an agent's call. With absolutely no notice, I am asked to come in for a meeting so I can hopefully get a job. I can't tell you the amount of times I've paid for a nanny so I can fight traffic and go in for a useless meeting (the wasted meet and greet) that leads to nothing or is actually canceled on my way there. Then, if there is a job, it might be near my house or completely out of the way. It might be mom-friendly or totally off my schedule. And then there are the jobs I never get called for because I don't have time to schmooze over cocktails at the Chateau Marmont. So, about two years ago, I decided to write for myself and take time off from the grind of being a working writer. It was absolutely the right decision for me. My anxiety immediately dissipated and I was more relaxed with my kids. It was not, however, a profitable decision. But now that my kids are getting a little older and having longer hours at school, my brain is going into crave mode. I am devouring books by the day and longing for intelligent conversations with adults. I knew things were getting bad when I found myself lingering at the Starbucks counter just to have some chitchat with a young screenwriter/barrista. Can you say time for change?

So after much thought, I have decided to go back to school and earn my teaching credential. Teaching has always been a passion of mine, just not one I ever followed. I've thought about why and keep coming back to the answer that it didn't seem big enough of a dream. Didn't the feminists want me to push the boundaries of women in the workplace? Wasn't I supposed to shatter glass ceilings?

Now that I am grown up and can speak from experience, I realize that to be the kind of mom I want to be, I will have to leave the glass shattering to someone else. And now that I have a daughter, I have some different life advice to offer on the subject of career. Of course I will tell my daughter that she can be anything she wants to be which I believe is true and due greatly to the work and struggles of the feminists that came before me. But I will also tell her that there are certain career paths that, in reality, are simply more suitable to life as a wife and mother (if she chooses to be the latter). I will tell her that being a wife and mother is the most important role in my life but that I do crave more. I will tell her that being a mother means that sometimes you have to alter your mind set on what the "more" will be. And that changing your mind set allows you opportunities you might never have otherwise explored.

Bugging Out

2010-06-16T21:31:00.000-07:00

May 27, 2009

I have always been a bit squeamish when it comes to bugs and reptiles. I was the girl in grade school who couldn't sleep the night before Stan the Animal Man came for a visit. I hated the thought of one of his lizards crawling across my open palms. And don't get me started on the Hawaii episode of the Brady Bunch. I'm pretty sure I was scarred for life when Peter wakes up to find that tarantula smack in the middle of his chest. I have fond memories of my dad as my spider hero. Whenever my sister and I would find a four-legged creature, we would shriek at the top of our lungs for Daddy to come and do away with it. And when he wasn't home, we would flip a coin to see who would have to put a cup over the pest as a temporary solution until Super Dad would come home and be brave.

This went on for much of my adult life. In college, I had roommates to call out for help. After that, I had my big, brave husband who waged many a bug war in our first apartments. (Oh, so romantic!) But then, we had children and I officially became the adult and thus, by default, the designated "do-away-with-bug" person in the group. It started out slowly. On our first trip to Hawaii, my husband was at the gym when my son discovered a grasshopper-ish thing on the floor right where he was crawling. He screamed. Of course, I didn't want to teach my son to be afraid of bugs (do as I say not as I do, right?) so I calmly picked up my baby and with a magazine shooed the thing out onto the balcony. I remember comforting my son saying, "It's okay, it's okay," while inside, I was thinking, "We are so switching rooms. We are so never going outside." There were plenty more bug episodes similar to the above and with each one, I got just a little more courageous and even slightly better at the job. I accepted that I was the mom. I was supposed to make my child feel safe. And, really, my mother instinct was extremely helpful in pushing me past my fears especially once with an unusually large black beetle heading straight for my son's hand.

But then we moved to suburban Calabasas. Everyone raved about our land. How amazing it is that we live right up against the Santa Monica mountains. How wonderful not to have neighbors. Yeah, right? Maybe we don't have the can-I-borrow-some-sugar human variety of neighbor, but we definitely have "friends" living alongside us. First, there, are the coyotes. I knew about them going in, though, and so far they pretty much keep to themselves. Except during the night when you hear them doing a sort of victory chant after a successful kill. There are the rabbits (not the cute furry Easter bunny types) who eat my grass on a daily basis. The gophers who dig holes in my lawn seasonally. The aggressive squirrels and the super loud birds who seem to carry on heated conversations across the trees.

We moved here a few years ago in the winter so my first true battle was with the earwigs, aka pincher bugs. When it rains, they take shelter in my living room. My son is scared to death of these little guys so I have to constantly put on a brave face and scoop them up as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As spring descends and flowers begin to bloom, out come the very large stinker bugs. Despite my utter terror at the sight of them, I am a pro at sweeping them off the driveway and onto the street so my children can go back uninterrupted to their game of handball. Once, I even had to remove one from my son's sneaker. I'm in a sweat just remembering that moment but the point is, I did it. Dad wasn't home. So it was up to Mommy to take care of it.

As summer hits, however, the snakes and reptile families awaken. While I tolerate lizards, I have done everything in my power so that I never see one of those slithery suckers especially because there are rattle snakes among them. I have an underground fence that is the exact height reccommended. I have my bushes cut a few inches off the ground so there are no easy hiding places. And I have my children trained in snake awareness (compliments of many a googled website). Still, they are out there. I hear about them from my gardener, my pool man and even some neighbors at our park. Miraculously, I've never seen one in my vicinity. Sometimes, I think that maybe someone in the universe is watching out for me, realizing that I have been facing my fears front and center and that a-few-foot-rattler may simply be too much for me.

Now I know the picture above is not of a snake but come on, that is one nasty lizard. So let me tell you where I found him. I was alone with my toddler when I came down the stairs to find the not-so-little guy sunbathing in my dining room. We made eye contact and for a minute, I kept on going, thinking it must be a stuffed animal or rubber toy which is a very realistic assumption in my house. But then the thing moved, stretched out to inch himself a little more in the sun. The nerve? My first instinct was to freak out. In fact, I'm pretty sure I uttered some really bad words before collecting myself and realizing that I was the Mommy and when you are two and a half, mommies are there to make everything better and keep you safe. So I took a deep breath, ran and got the camera because I did want credit for facing up to such a fear (my husband was impressed by the way!) and then reached for a broom to gently scoot the lizard outside. I slammed the door, double-locked it and scrubbed my dining room floor--all the while attempting to maintain an air of calm and control. My daughter loves to tell the "silly" story about when there was a lizard in the house. And I guess the fact that it was so "silly" means I successfully faked my way through the terror inside of me.

