Post Show.

Sitting backstage in a room full of mirrors and lightbulbs I was instantly transported to high school. My high school had a theatre. A full theatre with curtains, wings and tiered seating. It was my haven. The place where I felt most comfortable. A place of safety. When I was in the drama block I felt at home. My loud, exuberant personality was welcome here. My habit of bursting into song was encouraged and applauded. My tribe lived here. So despite my nerves and fears - sitting in this room full of possibility I became calm and excited and just a little sad.

Walking into the theatre I noticed the sadness creeping in. It felt that this glorious experience was already over. Despite the fact we still had the show to do, I felt the bittersweet of the end. Pushing those feelings aside I busied myself with the run through. Walking out onto the stage, setting the microphone, completing the soundcheck - it was thrilling because of the safety of 400 empty seats.

We girls got girlie. Applying make up, curls, dresses. Comparing shoes. Let's face it the shoes were fantastic. If the shoes were the only take away from this experience - I'd be happy. Lucky for me - the shoes were the cherry. We got nervous together. We got loud. Our laughter had an edge. We were a group giddy with possibility. We obsessed over earring choices and distracted ourselves as the theatre filled.

I took myself off for some quiet and found an empty dressing room. Sitting in it I allowed my confidence to come. I gave myself permission to feel good about my piece. Sure, there was still a huge part of me that wished I was bringing the house down with humor but I knew that I chose a different path for a reason and now was the time to embrace that decision.

The show whizzed by in a blur of applause as one by one my cast mates walked out and read their pieces. Despite having heard those stories several times, I sat awed by the power in storytelling. Being wrapped up in someone's words when they are shared from a place of vulnerability is so powerful and inspiring it's hard to describe adequately. I could have listened to twenty more. My turn came and went in seconds. I knew there was a large audience out there but I couldn't see it past the lights. I knew I made people cry from the sniffles. My funny line got a laugh. I walked back off to loud applause. Job done.

When the show ended we drank champagne. We celebrated each other's triumph in not tripping, vomiting or fainting on stage and went out to greet our family and friends. I know why I did this show. I know that having something besides parenting is vital to my mental health. What I didn't know was how much it would affect me. The hunger it would stir in me to find an outlet for this side of me. I didn't anticipate the effect it would have on those who watched - what it would stir up in them. The inspiration that is found in listening to people tell their stories - whether their stories rile you, amuse you or cause a long held dam of feelings to burst in you.

My take away is this - tell your story. It can be to a stranger on a park bench, anonymously online or to an audience of hundreds but tell it and feel the joy/relief/freedom of telling.

Happy Mother's Day!

To all the mother's in the world - those that are celebrating, those that are hoping, those that are grieving, those giving birth, those fighting illness, those who are planning and those who have gone before us.
May you enjoy peace and beauty today.

Walk The Line.

Parenthood is like walking a tightrope. Slip ups tend to be catastrophic and the path to success is narrow and hard to walk. When I planned this - I planned to have a baby. As I've blogged before I didn't think about the twenty plus years of all consuming commitment that was attached. Emerging from the baby/toddler years finds me wanting more balance in my life. If I am going to be a successful parent for the long haul I need some other things to focus on - at least some of the time. Obviously, I am not alone in this. It's why many parents go back to work, even if their finances don't dictate it. It's why mommies are such an enormous presence in the blogging world. I am not re-inventing the wheel here. I am however doing it the only way I know how - loudly, publicly and with large amounts of fear attached.

Listen To Your Mother is in two days. In just two short days I will stand on a stage and bare my soul. I will make Brene Brown proud and embrace vulnerability. I am nauseas typing this. I'm not shy. I don't mind public speaking. I have been known to enjoy being the center of attention. This? This is way out of my league.

Like many other members of the cast (we have a feverish communication going) I am having nightmares, losing sleep and fretting about my appearance. I have only experienced anything like this once before - my wedding. Just like when I was preparing to get married - I have dreamt about arriving in front of everyone only to realize I am naked. I have shopped frantically for the perfect outfit/shoes/jewelry (only to settle on things already in my wardrobe.) I have feared no-one will show up even although I know tickets have been purchased. I am a mess.

Vulnerability is a bitch. It may turn out to be a liberating bitch but for now it's just a plain old bitch. I am scared. I am regretting my choice to read a sad piece. I like funny. Funny is - well funny. People like funny. But funny is safe. I made a conscious decision to leap from safety. I want to leap back.

I know, deep down in the pits of my stomach, that this experience is good for me. That it is awakening me from being mom 24/7. I know that a healthy parent has other things in their life. I have listened to my cast mates in rehearsal and marveled at their tenacity, skill and courage. I know that shows like this touch peoples lives and encourage them to find their way to their goals, hopes and dreams. I just wish I could do it from my couch, in my jammies.
That's not how it works though. So I will bare my soul publicly and see what it brings. I will just do it feeling like I am going to throw up, mess up or trip up. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Peer Pressure.

I was greeted this morning with a bombardment of news about the woman in New Jersey who took her kid tanning. I watched it on the news, where self righteous newscasters read the story, while acting as judge and jury. It quickly spread like wildfire across Twitter, Facebook and every other social media site there is.