It's going to be a long summer!

Waiting on Weight Watchers

2010-06-16T21:29:00.000-07:00

May 08, 2009

I have struggled with food/eating/body image issues since I was fourteen years-old. Everyone has his or her ongoing internal struggle and I finally have surrendered to the fact that this is mine. But after battling an eating disorder for most of my teens, I truly did have it under some sort of control for years--that is until I heard those three life-changing words, "It's a girl." Really? "Are you sure?" I asked the technician, "...like really sure?" And she was. And we were. We were having a baby girl. I won't lie. My first thought was, "Holy shit, how am I going to raise a self-confident woman?" Me? The girl who never likes how she looks. The woman who knows exactly how many weight watcher points are in just about everything on the planet. Me? A role model for an innocent little girl. Oy.

At first, it was easier to focus on the external changes I could make in my life to prepare for the arrival. I stopped my subscriptions to People and US magazines and decided not to keep womens' rags with airbrushed skinny girls famous for being famous laying around the house (this has been one of the most positive changes I've ever made in my life but that's another blog). Of course, I knew that this was only a small thing to do. Unrealistic images of girls and women are everywhere--at the supermarket checkout counter, on buses and billboards. But, at least, I could begin to control what images I kept around my home.

The harder part was focusing on my internal dialogue and my own everyday language. It's not easy for me to go a whole day without asking, "Does this make me look fat?" It's tough to eat a cookie or cupcake or french fry and not feel angry at myself--and not let my mood be affected. And it's completely unnerving being watched 24/7 by a beautiful, smart, funny, full-of-potential two and a half year-old girl looking up to me as an example of the modern mom/woman. Each day, I try and be that person for her and for myself. Sometimes I fail. But, lately, more often, I do okay.

So...when my mom offered to help me out this Saturday and take my daughter in the morning so I could do something special for mother's day, I jumped at the offer. We were all set until my mom said, "I'll swing by in the morning and take her to Weight Watchers with me." To my mom, this sentence was simply a filler, part of her own thinking aloud scheduling process. Weight Watchers is an on again/off again staple of her life. But my mom's simple sentence weighed heavy on me. It felt like the beginning. The beginning of what will one day be my daughter's own journey through the rocky mountains of self-image and self-discovery. What would she think watching women--her grandma--stepping on a scale and recording every detail? I know that some kids might not think twice. But I also know my girl. She doesn't miss a trick or an opportunity to ask who, what, when, where, why?

Looking a gift horse straight in the mouth, I told my mom, "No." She absolutely could not take my daughter to Weight Watchers. She told me I was being ridiculous. I listened and then still said, "No." I know that I am only prolonging the inevitable. Afterall, my daughter lives on this planet, in the same zip code as Britney Spears no less, so there's only so much I can do. But I can try and slow the process down and so I've decided that at this time, Weight Watchers is inappropriate for my girl. The beginning doesn't need to start just yet.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to my online WW account and total my daily points.

Luke, I So Don't Care That He's Your Father But My Son Sure Does

2010-06-16T21:18:00.000-07:00

April 22, 2009

I grew up with an older sister. We weren't girly girls but we definitely weren't tomboys either. We loved doing handstands in the pool, making up dances on the front lawn, pinning up pictures of C. Thomas Howell and watching Grease over and over again. But I also loved Laker games with my dad, playing fire trucks with my neighbor and watching Rudy over and over again. So, when I had my firstborn, a boy, I felt completely ready and comfortable for the boy stuff that was to come. I sailed through the guitar phase, the airplane craze and even Buzz Lightyear infatuation with flying colors. But then a year ago, my son took me to that galaxy in a land far, far away and as much as I try (and I really do), I simply don't get the obsession with Star Wars (that includes Clone Wars the TV show, Clone Wars the movie and all the film episodes which I know a true fan would list individually and not under one umbrella but, well, I am not a true fan).

As a writer, I, of course, get the appeal of the saga. It's clear-cut storytelling. Good guys. Bad guys. Heroes. Villians. There's father-son turmoil (to the nth degree), truly forbidden love and a total escape from real life. But what is it about this pretend universe that it becomes the center of the universe for so many boys? Sometimes I think it must be in the DNA because as much as I try to care about this universe even half as much as my son, I fail miserably. It's boring. There's so much shooting and noise. I'm a girl. I'd rather watch Zac Efron dancing with his basketball any day of the week. I can't help it.

But I really have tried. I remembered hearing about this great mom of one of my friends who used to read every novel assigned to her children in English class so they could discuss it at the dinner table. Keeping that in mind, I decided I better study up on all things Skywalker which is harder than you think because as I like to tell my husband, "I don't speak geek." He, by the way, is fluent. I read the books nightly with my son. I play the board games (oh, yes, there are board games) and I sit and watch the movies hoping for something to click. It's kind of like that song from Chorus Line where the girl sings, "But I felt nothing. Simply nothing." That's me. Nada.

And it's worse when there's a crowd. My son and his two best pals have viewing parties. They boo and cheer at certain scenes and even mimic lines. Fortunately, I enjoy these viewing parties but only because I view the boys the entire time. They are a sight to be seen, especially every time Padme (Natalie Portman) comes on screen. For me, it's a high point. For them, it's time to take a potty break or instruct one another to, "Cover your eyes because the girl is on." I've given up on trying to engage my son or his friends in conversation during these parties. They are literally transplanted to another place. So, instead, I simply make my presence known and continue supplying the chow.

As a mostly stay-at-home mom, I am always wanting to get my kids involved in creative activities. I offer up art projects, obstacle courses or cooking together. But, as of late, my son only wants to light saber fight. Again, I try. I have no shame. I wear the Darth Maul mask. I bust out some fancy moves. I fake my way through Star Warsish dialogue but honestly, how long can it go on? It's boring. I am not built for light sabering.