I joined in with a witty little comment about Oompa Loompa's and went about getting my perfectly parented cherubs off to school. Then I watched the woman defend herself on the news. In my view, her skin color alone speaks to her mental health. Even if you find this type of tanning attractive - the woman is clearly medicated. She may be high but the healthcare professional in me sees signs of psychotropic drugs. Either way - it appears to me that this woman is not well.

It made me sad, then ashamed. Apart from anything else - how is this national news? Two American soldiers died in Afghanistan today. Many more civilians died too. What are we thinking? Why do we allow ourselves to be led down this ugly path by the media? I have sunburned my children - more than once. Once my daughter had blisters from the poor care I took of her skin under the Mexican sun. Why didn't I get put in jail or get nationally mocked and chastised?

This is only a story because of the mother's appearance. We are addicted to judging and mocking. I know it doesn't have quite the same advertising revenue potential but what this woman needs is help. Maybe she needs information. Support. Guidance. You know those old things. Sure, we weary parents need some laughs, some entertainment, but let's not stoop so low. There are plenty of opportunities to mock and laugh (if you must) so called celebrities who choose to put themselves in front of the media in exchange for large sums of cash.

I believe it trickles down. I think when a story like this gets such media attention the judgement rolls down hill. We are lulled into a false sense of righteousness. We start looking to find fault in each other's parenting. This poor women is likely just like you and I in many ways. Trying her best, making mistakes. She has a story we most likely will never know. If we did, we might see her differently.

I don't want the mainstream media to set the standard for parenting. I don't think they are objective. I think they are the last place we should look. Parents struggle under the weight of peer pressure. They stress and grieve under the torment of their children being bullied, then we whole heartedly participate in this - national bullying. At least I did. I am off for my slice of humble pie.

Double Dipping.

My children are not food motivated. The three year old is so unmoved by food she barely scrapes onto the all important percentile charts which seem to dictate health in this country. They like all sorts of food including vegetables. Just not regularly or in quantity. They both will get excited about cake or candy but then abandon it to the nearest surface, barely sucked or nibbled, just two minutes later. Getting them to sit and eat is a daily trial. I have grown accustomed to it. I have set rules, consequences and penalties. I have coaxed, pleaded and cried. I have presented food as a game, in a pattern, in disguise - with no real impact. They eat when they are hungry - which is not often. Despite all this - they are both thriving.

The nine year old has put a new spin on things. I like to call it the double dip. On school bus morning we run a tight ship. We have a (very) fixed routine. There is no time for wavering off the plan. It has been running reasonably smoothly for four years now. The last three mornings she has pitched her curve ball, after completing her breakfast - her choice of cereal, oatmeal or toast - she has stated "Mom, I'm still hungry." ???
This is a statement so foreign to me that I didn't register it the first time.

"I can't go to school yet - I'm still hungry."

"Ok, I'll grab you a bar and you can eat it on the way to the bus."

"No, I need more than that."

I find myself looking around at my kitchen in bewilderment. What is this "more" thing and how do I achieve it? We never have more - we usually have leftovers. I am completely stumped. I don't know how to do more. More of the same thing? More of something else? Not a grab and go item - then what?

After years of wishing and worrying she had an appetite, I feel inconvenienced. Why now? Why not at dinnertime when we have nothing more pressing than some play time or bath. Why all of a sudden is the same breakfast that has sustained her - inadequate. My mommy pride is hurt. This is the challenge of parenting. Wanting, wishing, comparing then changing, juggling and complaining! I want you to eat more - just not right at this minute. I want you to have a bigger appetite but if you could schedule it, give me a weeks notice and start on a Saturday - I'd really appreciate it.

So, I will add to my weekly shop and be prepared - just in time for the growth spurt to pass and the extra food to end up in the compost because that's just how this parenting thing works.

Muse.

What do I do when the kids don't give me any material?

We took an international trip. Involving franticly navigating a massive traffic jam that led to us running onto the plane about 3 seconds before they closed the door. We sat contained in a small space with very spillable food and drinks for several hours. We swam in an ocean full of hazards like sharks and jellyfish. We watched a dead puffer fish float ashore in all it's sharp, shiny glory, perfectly in between the three year old and her little friend's legs.
We took cab rides without seat belts with barely sober drivers. We swam for hours (and hours) every day. We ate foreign food and drank water that allegedly had been 'treated' but tasted less than fresh. We slept in several different beds on rock hard marble floors - perfect for a concussion.

Nothing. Not one comedic mishap. No completely inappropriate public comments. No effusive bodily functions. Not one.

I find this leaves me with blog block. What good are children when they don't give me blog fodder? What is the point of trekking them around the globe if I don't get a good dinner party story out of them? When did they become so mannered, calm and competent? What fun is a flight if your child doesn't barf all over some poor business man in the aisle seat?
Why spend a day at the beach if you don't get to make a toilet out of a hole and a tiny ziploc bag?
Why explore other cultures if your child doesn't innocently make some hugely personal or offensive comment just as the restaurant falls oddly quiet?