I'm sure this is just one of the many phases my son will go through that I simply won't understand. I do understand, however, that all the Star Wars lingo and stories give my son a go-to topic of conversation with his friends. Without all of the "...remember when Anakin fell in the hot lava..." chit chat, I'm not sure these boys would have much to say to one another. Star Wars gives them a connection.

Me? I'm totally disconnected. The good news? I have a daughter who is almost ready to watch High School Musical!

Birds Do It. Bees Do It. When Can We?

2010-06-16T21:15:00.000-07:00

April 01, 2009

Parenthood has changed a lot of things about our marriage. We never sleep late. Weekends tend to be busier than weekdays. And sex is hard to come by. With one child, we ultimately managed to figure out a way to bring sexy back at unscheduled times and fairly regularly. It took about a year of trial and error but we got it. With two kids, however, we can't seem to make it work. I've tried to talk to my close friends, to literally survey them about how and when they do the deed. My sister and best friend were totally game for the birds and the bees conversation but that's hardly a comprehensive sampling. With most other mom friends, when the subject comes up (brought up by me, of course), they seem uncomfortable having the talk. Thankfully, there's the internet. So, right here, right now, I'm hoping to start the conversation. Yup...let's talk about sex.

Do most busy moms and dads schedule it? Should we have a designated night for getting it on? It seems so suburban but I'm starting to feel it's necessary. On those nights, I would know not to pick at the kids macaroni and cheese leaving myself feeling bloated and unattractive. I wouldn't stay in my workout clothes all day without showering and I wouldn't leave to-be-folded-laundry all over the bed. I wouldn't check Facebook or start a blog. And most important, I wouldn't fall asleep on my son's bed before my husband gets home.

What about morning sex? Is that over for the next ten years? My six-year-old still wakes up at 6 am despite the hundreds of well-intentioned moms over the years who promised that would change when he a)stopped drinking a bottle, b)turned two, c)got rid of his nap or d)started preschool. We had a brief window of morning sex revisited thanks to Tivo. My son would go downstairs and stay there for as long as we wanted. But wouldn't you know it, my daughter is just not all that interested in the tube. She likes it in small doses--very small doses. We've learned to be quick but not that quick.

We do have Saturday date night but it's already pushing it staying up so late. I notoriously need my sleep. I'm usually down for the count on the car ride home and barely manage to climb up the stairs to our bed which is undoubtedly covered in light sabers and Dora books--remnants from the kids "movie night." That's hot!

I would love to meet up with my husband for a nooner but sadly he works too far from our home so that's out. We have no problem hiring babysitters for the purpose of us having sex but where are we supposed to go? I'm a little old for the backseat which, by the way, is filled with Star Wars books and cookie crumbs. Once in awhile, the grandparents take them for the day. That's a no brainer but unfortunately it is truly only once in awhile.

I love my husband. I desire my husband. I want to have sex with my husband. But is it possible to have sex when we both want to instead of when we can fit it in (we actually set the alarm for 3 am last week)? I'm beginning to think not.

A love letter to moms who don't live in sunny California

2010-06-16T21:13:00.000-07:00

February 24, 2009

Dear Moms Who Don't Live in Sunny California,
I am writing this letter to tell you that I so appreciate you. For the last few weeks, we have had some serious rain (an actual storm or two) and I have realized that us moms out here on the west coast have it easy, well easier than you. I know it's only been a few weeks but I am so over dealing with my children in this weather. I am sick of being inside. I am tired of my kindergardener coming home from school with tons of built up energy from his lack of running around at (the now, much appreciated) recess. And mostly, I am so frustrated with schlepping the kids in and out of the car in the rain.

I realize that I sound like a total complaining wimp. I'm not dealing with snowsuits or temperatures at the freezing levels. But to be fair, I am dealing with two kids completely not used to this kind of weather with seemingly no coping skills, or at the very least, no winter skills. For instance, today there was a major storm so I kept us all inside warm and cozy for most of the day. We played every board game in the closet, watched a movie, danced around, had a few light saber fights and made some "art projects." But then, late in the afternoon, we had to venture out to the pediatrician because, of course, both my kids (and me too) are sick with runny noses and husky sounding coughs. Getting out of the car at the doctor was a disaster. Part of it is because they think the rain is fun. It's different. It doesn't come around all that much so they want to jump in a puddle or two even if it's smack in the middle of a parking lot. And part of the disaster is that they are simply not made or bred for hard core weather.

I opened the door to get them out of the car which is always annoying because of how small parking lot spaces are in L.A. So, there I am trying to open the door and fit myself in a spot where I can undo the car seat with the rain pounding down. I have never quite mastered the umbrella. I can pretty much walk solo and carry an umbrella. That's all though. No other tricks. Now, I just rely on my hoodie jacket and try and, at least, give the kids some coverage. You'd think my kids would see me soaking wet and figure out that they should get moving. But, no. They lollygag around. My son fights me on the topic of wearing a jacket. My daughter kicks off her rain boots so that they go flying in the parking lot. Remember, rain boots in Southern Cali are an accessory not a necessity. Trying to get everyone out with jackets, shoes and umbrellas leave me completely drenched, not mention, drained.

When we finally get in the doctor's office, my son and daughter immediately start peeling off their layers and sprinkling everyone around them with their soggy umbrellas. We don't have assigned places to leave our stuff because we are not used to having "stuff." Once the doctor checks us all out, she gives me a prescription for antibiotics for my little one. Normally, I'd be thrilled. We can finally get rid of some of the sickness. But, this time, all I'm thinking about is the fact that we now have to make another stop at the pharmacy. In and out of the car again. I contemplate withholding medicine from my daughter. I catch myself and regain some sense of composure.

Fortunately, on the way home, we see a rainbow as the sun begins to come out of hiding. And then the following morning, we awake to a full out sunny California day and all is back to normal. I know that in most places (shout out to Montreal where much of the family is), the sun stays in hiding for months and so I am sending my love and admiration to those moms who do cold, rainy and snowy all the time.

All my love and gratitude to you moms,
Amanda

Longing For The Summer Days Of Blow-Up Pools And Kick-The-Can

2010-06-16T21:11:00.000-07:00

January 24, 2009

Since when did summer become so complicated for kids? Last year, I sent my five-year-old son to a small camp where they have energetic counselors, lots of sports, art, creative activities, swimming, water play and sometimes even a rock climbing wall. There are specially themed days, optional field trips, talent shows and a requisite popsicle at the end of the sun and fun-filled day. It wasn't very expensive. It was safe. And my son arrived home completely tired out. What more could a mom ask for?