So that's it. I have nothing to amuse you with. No cute but humiliating story that you can relate to.
My children were polite, strong stomached, sensible and safe. They missed every possible opportunity to give me something, anything, to write about here. Even as I gave them every chance.

Maybe I should tell you about dangling 700ft above a canyon on a one inch cable with the Mexican Jack Sparrow chasing me with a camera. Maybe.

No Rest for the Wicked.

But for me - a week in the sun.
Don't miss me too much.

Trick Tock.

Time is not important to the nine year old. This is as it should be - she's a child. I don't want her to care about time (with a few notable exceptions.) I am happy for her to be carefree and deadline less. I have not pushed for her to learn to tell time. I don't focus on the clock. It has been to my advantage. Bedtime is when I say it is - not when the clock dictates it. The result is a complete lack of awareness of time. Even now that she can read a clock, if she's not looking at one - she has difficulty telling whether half an hour or half a day has gone by.

It's sweet, endearing. She will ask if this is lunch as I serve dinner - even if it's dark outside. I roll my eyes in a loving 'isn't she adorable?' way. There are many ways this really works out for a parent. Today, I was in a mad scramble to get everything I need for Easter baskets. As my kids are on spring break I had to bring them with me. Not ideal if you are trying to keep the Easter Bunny alive and well, or so you would think. I parked my car outside a shop that had a window full of Easter trinkets. I told the girls I would be right back and dashed inside to pick up to some previously coveted tchotchkes. I was not more than two minutes. I came back with a bag stuffed up my shirt - which was obvious and noisy.
I jumped back into the car trying to act casually and muttering about the shop not having what I wanted.

"OOOOH Mummy!!" says the nine year old.

Sigh - she has seen/heard the bag and knowing that she has wanted something from that shop has worked it out. Easter is ruined. I am a lame parent.

"You had you're hair done! It's lovely!"

What? She actually thinks that I have been to a hairdresser? I cannot believe that she could honestly confuse a two minute dash into a shop with a hair appointment. She's had many haircuts - she knows how long it takes. It just seems unfeasible to me that she can be so unaware. Also, does she really believe I would leave her and the three year old in the car while I go and get my hair cut? Then I realize that I win - she does not see the goodies. The Easter Bunny is alive and well and apparently I have pretty hair. Result.

"Do you like it?" I say as we drive off......

Stuck In A Moment.

Saturday was the first rehearsal for LTYM San Francisco. Life has been throwing me some curve balls lately so the thought of checking out of my regular life was highly appealing. I was positively giddy as I drove there. I couldn't wait to hear the other stories. I was excited to meet the other performers. I was simply happy to be spending a morning being me - not mom.

Often when you build something up in your mind or are looking forward to something so much it turns out not to meet expectations. This was one of those glorious times when my expectations were forgotten as I was absorbed by the experience.

Last year at BlogHer I read at the LTYM lounge organized by Ann Imig. It was, by far, my favorite event at BlogHer. Just listening to people speak their words, told from their hearts is magical. It's your favorite movie live - in front of you. So, I knew this rehearsal was likely to be good.

In all the excitement of getting to listen to the others read - I forgot I would actually be reading. As the woman two before me finished reading, the realization hit. I'm not shy, I quite like an audience but this doesn't stop the nerves from coming. I had just listened to several heartbreaking, side splittingly funny, intelligent, clever or witty stories and now it was going to be my turn.

When you are safe in your home with your laptop - spilling your guts onto the keyboard it's relatively painless. If you do the ugly cry, no-one is there to see it. You can take your snot covered , blotchy face into the kitchen and cheer yourself up with a cookie (or two.) As long as you don't look in the mirror, you can continue to picture yourself as tragically beautiful. Even if you are posting to your blog - you still get to sit protected behind a screen. Not so here in this room with twelve strangers.

Even although I had listened to the others express their nerves and anxieties. Even although I had murmured reassurances and rooted for them as they read, I still hadn't considered how it would actually feel when it was my turn. Here's what I learned. Opening your heart and revealing your deepest secrets is an experience everyone should have. Even as I had to keep taking big deep breathes to steady my nerves. Even as I had to pause to make sure I could get the next sentence out. I knew I was having 'a moment' (is that phrase owned by Oprah now?)

I left that room feeling more alive than I have felt in years. If there is a LTYM event near you - I really hope you'll go. Listen and then consider sharing some of your story with strangers - who just might turn out to be friends.

The Ties That Bind.

Watching the nine year old tie her shoe laces is the most excruciatingly painful thing. Not in a injury kind of way. It is an entirely emotional reaction. I can't stand it.

She has been able to tie shoe laces for a while. She can double knot proficiently - as long as the entire thing can happen in slow motion. A child tying their shoelaces is an instrument of parental torture. Shoes are the last thing to go on before we leave for anywhere. We usually leave for anywhere about ten minutes later than we needed to. This agonizingly, infuriatingly desperately slow process always happens in a time crunch. It is enough to make any parent explode with frustration.

This is why velcro was invented. This is why slip-ons are fashionable. These eminently easier shoes were created by a parent - I'll put money on it. So why even have laces? Excellent question. The nine year old's teacher insists on it. She's a very sensible, educated and rational person. She has her reasons - they are myriad. They are also solid. Even knowing these solid reasons I cannot be calm about the drudgery of laces.

Firstly, shoes are always removed laced up. No matter how much coaching I do on this subject I never fail to be greeted by a pair of double knotted shoes at 7.29am on school mornings. I sit on the bottom step watching the nine year old slooowly untie them. Then she attempts to insert her foot. It won't go in. She removes the shoes and slackens the laces.. She re-inserts her foot. Next she slooowly plucks the laces back into the tight position. She now gathers the laces to actually tie them. Often at this point she is distracted by something and pauses to examine it. I sit on the step slooowly pulling the hair from my head.
Eventually she is finished and stands up. Without fail one of the double knots slips out, or she discovers the laces are not tight enough. She starts again. The clock seems to ticks louder - reminding me that the bus will leave without us.

If you were to take my blood pressure at this point, you'd likely want to call 911 for me. I know you are wondering why I sit by. Here's why - I have tried to rally, to give tips and advice, to focus her to the task in hand. It all causes the process to stall. I have tried starting the process earlier. It's almost as if there is a time vacuum - if I leave five minutes it takes ten. If I leave ten it takes fifteen - and so on.

At certain times of the month my frustration verges on rage. The amount of physical effort I have to put into not tearing those laces out and hacking them up with scissors is exhausting. It's too early in the morning for me to have that kind of patience. I haven't even had a cup of tea. To make it all worse is the look on the nine year old's face. She knows the bus will leave. She knows the bus leaving is bad. She know I am watching. She wants to tie those laces quickly and well. She wants to please me. I want to pluck my eyeballs out but instead I murmur encouragements and smile proudly. This is parenting.

LTYM Now on Sale!

Tickets to Listen To Your Mother - San Francisco are now on sale.
A One Night Mother's Day event giving local writers the opportunity to share their stories about motherhood.

Get your tickets HERE

Did I mention I'm in this show?

A portion of the proceeds will go to THIS wonderful charity.

Take your mom, your girlfriends - everyone!

Looking forward to seeing/meeting you there.......

Early to Bed and Early to Rise.

I am seriously mad right now. Stark raving, pillow punching mad. Why? you ask. Let me tell you. Three (two?) words.
Day Light Savings. Or as I like to call it Day Light F@*&%$#G Savings. Of course I'd never say that in polite company or in a blog post that my elders read.

I have endured this torture for nine years now. (Prior to kids it just interfered with my weekend long lie which was still annoying but perhaps a little less valid.) I have joked along with the other bleary eyed parents and tried to keep a good attitude because the farmers need the daylight. Turns out this is a complete LIE. I am reliably informed that farmers get up with the sun and work while there is light. They pay no never mind to clocks. I conducted an extensive poll and by that I mean I spoke to two people who farm. Time on a clock face means nothing to them. NOTHING.

So I did what all outraged and well educated people do. I consulted Wikipedia. Wikipedia tells me it actually all got started by a man in New Zealand who likes bugs. No joke. This man found that in the spring when bugs are quite busy with their mating and chrysalising etc he didn't have enough daylight hours after he finished his job to study them so he proposed daylight savings. So just so we are clear. We are now all sleep deprived, tearful and cranky because a man in New Zealand had a hobby. He apparently was backed up in his proposal by a man in England who wanted more golf time after work. Golf and bugs. Now do you see why I am angry?

My three year old is so confused right now it's like we have been on an international flight. I am prepared to deal with this madness if I have in fact woken up in another country but no, still here in sameville. Last night she was awake until 3am. How one hour can cause such chaos is not explained in wikipedia so I can't comment on that.

All I know is that it has to stop. I say we occupy daylight savings. A disgruntled parent is the most assertive force I know. Why are we taking this lying down? Actually why are we taking this kneeling at the side of our children's beds pleading with them to please go to sleep or to please wake up for school? Sure the light in the morning is nice but it will show up all by itself in a week or three anyway.

Let's start a petition. We can place posters at our kids schools - use our blogs to get the word out. Who's with me?
What? Oh you're too tired? Yes, me too - let's start with a nap....

Dishes, Laundry and Public Performances.

I found out today I made the cast of Listen To Your Mother - San Francisco!
I checked out the blogs of the other cast members - so many stories, so much talent.
I am excited, nervous and more than a little delighted to do something other than dishes or laundry.
If you live in the Bay Area I hope you'll come to the show.

Because I'm A Mother.

Today I am adding my voice to the STOP KONY 2012 Campaign.

You can find out more about this issue by watching this VIDEO (not for young children.)

I know it's trending on social media sites today and the inevitable opposing view has arisen. My view is this: This is an undisputed and completely horrific reality in many parts of Africa. The majority of those affected are children. Many of these children are alone and have endured and participated in more horror and suffering than can be imagined.
For every action there is a reaction but this cannot be a reason to stand by, witness and ignore.

Please take a look, form your own view and then act as you see fit.

Telling Tales.

Feeling nervous is a terrible thing. Your stomach churns and in my case I develop a bright red, blotchy rash that spreads over my face, neck and chest resembling a bad sun burn. Fabulous. No playing cool, calm and collected here.