Apparently, a lot more. When it came time to start thinking about camp for this upcoming summer (yes, it's actually time), most of my friends were not even considering this same camp that we all attended last summer. It was "too babyish." The kids were so "bored." "What a waste of a summer." And my personal favorite, "Come on, he's almost six. It's time to move on to bigger and better." Bigger and better? What did that mean?

As I collected brochures (and fancy DVDs) from all of the camps my friends were interested in, I found out what bigger and better means. It means buses to and from camp. It means water-slides and horses and miniature golf courses--all things that are nice but surely not important to my little boy who would be happy with a few friends, a sprinkler and a light saber or two (okay and maybe a popsicle). Oh, and it means double the price. So I tried to rally the kindergarten masses back to our much less expensive but perfectly fine camp from last summer. I really tried. And I really failed. Not a one would budge. In fact, some of the parents actually started to find reasons why the bigger and better camp-of-choice was, perhaps, not bigger and better enough. Some complained that there weren't go-carts. Others shared concerns that the rock wall was only for kids eight and up. And then there was the mom (a usually down-to-earth, relatable kind of gal) who wanted to know if "that was duck-duck-goose" she saw being played on the DVD because "there was no way she was sending her six-year-old son to a place that had kids doing such babyish things."

My husband and I looked at each other a few nights ago and decided this madness must stop. I am certain my son doesn't care where he goes. It's all in how I sell it. The only thing he will want to know is where his best friend is going. We decided that was a legitimate concern considering all of his close friends were attending the same camp. So after much ado about absolutely nothing that should be this important, we decided to send our son with his crowd for one session to a "bigger and better" camp and fill in the rest of the summer with a much less expensive but, no doubt, equally enjoyable science camp.

I can't believe how ridiculous this whole experience has been. I am beginning to see what I am going to be up against--and who--the parents pushing for their kids to grow up too fast and all the kids I'll have to hear about who get to do so much. For now, I'll just be glad that my son isn't bored being entertained all day, doesn't find "duck, duck, goose" babyish and would be scared to death to climb a rock wall.

TEAM DADDY

2010-06-16T20:37:00.000-07:00

January 09, 2009

My son has always been a mama's boy. I've called him Saran Wrap for as long as I can remember because of his super "clingy" ways. Now that he's five and a half, he's becoming more independent which is amazing to watch and also a little hard to take. Everyone assumes that because I have a toddler at home, I must still be in the midst of the "only Mommy" period. That assumption is wrong. My two and a half year old is obsessed with her daddy. Yes, that's right. It's a her and she is all about the big guy. Those cliches about Daddy's girl are alive and, well, thriving in our house.

There are many pros to having a daughter who always wants her Daddy, starting with her shrieks in the middle of the night for, "Daddddddy." "Are you getting her?" he asks me. "Well, she did call for you," I respond without moving from my cozy, warm side of the bed. And he (god love him) goes to her, works his Daddy magic and returns quietly without my daughter who has miraculously (er, paternally) been silenced back to slumber.

She asks for Daddy constantly. "Can Daddy take me to school?" Anytime. "Can I take a shower with Daddy?" Please do. " "I only want to go in Daddy's car." Knock yourself out. After five years of the Mommy chorus, I welcome the respite. But there's a down side.

My daughter totally has my husband's back. Just today. we were in the grocery store happily strolling through the aisles and it happened. I grabbed a container of strawberries and tossed it in the cart. "Daddy likes strawberries," my little girl announced with the authority of a teenager who has committed to memory her idol's likes and dislikes. "Yes, I know," I answered. "More strawberries for Daddy. He needs them for breakfast with his cereal," Daddy's super spy continued, mimicking her father's frequent breakfast request a little too perfectly. And so it went from there with my daughter dictating her daddy's food needs down every aisle in the store. "Avocado for Da Da." "That's Daddy's drink." And finally, "I want a cookie. Daddy gets me one."

Throughout the day, she continues to take care of her number one man. She brings me his clothes and suggests "we go to cleaners for Daddy." If I want to work out on our elliptical machine, she throws a fit. "That's Daddy's excercise!" It's also apparently "Daddy's bed," "Daddy's computer" and "Daddy's Shower."

And when my sweet little girl doesn't like the response she is getting from me, she demands, "Call Daddy. I want Daddy." You should see what happens when she hears the garage open. The fanfare and hoopla is as if Obama is about to walk through the door. Of course, I love it that my daughter has such a wonderful relationship with her father who just so happens to be a great male role model. And I know this is likely a phase that I should be greatful for as it gives me some time to, well, blog. And...I always have my boy...until tonight.

When I was tucking him into bed after having read a long and tiring chapter book as part of his speech therapy (a mom's work never ends), he said, "I want Daddy to snuggle with me." Okay. And then, "I like him better than you."

Well, at least, I finally had time to finish this blog.

A New Kind of Prejudice

2010-06-16T20:35:00.000-07:00

November 28, 2008

Living in California, I have recently been immersed in conversations about equality and tolerance due to the recent "gay marriage" proposition. I have preached passionately to my friends about my indifference to people's differences. I don't care about people's private lives and so on and so on. But you know what? It's not true. I've realized lately that I do have a major prejudice towards a specific group of people. I know it's wrong. I know it's close-minded. But I have to just come out and admit the truth. I can't be friends with people who don't have kids. We might as well be living on different planets. We have nothing in common. And even if we did, it wouldn't matter because our schedules are completely off.

Have you ever tried making plans with a childless friend? Once they realize that meeting for drinks is out, it inevitably turns to the weekend. "I'd love to see your kids," they lie, "how 'bout brunch?" Brunch? The non-parent has absolutely no concept of the fact that brunch ceases to be a meal category when you are with child. Moms and Dads don't do brunch unless they are on a romantic getaway. Brunch is for lovers. Brunch is for Saturday night hook-ups that go well. Brunch is not for families. By 11 am, my kids are ready for lunchtime or naptime having had pancakes four hours earlier. So no, we can't do brunch.