On Saturday I auditioned for The Listen to Your Mother San Francisco Show. I wrote a piece specifically for it. Actually I wrote two. One sad and one funny. The sad came easier and I thought it was better so it was my first choice. I'm known for funny though so the producers had asked if I had funny to share. Not feeling that my funny piece was funny enough I pulled something from my book (remember that? Still need a publisher....)
I thought I wasn't nervous. I don't mind speaking publicly (apart from the inevitable rash) and truth be told I quite like it.
So it hadn't really occurred to me to be nervous until twitter started chirping in my ear. My fellow auditioners were plenty nervous.

The power of suggestion should not be underestimated. The butterflies began to gather. I started to wonder if sharing my sad story was the right move. I haven't really written about my mother publicly - is now the right time? If people are expecting to laugh will my grief fall flat? I am reminded of the sometime anchor that is a name like mine. If I am sad or grumpy it's an instant pun. Should I stick with my schtick?

I don't want to. I have a story to tell. It feels ready to come out. This seems like the place. So why the nerves? Reading the other participants posts and tweets I see that there is a common difficulty in telling your story. Wondering how it will be heard. Wondering if being so vulnerable is a risk worth taking. It got me thinking that there must be a root cause for this commom anxiety.

Don't tell tales jumped into my mind. Actually it was more like "Don't tell tales!!" thundered at me by the adults in my past. Is that where the problem starts? The constant childhood assertion that we should not tell what is bursting to come out of us. Some perceived injustice or grievance that seems so important to share - squashed down in three words.

Well I'm an adult now dammit. I WILL tell my tale. So I did.
It was over in a flash. The two producers were friendly and encouraging but I couldn't tell you what they said. As I left I realized it had been a blur. I wondered how dancers do it. So much preparation for minutes of performance, followed by little feedback then a long wait. It had taken me longer to find a parking space than the entire audition process lasted.
Was it worth it? Absolutely. Do one thing each day that scares you. Well unless looking in the mirror first thing in the morning counts, I certainly don't make that mantra a daily habit, but perhaps I can have credit for doing one thing that really scares me once in a while.

Whether I make it into the show or not, I tried. It stirred up my pulse and got my head out of mommyville for a while.
Perhaps telling tales is not such a bad thing after all.

A Little Off Topic.

I met The President. When I say met - I was close enough to hear his voice without a microphone. Close enough to see the detail on his tie. Close enough to receive intense scrutiny by a secret service agent. It was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life.

I was sent a flyer that he was coming to the Bay Area and you could buy tickets. I'm still not sure why. I am not a registered Democrat, I'm not even an American citizen. Either way - I was immediately intrigued. I looked at The Husband and we agreed that this was something we'd like to do. I applied. Easy. It was so easy in fact that immediately I paid (not a large amount of money) I thought that I had just been scammed. I turned to my trusty pal Google which reliably informed me that The President and The First Lady were indeed coming to California for a three day campaign fundraising spree.

Being the introspective kind I spend several days wondering why I had a low thrumming in my belly. Why was I so excited by this? I realized that in no small part I was having a 'Jenny from the block' moment. I grew up on, what you Americans endearingly call, a housing project. My family expectations were that I would leave high school with enough skills to get a steady job as a secretary or even at a bank. Only until I got married of course. So for little ole' me to be in the same room as arguably the most powerful man in the entire world felt like some kind of achievement. Of course I wasn't going because he personally invited me to recognize my achievements as say a mother, blogger, OT or just general all round fabulous person. I did pay for the experience but let's not nit pick.

Next came the most important question of all. What would I wear? I was heavily comforted by the fact that (my soon to be new pal) Michelle Obama likes to wear dresses from Target. The information we were sent recommended comfortable clothes. I remember thinking this odd. I now know they were planning for the fact that we would wait outside in an unbelievably long line and heels and a LBD would have made me miserable.

The day came and I found myself giddy. As a mom, I first had to juggle children and childcare but I did it all with an accelerated pulse. When The Husband and I were finally in the car, on our way, I was like a teenager in line to see Justin Bieber. The two hour, wrapped around the block line only dampened my enthusiasm a little. We enjoyed a floor show from some really random political activists. Each to their own and all that but there really were some obscure themes.

We finally cleared security and got inside. It was a random seating assignment and we were eight rows from the stage. I wasn't expecting a stage. I was sold a 'cocktail reception with The President.' It's all in the interpretation. There were cocktails for sale and The President was going to be there. My plan of dazzling him with some witty political banter evaporated. Also - no Michelle. It was all too exciting for me to care.

We listened to a few speeches from locals, one from a 49ers player and the Obama 2012 SF co-coordinator. Then Chris Cornell of Soundgarden came out. Now we had The Husbands attention. He sang a simple acoustic set including Black Hole Sun and then for Whitney - I will Always Love you.
It seemed random and unrelated but he was good and I did really feel it upped the 'money's worth' factor.