Speaking of weekends...I recently noticed a not-yet-a-mom friend of mine facebooking about that fact that she was so tired from her lazy Sunday afternoon. Parents don't do lazy and they certainly don't do lazy Sundays. Sundays are about soccer games and birthday parties. Sundays are hard core prep for the school week to come. Grocery shopping. Lunch packing. School projecting. Sundays are full of activity and stress. Sundays are not about feeling sluggish from laying around the house. I vaguely remember such a feeling but am so far removed from those times, I simply cannot relate.

As if our calendar differences weren't bad enough, there's the problem with our phone schedules. Non-parents love to call for a catching-up chat on the way home from work. That would be about 6 pm--otherwise known as smack dab in the middle of the evening witching hours. I'm sorry but Amanda is unavailable to come to the phone at that time as I am losing my freakin' mind. I am feeding, bathing and cleaning. And once the nightly rituals are over and I finally get the children to sleep, I have a husband who could use a little attention, not to mention an exhaustion that I could never explain to someone without offspring. By the way, I have 35 minutes of uninterrupted talk time while I'm driving the kids to school at 7:15 but unless the friend is on the east coast, that timing doesn't seem to work out either. That leaves us with texting which is nice for a hello or quick info but not exactly the language of relationship building.

And that's just the logistical differences. We haven't even mentioned the fact that parents and non-parents have totally different lifestyles. People who are not parents are more selfish because they can be selfish. Those days I remember well and sometimes long for again. You can take a day off and truly feel like you are taking a day off when you don't have kids. I can definitely enjoy myself on a girls night out but I'm still feeling a little guilty about not tucking my little ones in. I am thinking that I probably shouldn't drink so much because I have a 6:02 morning meeting with my five-year old that simply cannot be rescheduled (trust me, I've tried). And I worry if we go somewhere too loud to hear my phone because I am responsible for two human beings and, therefore, want to always be reachable.

I know I'm being stereotypical like all good prejudice people are but it's my truth. I want to put more diversity into my peer group but I can't make it work. As a parent, I've been sticking to my own kind these days. And it's getting worse. Lately, I don't even like people with only one kid. What can I say? I'm an elitist.

A Very Happy Birthday

2010-06-16T20:30:00.000-07:00

November 17, 2008

I celebrated my 35th birthday this week. It was wonderful. Truly happy. But it was also very different than all of my previous birthdays and not just because I exited (okay was pushed out of) the 18-34 demo and had to realize that no one now cares what I buy, watch, read or do. Well, that made it a little different but didn't make the difference.

For most of my life, I spent my birthday (and the weeks leading up to it) hoping and wanting for all kinds of things. Not unlike my five-year-old, I thought constantly about what I could get for my birthday that would make me happy. In the early days, it was the Barbie Camper, then a walkman and later a maroon-colored ghetto blaster. Even as I got older, I still dog-eared pages of catalogues, browsed magazines to find the latest fashion or accessory that I simply had to have and vigorously followed Oprah's "favorite thing" choices so I could make them my own. I wish I could tell you about all those coveted items but as the years pass so has my memory of all of that highly coveted stuff.

After 30, birthdays began to lose their "oomph." As the numbers increased, my excitement decreased. And yet, I was still hoping and wanting. But instead of a great bag or a new watch, I began wanting and hoping for a marker to know that the previous year had really meant something. I would hope that by next November, I would have a novel published or lose ten pounds or travel somewhere exotic. All that wanting left me feeling pretty empty in a life truly filled to the brim with love and blessings. So...I decided that come this year, I was going to stop wanting, wishing and hoping and start doing.

I started small. I didn't climb Mt. Everest or anything like that. I still drove carpool, shopped at Trader Joe's and tucked my kids into bed with endless stories but on the Sunday before the big 35, I ran my first 5K. It was the best present I could give to myself. I did something that made me feel good about me--about my health, my body and even my age. I was part of something bigger than me (the run was organized by a family in my area that generously donates the proceeds to families struggling with sick children). I did something on my own. As I stood at the starting line all by myself, I had a momentary lonely feeling and then I realized I was surrounded by a community and, oh yeah, I was with me and at this point in my life, I actually knew I could count on myself to get me through those 3.whatever miles.

After I pushed myself up the first hill, I came around a bend and saw my husband (a seasoned marathon runner, by the way) standing with our two beautiful children holding handmade stenciled signs reading, "Happy 35 Mom!" They cheered and yelled for me as I passed. And it was the best birthday moment I have ever had probably because for once, I was in the moment. Enjoying the moment. Appreciating where I am at this moment in my life.

Don't get me wrong...I still loved going home that afternoon and opening fun presents. I love my new Marc Jacobs shoes and can't wait to take my new earrings out for a spin. But I mean no offense to all the gift givers when I say that the best gift was the one I gave to myself.

Here's to next year. I'm thinking 10K!

A Tale of Two Trips

2010-06-16T20:17:00.000-07:00

October 24, 2008

It was the best of travel. It was the worst of travel.

I traveled the last two weekends which, in the world of momhood, is almost unheard of especially because the first of those weekends was sans children, minus husband, plus two of my dearest friends. So let's start there--the best of travel.

I headed back to Ann Arbor, Michigan for a girls weekend in our favorite college town (full of our favorite foodie destinations--shout out to Pizza House and Zingermann's which did not disappoint!). I flew with a friend from L.A. and our travel experience could not have been less stressful. I threw a few things in a small carry-on the night before and grabbed an apple and a protein bar as my snack for the plane. We parked our car, strolled into the airport and headed right for security as we had no luggage (or stroller or car seat) to check. Security was a breeze. We stopped for a latte because you can do that when you have nothing and no one to carry or push. We got on the plane and read magazines--lots and lots of them. Both of us slept a little. And we talked too--actual conversation, like, about life and our familes, careers. It was a real conversation with meaning and connection. I remember those. When the flight attendant came by with beverages, I took one--a cup with no top. I didn't have to chug it. Instead, I simply placed it on my tray table and nursed that diet coke for a good fifteen minutes. It was damn refreshing!

When it was time to use the bathroom, it was just me doing my business (a far cry from my best and worst mom moment ever involving me, my five-year old son, two-year old daughter, a tampon and a tiny, cramped airplane bathroom halfway between L.A. and New York but I digress...). When the plane landed, I was totally relaxed. I walked smugly passed the poor souls waiting for their strollers and practically skipped up the jetway where my east coast friend was waiting peacefully with her very own latte, enjoying the same calm I was experiencing. We followed the signs to the rental cars. Stairs? Escalators? No problem. We were mobile. Shuttles? Easy. We had no "stuff" to schlep. No car seats to install. No diapers to change before we hit the road.

The weekend was awesome. We slept in--'till 8 am. We ate what and when we wanted. We browsed casually in stores. Went to a football game. It was a perfect weekend. The first time in a long time that I remembered what it felt like to be my own person. Back home, my friends and family joked that I was going back to college to feel young. The funny thing was that once I was there, I didn't want to be young. I didn't want to be that sophomore I saw slumped over her books or even that senior blabbing on her cellphone about some guy who did her wrong. Instead, I wanted to call the health department on the guys now living in my former house (lesson learned--never rent to college boys). I wanted to make sure and get great gifts to bring home to my two beautiful children (by Sunday, I was missing them). And I wanted to bypass the line at Rick's (gross bar) to go sit quietly and have some ice cream with my wonderful friends.

The plane ride home was quick and easy. I was sad to leave but happy at what I had to come home to.

By contrast...

My whole family (mom-in-law included) traveled to Montreal, my husband's family's hometown, for a wedding. The packing started days before our departure--a Target run to load up on new games and books for the plane ride. A Trader Joe's run for a wide variety snacks to satisfy even the most picky of eaters. And a last minute Old Navy run after trying on my son's pants (we're still in shorts out west) and realizing that he's now a size up. I had lists with items to remember that could not be packed until the last moment--my daughter's giraffe blanket, my son's Star Wars figures that go wherever he does and the two pink pacifiers that make traveling with my daughter possible. Fortunately, there were three adults and two children so we were not outnumbered but there was still plenty of schlepping, negotiating and heavy lifting.

Once on board, my children were, obviously, starving. They had to eat right at that very moment no matter that the snack bag was out of my reach. As we hit the clouds, one needed the DVD player, the other needed his pinky- sized light saber (because that can't get lost on a jet plane). More importantly, no one needed sleep.

We had a great family trip full of wonderful moments that will make for great memories. I saw my daughter walk down the aisle as a flower girl. I watched my son, the ring bearer, make his second trip down a Montreal wedding aisle like a pro. My kids got to spend time with aunts, uncles and cousins. It was truly special. But...

I also slept in a bed with my flip-flopping daughter who must think I'm a size 2 because that's how much space she left me on the bed. I ate every meal with my girl firmly planted on my lap sticking her dirty fingers into my food. I drove around aimlessly so that the two precious ones could get their naps in. And I had surface conversations with people I truly wanted to speak with because, well, you can't exactly have a real conversation while changing a poopy diaper, breaking up a light saber fight or listening to the whine of Calliou in the background.

I guess the point is that not all trips are equal. They each have their own unique purpose and place in our lives. I wouldn't trade my weekend alone with the girls in A-squared for anything. But nor would I trade my family vacation in Montreal. I would, however, trade anything to never fly with children--at least for the next five years!

Mommy Wars, Mean Girls and Sarah Palin

2010-06-16T20:15:00.001-07:00

September 11, 2008

I have had a tough week. My oldest started kindergarten and my youngest started pre-school. Sarah Palin has had a tough week too. She started officially campaigning. It would seem that these two events are completely unrelated. Think again.

Governor Palin's week has been filled with the same gossip, judgements and cattiness as mine has. And all the nastiness is coming from mothers directed at other mothers. They are taking to talk radio air waves to criticize Palin's motherhood choices (more on that in a minute). They are congregating at Starbucks, the school parking lot and at PTA meetings to discuss (actually rip apart) mommy peers.

We all know about the mommy wars when it comes to working versus stay-at-home moms but now it seems there are emerging troops picking fresh battles in a war that will undoubtedly last longer than the U.S. and Iraq. Just this week, I've witnessed matches between the private school moms versus the public. The we-believe-in-holding-our-child-back-a-year versus the we-made-the-birthday-cut-off moms. The my-child-needs-a-more-academic-teacher versus the my-child-needs-an-out-of-the-box creative environment. And the list goes on. I listen to all of this (and yes even sometimes participate) and can't believe that we are women. You don't hear men blasting each other like this. Unless another dad is a deadbeat or abuser, my husband doesn't care to or see a need to judge. Why do mothers? Women are supposed to be nurturing. As moms, we all know how hard choices regarding our children can be. We know how hard all the juggling is on a daily basis. So why are we so quick to judge other moms who do things differently than us with the vengeance of a back-stabbing high-schooler? Do we need to make others feel small or wrong so we can feel better about ourselves and our personal choices?

All this brings me to Sarah Palin because while I was huddled in the school courtyard right smack in the middle of a mommy point/counterpoint, the VP nominee was the point/counterpoint, the "hot topic" all over America. This is not a political blog. I don't care if you hate Palin's record and opinions on the issues or not. She's running for VP of the United States of America and all of that is fair game. I also think it's fair to discuss her family in terms of how it relates to her stance on abortion and sex-education as these are relevant domestic issues. But, come on, do we really have to devote hourly satellite radio broadcasts as to whether or not running for VP is too big of a job for a mom of five children to have? Is it necessary for us to pass judgment on her choice to work and care for a down-syndrome child? Having been blessed with two healthy children, I know that I don't know what it's like to have a disabled child. I also don't know what kind of childcare she has. I have no idea how the governor and her husband split parental duties so how can I judge her as a mother? I can absolutely judge her as a candidate. She has put herself out there for that. But as a mother? I don't know her.

As women, we have fought for so long to be treated equally and fairly. However, I don't know any women who have questioned the toll taken on Barack Obama's young children who have unquestionably spent very little time with their father as of late. Why are we such critics of our own gender? There has been much talk about feminism lately in the media and even on this blog. I've always thought that the strong women who came before me fought for a woman's right to choose, that is, to have choices to choose from. Now that there are available so many wonderfully exciting and plentiful choices, isn't it my right to choose the one that works for me--not my neighbor, not my sister and not my elected officials?