Then he was there, striding across the stage with that enigmatic smile of his. He spoke for 35 minutes. The first ten were pretty standard rally fare. Then a women came running down one of the aisles ranting about something - she was 'removed' within seconds and it seemed like it broke the ice. The speech that had been so carefully placed on the podium for him seemed forgotten. He started speaking from his heart. He talked about the promises he made on the campaign trail on 2008 and how people were disappointed he hadn't delivered. he talked humbly about the mistakes he had made, the things he had to learn and the realities of politics. The molasses involved in every step of the way. The burden of the financial recession which he didn't create but was expected to fix in five minutes. He reminded his wavering devotees that he had been very clear that change was going to be hard. He talked about what he would do with another four years. I found him to be genuine, humble, charismatic, funny, realistic and entirely captivating. When he came down and shook hands with people at the end I saw him listen intently despite the crush around him. I saw him smile with his whole being. He struck me as someone who's heart was in the right place, who's desire to do the right thing was his true motivation. I was impressed. Not to mention that he is devastatingly handsome.

I love to know how things work. I like to see behind the scenes. The 'real' side to every story. To that end the Secret Service men fascinated me. They were without doubt incredibly intimidating. I was left in no doubt that any one of them could take me down with their pinky finger. They talked into their sleeves - just like in the movies. Their eyes bored holes into you making you instantly fear that perhaps you had an AK47 in your back pocket by mistake. I watched them frisk those who got close enough to hug Obama while they were hugging. I feel confident the huggers didn't even notice it happening. I have never before seen the solid bulk of six foot four muscle wriggle into the gap between two humans with such grace and ease and authority. It was like a very carefully choreographed ballet with wrestlers in suits.

Then it was over and we were bustled out into the still closed San Francisco streets. It was an entirely fantastic experience. One I will never forget. Bucket List worthy. AND they let me bring a camera......

Real Women and Real writing.

This is why I love blogging -I came across THIS and it's so good I just have to share it with you. Enjoy!

Be My Valentine.

I remember the agony of high school on Valentine's day. You could put a Valentine in a box at school and at some point during the day the Sixth Year kids would come round and deliver them. The agony of wondering if I would get one and if so who it would be from. The crushing certainty that the 'it' girls would get at least four apiece. Several years were spent pretending I didn't care with all the other cardless in the room. Then one year the biggest envelope in the basket was for me - it was a moment of excruciating embarrassment and immeasurable triumph. All previous years pain erased by that bright pink envelope. It is only now that I see how disturbing the whole scenario was.

So, the grade school approach of one for everyone in the class soothes me. Knowing that the girls will have several years before the soul scaring ritual of waiting and hoping starts - is comforting. The comfort makes me uncomfortable.
This holiday likely causes more sadness, sorrow and loneliness than any other - a huge part of me wants no part of it.
The Husband and I opted out a long time ago. We don't make dinner reservations because we found restaurants inflating their prices for this day. We make our cards and share little homemade or edible treats. We keep it simple and we make it about love. Love for our family, friends, our neighbors, the school bus driver, the crossing guard - we make it a day of expressing our love for our 'village'. It's nice. I have a happy glow. I want to turn the tide.
It shouldn't be exclusive. Sure feel free to celebrate with your sweetie but let's not do it to the exclusion of all others. Stop by an elderly neighbor today and bring a muffin or some chocolate. Tell the post man you appreciate him. Wave a car out. I think you'll get a smile in return.

Smile sweetly when your eight year old tells you at 7.05am that she was supposed to bring a treat for a party at school today.
(No mention of that while we made 24 Valentines over the last few days.) Feel the glow when you manage to pull off providing 24 treats by the 7.30 am departure for the school bus. One animal cracker each totally counts.

I have about four years left to bring this whole Valentine's thing back into scale. Join me?

The Scarlet Letter

Being the source of an illness out break at school is the fastest ticket to social exile there is. In our defense it's unfair to 100% pin it on us - it could have come from anyone.

The Three year old came down with Fifths Disease (you should hear dramatic sounding music in your head about now) or as it's also known - Slap Cheek (switch your soundtrack to a clown car horn.) Her first mistake was to start developing symptoms while at school. By spiking a high temperature and asking to lie down, she managed to draw maximum attention to herself.
As I wasn't able to pick her up early - everyone got to see her in all her plague ridden glory. If there had been a bell ringing it would have been less conspicuous. The vomiting didn't help I'm sure. No chance of sending her for the rest of that week. Sigh.

We dutifully trekked to the doctor. Nothing I enjoy more than paying an expensive insurance co-pay to hear it's a virus that requires nothing more than rest and ibuprofen. Not to mention being no further than two inches from mummy for the next three days. The one valuable thing learned at the Doctor's office - we shouldn't be in touch with pregnant women - especially in the first trimester.

Here's where the difficulty comes in. How do you handle that? A sign, a t-shirt? Ring the aforementioned bell and shout "unsafe for pregnant women" loudly? Since the incubation is up to 21 days, The Husband, The Eight year old and myself are all potential bio hazards at this point. Do I send out a notice to everyone at the eight year old's school? Should the husband stay home from work? Should I shop alone at the market at 10pm only? The three year old got it somewhere so should I just accept that it's a very common virus (Fifth in the world as it happens) and it can't be that infectious?

Sending the info out to the three year olds class was a given - they were definitely exposed. The response was mixed. Now at the risk of sounding like an experienced (some might say pious) second time mom - those newer moms are a panicky bunch.
We don't have Cholera. It's a very common (did I mention Fifth most common?) childhood virus. Pre-schools are the petri dish of childhood. You attend - you'll get sick. Some say it's a good thing, developing immunity and all that. Some (perhaps less medically qualified but wise all the same people) say it's just a giant pain in the derriere. Either way - it comes with the territory.

Our first day back, I definitely observed a wide berth approach from some parents. The not so subtle (think Spanish Inquisition) style 'conversation' at drop off. The studious observation of the Three year old for signs and symptoms. Pregnant momma's that's a whole different thing - I was fully happy for them to give me a Hazmat suit. I am well aware of the those in glass houses principal but let's face it - this didn't stop me giving stink eye to the mom of the kid with the runny nose.

Listen To Your Mother.

My favorite event at BlogHer this year was the LTYM lounge. People reading their stories - giving their blog posts life.
I'm assuming, since you show up here, you like that too. Listening to my stories, hearing my words.
Well now it's your turn. Everyone has a mother story - whether you have one, are one, miss one, want to be one - there's a story to be told. It can be funny, sad revealing, surprising - anything.

LTYM is happening across the United States this year. If auditioning is something you think you will never do - read this.
I did read at BlogHer and it was exhilarating. I know that I am no shrinking violet but I think there is something about sharing your thoughts, stories, words with an eager audience that is magical.

If auditioning is something you KNOW you will never do - plan to be in the audience. It's the perfect Mother's Day outing.
Bring your mothers, sisters, girlfriends. Open the eyes of your husbands and brothers.

I am going to audition for the San Francisco show - I'd love to see you there.
Audition applications are due soon. Go on - surprise yourself - do it!

If You're Happy And You Know It.....

My friend and I were discussing parenthood. She had read an article where the writer had dared to say that becoming a parent doesn't make you happier. In fact, statistically, it makes you less happy. I think that author must now live in a metal reinforced castle and only go out under armed guard. Them's is fighting words.

Of course it's true, my friend and I agreed. I am not happier overall. If I am to compare my life before kids to now - there's no competition. I am more tired, less fit, less healthy. I have considerably less disposable income. I spend a fraction of any spare money I do have on me. My hair, eyebrows, waistline and wardrobe are a shadow of their former selves. My marriage is weaker (but not weak.) I read less, know less, travel less (big sigh.) I am grumpy, frustrated and hurt more often - as in, all three most days. I am much older. While I know that I can't pin the chronological advancement on my girls. I am just older than I think I would be sans children. Note the lack of wiser in that sentence.

"What were we thinking?!" we commiserated.

This friend and I met in our twenties. We lived the high life (at least in our minds.) We had so much fun. We stayed out - past 10pm - gasp! We were, for the most part, carefree. We hung out for lazy hours and hours. We laughed until tears ran down our face on a regular basis. Tears are almost certainly caused by a different emotion these days. So, do I wish I had never done it? If I could would I choose a different path? Am I full of regret?

No, I'm not. Of course - I have my grass is greener moments. I daydream. I miss my old life. I miss old me but as my friend pointed out this isn't about general happiness. Becoming a parent is about moments. Golden moments is one of my favorite phrases. I just hadn't stopped to focus on the deep truth behind those words. I had noticed the fleeting nature of golden moments. How they are often ended by tears (mine embarrassingly more often than the kids.) I just hadn't fully appreciated how pivotal they are.

Parenting is about the exquisite highs. Like the first bite of a delicious meal, or the tantalizing sip of a perfect cocktail. The rest of the food is never as good as that first bite but we eat it anyway. The first mouthful of a cold beer cannot be replicated anywhere within that bottle but we will likely drink it all the way down. Parenting is a steamy hot shower on your sticky, sweaty skin. A swim in a warm ocean. A cosy blanket, a roaring fire, a kiss.

Choosing parenthood may not make us happier overall, there are definitely some desperate lows involved, but we walk the path because the highs are intoxicating. They leave us begging for more. They are incomparable. They are our children.

Buttoned Up.

Are we taking ourselves too seriously? Is our desire to parent well taking over our entire lives? I'm using 'we' because I'm really hoping it's not just me. I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about what I say and do in front of the kids. I think it's important. I want to model for them what I want to see from them. For example, they don't need to know that I got so frustrated with the phone company today that I swore and threw things. I don't want them to swear or throw things. I don't want them to get in trouble at school for repeating something they heard at home that was not school friendly.

It's such a challenge - I have hormones, Oh dear god do I have hormones. It's hard to be a perfect parent when the estrogen fairy is dancing in your system and making you crazy. I want them to have childhood innocence for as long as is possible and let me tell you in our current culture holding on to that past age 3 requires significant effort- so I feel I have to work even harder.