I applaud women for having their own unique approaches to motherhood and I am open to hearing the triumphs and failures of each individual journey but I think we need to be careful about judging from afar and about cutting other moms down as they rise up whether it's the mom at your school who just took a promotion that will have her traveling more or the first female Republican Vice Presidential nominee. Whether you are a soccer mom, a hockey mom or any other kind of mom...let's respect each other as women (that doesn't mean voting for a woman because she's a woman). Let's act more like mature moms rather than mean girls. Remember, our daughters are watching us.

One small step for my little man; A giant leap for MOMkind

2010-06-16T17:08:00.000-07:00

September 04, 2008

Today was a big day for us.

It might have been my son who entered kindergarten but it took a lot of hard work, determination and gut- following on both our parts to make this day the perfect reality that it was. His one small step into Room 102 felt a lot more like a giant leap. As he confidently strolled into the classroom showing off his Clone Wars backpack with barely a wave goodbye in my direction, I had what felt like a movie montage of the last five years leading up to this moment.

Six months old--I come upon him and his babysitter walking in the neighborhood only to have him stare blankly at me with no recognition or smile. The look that passed between my babysitter and I. Were we going to ignore this moment? We did. I didn't.

Ten months old--His mommy group playdate. Everyone crawling and playing except my boy who sits up gazing out the window.

One year--Still not eating on his own. Doctor says it's okay. Some develop the "pincher grasp" later than others.

Fourteen months--Doesn't make eye contact. Only has five words. I google myself into a state of daily panic.

Sixteen month check-up--Not walking yet. Doctor says to come back in a month if nothing changes. Was he listening? We get home. He naps. Wakes up and walks across the room. Never falling or stumbling. Walking like he's been doing it forever.

Seventeen months--We go to the park. He is fascinated by wheels. Wants to watch them turn over and over again. Grandma notices. I know she notices.

Twenty months--Now has about twenty words like "up" and "book." Feeling better until we start our new toddler class. Greeted at the door by a boy who introduces himself with, "Hi, I'm J-A-C-O-B." I come home and cry because Jacob can spell.

2 years-old--His gym class. We go around the room for what must be the hundredth time with each kid saying their name except mine.

2 years, three months--It happens. The toddler program teacher wants to talk to me. She thinks something might be wrong with my beautiful boy. He should be participating more. Interacting with other kids. My heart sinks. It's time to see a specialist.

2 years, four months--I watch as my little guy goes through a series of tests with a speech and developmental therapist. I hold my breath. I fight the tears. He looks frustrated and tired. A few awkward moments of silence and then the diagnosis. At this point, she does not feel he is on the autistic spectrum. He is delayed and we have work to do. We'll have to monitor him for the next few months. Okay. I can handle this.

2 years, eight months--Speech improving. Eye contact not so much. We begin transition at pre-school. Guess which mom can't leave the room?

2 years, nine months--He doesn't test well at the specialist. We'll try again in a few months. Abandon my basket in Target later that day and bawl in the bathroom.

2 year, ten months--First day of preschool. Lots of crying kids except mine. He says goodbye and plays on the floor. He is fine. I can leave.

3 years--Re-test him. He's making up for lost time. We are cautiously optimistic.

And so it goes. He hits every marker. Always later than everyone else but always within the appropriate time. He potty trains at three and a half. It takes two days, two accidents and not even one pull-up. He gives up his pacifier at four. He simply wakes up on his fourth birthday, hands it over and never says a word about it again. Finally learns to swim at five. Spends the whole summer in intensive lessons but waits until labor day to swim across the pool into the deep end. "I told you I could do it if I want," he says. At this point, I have no doubt.

This is who he is. A guy who does things in his own time. I tell you all of this because it took me a long time to grasp this concept. To accept him for who he is and truly appreciate his unique rhythm. There is such a rush to judgement with friends and relatives when it comes to our children. Of course, we, as moms, need to be aware of developmental problems and seek intervention early but the fact is, some kids are simply slower when it comes to development than others. And that's okay. And they'll be okay. And you know what, as I stood at the kindergarten door this morning listening to a nearby mom go on and on about the chapter books her daughter had read over the summer and how proud she was of her advanced violin playing, I had to laugh, because I was beaming with pride watching my blossoming boy simply strut into his class with barely a look back. For him, for me, for us, it was a huge moment.

What I Want Him to Be When He Grows Up

2010-06-16T17:02:00.000-07:00

August 20, 2008

I am reading a wonderful book by Oprah's favorite Rabbi (I admit it, I am an Oprah girl!) His name is Rabbi Shmuley Boteach and the book is entitled, The Broken American Male. It is particularly interesting to moms who are raising boys. But it is truly relevant to all parents hoping to raise good people. It would seem a given that all moms and dads want their children to be just that...good. But the more I read, the more the book has made me realize that good isn't enough for many parents.

Shmuley constantly points out that we often ask young children what they want to do when they grow up. Sometimes, we say, "What do you want to be?" But that's semantics. We mean what do you want to do for a living? Be a lawyer, a doctor, an investment banker. What if we shifted the focus, Shmuley poses, to actually discussing what he/she wants to be--what kind of person?

You might think this is a little philosophical for a five-year old but I've been trying it out and it's working. After knocking his sister down with a light saber, my little Darth Vader was sent to his room. I was at my wit's end. It seemed like every afternoon, I was lecturing him or punishing him for annoying his baby sister. This time, I was going to try something different. I walked into his room calmly, sat down on his bed, lifted up his Darth mask so I could look directly in his eyes and then asked him, "What do you want to be?" He looked at me with confusion. "Am I in trouble? Are you taking away my Leapster?" he asked. Again, I repeated my question, "What do you want to be?" "A fighter pilot," he said. "I didn't ask what you want to do," I explained, "I asked what you want to be--what kind of person, what kind of big brother." Slowly but surely, he got where I was going and reached the conclusion that he wanted to be a good big brother who his sister looks up to, not a bully who she fears (his words, my grammar).

It hasn't been perfect since this discussion but it's been better and we've opened the door to more meaningful conversations on this subject.

And speaking of meaninful conversations...