My problem is it's not really me. I am irreverent and sarcastic. I like a well used swear word. The Husband and I come from the land of quick wit, self deprecation and fart jokes. We don't really care too much about etiquette and rules. At the same time I believe in respecting the law, your elders and the system (for the most part.) I also think sarcasm out of the mouth of an eight year old sounds ugly. Where's the balance?

How do I stay me but give my kids a solid moral/social grounding? I think I'm supposed to be both - me in my adult time, Mom when I'm with the girls. But I'm home with the girls. I'm Mom a very large part of the day - about 14 hours. Naughty Joy gets antsy. Sarcasm sits on the tip of my tongue 24/7. I have things to say about pop culture (in all of it's car crash like awfulness.) That side of me is getting very bored of being held in. Do I need to go back to work just so I can let me loose a few hours every day? Maybe I should do stand up. I bet lots of people would pay good money to go and listen to a potty mouthed mom telling hilarious stories involving fish sticks, farts and Kim Kardashian.

Seriously though, it's a quandary. I'm a little afraid that when they reach 18 and I feel free to let loose around them, my kids won't recognize me. Who is this woman with the razor sharp tongue that can burp the alphabet? Will they be looking for their sweet, buttoned up mommy? (For those of you who know me IRL I know that you are now rolling on the floor at the thought of me as sweet and buttoned up but let me believe my kids see me that way - at least some of the time.)
As always the answer lies in the middle ground, my good friend Mosey would say "everything in moderation."

How do you swear and fart in moderation?

When Art Attacks.

So here's a thing. The children's art. It's an instant source of delight and pride. An easy way to monitor their developing skills.
It's cute, funny, intriguing - occasionally worrying. I can still remember my delight at the 8 year old's first turkey hand print picture at Thanksgiving. Who can forget when they first draw something that actually looks like something. A face with eyes and a nose in close to the right places. A rainbow.

So what's the thing? What the hell do you do with it all? Let me be clear - that is somewhat of a rhetorical question. If you are the kind of parent who has your kid's art filed into a folder or made into books - feel free to step away from the comment box. We are happy for you, really we are but I'm looking for advise here in the real world.

I keep it all - in a big pile. In my mind I plan that I will reduce the pile in the future. I have tried. I tried with the 8 year old helping me (begin pointing and laughing now.) I thought she would be able to help me choose her favorites but as was likely predictable, we reduced the pile by one scrawny piece of paper.

Next, I undertook the project when she was at school. I made a reasonable throwaway pile. I filled an envelope to send to the Grandparents. Progress. Then I tried to throw out the throwaway pile. Between the table and the trash can I rescued several drawings. Sigh. We have used some for wrapping paper and made cards out of some pieces - I can recycle.
How can I throw it out?? It's her art. Her first gnome or squirrel. It's priceless.
Time helps. I can now throw out 'some' of her first art - eight years down the road. As you may imagine though, eight years of art is a pretty big pile - I may soon be eligible for an episode of Hoarders.

You may remember that I have two children. What about the three year old's art? Well that's easy - she's the second kid.
Don't judge me - it's just easier to be pragmatic and discerning with kid number two. It's the 'firsts' of everything that are the hang up.
Maybe I'll just get a storage unit?

Them Other Parents Don't Know How To Act.

I have come to the conclusion that becoming parents makes otherwise normal, intelligent and nice people - completely crazy.
While taking my little holiday sabbatical I did a lot of parent watching. Really, we are a bunch of loons.
On a casual look it seems we are either ignoring our children in the name of needing some 'me' time or flying our over- opinionated helicopters so close over their heads we could give buzz cuts. I think we might be raising a very confused generation.

We were at the ice rink and one little boy was skating the wrong way round. The attendant kept asking his parents (and him) to go with the flow, they said:
"He's a free spirit - we want to honor that."
Well you go right ahead and put your 'free spirits' needs in front of the safety of 75 other people - completely reasonable. IF YOU"RE A LOON.

I watched one little girl kick her sister in the shins with her ice skate because 'it was funny' and her Dad solved it by giving her a $20 to go and buy candy. Mister, are you mad? Now I know sleep deprivation and the 24/7 nature of parenting can make the most rational parent do crazy things but what I wondered was this, would you respond this way in any other part of your life? Imagine you're a manager and two co-workers can't get along. I find it hard to believe you'd offer one of them a cash bonus. If you pulled out of your driveway and found someone driving in the wrong direction - you'd probably call 911. You certainly wouldn't applaud their individuality.

What happens to us with children? Sure - they're cute and we love them fiercely but what snaps in our otherwise sensible and rational brains that leads us into saying things that we can't, even for a minute, believe are tripping out out of very own mouths? Why do we let them say and do things to us that were it an adult would lead us to tip our drinks on their obnoxious heads? I know they're learning. I know we need to encourage them to be independently minded but did we confuse that with letting them do whatever they want?
So obviously I am making sweeping generalizations. I am basing my comments on snapshot views of parenting but I do feel we need to bring sensible back. (When it's a hit Justin - I'll be happy with 20%.)

That's my goal for 2012. Let's reactionary, more sensible. I'll let you know how I do.

New Years Resolution

Mine was to blog less.
Just KIDDING!
I will be back here soon. Maybe tomorrow even.
Thanks for your patience.
xo