I was talking to a group of friends about this recently. One of them brought up the point that, of course, she wants her child to be a good person but she doesn't want to discourage his ambitions. I am absolutely not suggesting that we don't encourage our children to follow their passions and their dreams but sometimes, it seems, we do set our kids up for failure by focusing so much on what they can be rather than who they can be. We tell all children they can be president, movie stars, professional athletes, etc... But in reality, most of our children will be normal people who have a family and a career and will have to learn to balance both. We are so focused on helping our children achieve that we forget to arm them with the skills it takes to be a fulfilled, happy human being.

Okay, I'm climbing off my Shmuley soap box now. Here's one more personal anecdote. My son sucks at soccer. I mean, he's truly terrible. But he LOVES it. He loves the uniform, the practices, the team camraderie and his beloved Coach Larry (shout out to a Coach who gets it). About midway through the season last year, my son came off the field from another less than less than stellar performance. I gave him a hug and said something like, "Wow, it looks like you were having fun out there." Another mom (whose son can really kick it) came over to me and commented that it was great that I was able to be positive even though it must be hard. I have nothing against this mom. In fact, I like her. But in this moment, I felt sad for her. Why would it be hard for me? Because my beautiful son of many talents isn't good at soccer? Why are we so desperate for our kids to excel at everything that has a score, a monetary value, a tangible symbol of success?

To be fair, I have my desperate moments too. I cringe at school art shows when I stare at my son's scribble scrabble next to some girl's flower garden landscape. But thanks to Shmuley, these moments have become fewer. I want to raise a true gentle man, not an investment banker. But he can both if he wants.

Peace, Love and a Portable Potty

2010-06-16T16:50:00.000-07:00

August 11, 2008

I took my kids to see a Justin Roberts concert this morning. He's one of those "for kids" performers who sings about waiting for the school bus, blaming everything on your brother and hanging out with an imaginary friend. But he's actually cool and somehow not annoying at all. His songs are zippy with a pop beat that keeps you humming them all day. His show was at an amphitheater in the middle of rustic Topanga Canyon -- a hippie haven full of peace, love and lots of "go green" bumper stickers. Maybe the idealism is catchy because from the moment I parked the car, I began to see things a little differently. The world felt somehow peaceful and cooperative. It all started with a family of four, a minivan and a portable potty seat.

The noise level in my car rivaled a thunderstorm. My son, in the way back, was shouting out the names of every Star Wars character he could think of. My daughter was whining, "I want milk," and my niece (always having my daughter's back) was telling me that her cousin desperately wanted milk. And yet, through it all, my sister and I, in the front seat, were having a real conversation, able to block out all the commotion. We approached the theater and found a place on the street to park. As we pulled over, we realized the spot was pretty tight but we waited to pull up closer to the car in front of us because a mom was unloading her troops. She motioned to us that it might take a minute. We waved back instinctively. We watched as she took out the portable potty in the back of her mini-van for her toddler to do her business. While the mom attended to her daughter's potty needs, the father took the young son to the side of the road for his potty break. The boy was in plain view of all of our kids and yet, they never said a word. We waited a few minutes more as the family in front of us collected their stuff--strollers, snack bags, hats, sunblock. When they were fully armed, they closed the trunk and we moved into our spot, our patience completely in tact.

As my sister and I unloaded our own kids complete with a sippy cup spillage, a lost shoe and a bee sting, another car patiently waited for us. Behind them, another car and another car and well, it went on and on (without a single horn being honked).

Once inside the venue, I watched a mom walk her wobbly one-year old up and down the narrow row of stairs over and over again. A father wheeled his severly disabled daughter to the front row and lovingly showed her how to clap to the music. Another mother nursed her baby while singing Justin Roberts tunes to her antsy toddler. And that was all before the concert even started.

When Justin took the stage, the parents erupted into applause with genuine excitement. We all danced in the aisles abandoing inhibition and embarrassment. Anything to bring a smile to our children's faces. There were tantrums and tears throughout the show. It was hot. There were bugs. But no matter. We all got it. We were all parents and here was this collective feeling that we are all in this together.

My sister and I suddenly felt in awe of parents--of all we deal with, of our amazing abilities to cope, of our patience, our resourcefulness and our unwaivering love of our children. We got back in the car, did up everyone's car seats, handed out snacks and created a "fair" radio playlist. Then, we waited for the family in front of us to do their own version of the same. We began to pull out of our spot but stopped when a rogue toddler dashed out into the road. We finally returned home with a car full of tired, hungry, complaining kids. And somehow, it all didn't seem that peaceful anymore.

Maybe it was the Topanga air?

2010-06-16T16:43:00.000-07:00

July 29, 2008

ROGER THAT?

My son has a new friend named Roger. He's bossy, intrusive, mischevious and often just a straight out liar. He's a horrible influence, constantly getting my guy into trouble. I really don't like him. I kind of hate him. I just wish he would leave my son alone. And I would tell him that if I could but, well, I've never actually met him. In fact, I haven't even spied him from afar. See, my son is five and Roger is his imaginary friend.

My son loves anything to do with Rescue Heroes. For those not in the know, these are characters based on firefighters (Billy Blaze), police officers (Jake Justice), etc... They respond to emergencies with guts, glory and totally cool walkie talkies. In loud, commanding voices, the courageous figures bark orders and shout directions into their two-way communicators always signing off with "Roger That." And so evolved our Roger, a true hero in that he's always coming to the rescue of my son. If my son doesn't want to go to swim lessons, he will assure me that Roger has called ahead and the classes are canceled for the day. When he pushes his sister out of his room, it's always Roger's fault (he was in a rush to save a family in Oklahoma from an oncoming twister). And when I have to say "no" or discipline, Roger gets really mad! Sometimes "he" says things I just know my sweet little boy would NEVER say to his mother (if you do that again, I'm going to put you in jail!)

I guess I could look at the positive side. My son has a truly wonderful imagination and enough of a conscience to, at least, assign blame for his unfavorable behavior. I've read that it's healthy for children to use an imaginary friend as an outlet for their emotions, especially boys. I get that I should be grateful my boy has found a way to express himself. But this Roger is grating on me. He's trying my patience. And crowding my space. I feel like my son is constantly under the influence.

I expressed my concern to my mom and all she could say was, "Wait until he gets a girlfriend." Uh-oh, I Roger that.