Lookin' Out For Mah Peeps: That's You.

In my BlogHer panel on Saturday, I got to touch on the concept of not taking paltry pennies for the ad space on your blogs. Because really - none of us are getting 4 digits for those Go Meat ads.

(Unless Dooce - are you reading? Welcome, girl! Loving your hair lately.)

My feeling is that if you're giving brands free real estate on your site through Google Adsense or affiliate programs, while not even making enough to get the minimum payout for them, then maybe you should, um, think twice about having those ads?

I believe I said something like "Stand up for yourself. You're worth it. "

Paid bloggers, especially those of the female variety, undervalue ourselves. And that's worth discussing.

Consider the programs that pay you based on clicks--what that means is you end up losing if the advertising sucks. Example: Say in my evil capitalist day job I write an ad for $600 solid gold toenail clippers that runs in Farmhands Magazine. For some crazy reason, no one buys any!

So is that Farmhands Magazine's fault? Should they make less money for that ad because the product is stupid? Or because their demographic is not interested in $600 solid gold toenail clippers? Should they make less money because maybe hiring Gary Coleman to be a celebrity endorser for $600 solid gold toenail clippers wasn't the best idea?

(Ew! Gary Coleman toenail clippings! Ew!)

Well that's what cost-per-click programs essentially do to bloggers.

And then!

Just yesterday comes along the perfect PR pitch to help me make my case--all while tying in Stefania's point about lame PR pitches to bloggers which I touched on about a year ago and Kristen has posted about hilariously as have others, including the few PR folks who get it. (Edited to add: In fact, David Wescott posted about it today from the PR perspective.)

Stefania (center) about to give the PR world a verbal whuping.

First I noticed the pitch was addressed to "Julie."

Then I got a quick follow-up email saying:

I don't know why I called you Julie either ;)

Yep, a winkie thingie. Not an apology. Just a winkie thingie. Because hahaha, isn't it funny when that happens? And by the way, it happens every week.

But the letter got better from there. And I'm sure some of you reading got the same one, maybe addressed to Julie too:

Hi Julie,

I'm presently working with [client] to help them expand their presence online and think a blogAd on Mom-101 would make an excellent addition to their online ad campaign.

Since the [client] is a fairly small company, I was curious to know what sort of discount you are able to extend toward a one-week trial campaign. Should the results of the test prove fruitful, we would be glad to continue advertising on your blog at a rate commensurate with your normal price structure....

What kind of discount I am able to extend? Seriously?

Here is my exact response (minus one extraneous paragraph):

Hi Danny,

You called me Julie because you probably mailed this form letter to Mothergoosemouse right before you sent it to me, and forgot to change my name in the salutation.

I am pleased you would like to advertise on Mom101. I am not pleased that you are asking for a discount considering it's what, 30 bucks for a week? It would cost more to buy a set of magic markers and make posters.

If you want your brand to have real estate on my blog and reach thousands of women, you are welcome to pay the full price. It is not my job to take a hit on the price if your creative is not compelling, creative, or clear enough to encourage people to click through. As someone with "a lot of experience with blogAds" surely you know that the prices are often paltry and out of step with other advertising programs. Asking mom bloggers - many of whom do this as their only source of income - to cut their rates is unconscionable.

I don't usually respond to requests like this but frankly, it pissed me off.

Mom101

Argh.

Now I will say we had a very respectful exchange afterwards in which Danny apologized for insulting me and the value of my blog, and that since he's working for a small advertiser with a limited budget, his approach was basically "it doesn't hurt to ask."

My response was that wrong, it does hurt to ask.

It hurts the momblogggers who, like his client, are also small businesses, and might in fact take the 10% cut because to them, 90% is better than 0% when this is their sole source of income. And that sucks.

I'm not retelling this conversation to be a dick. I don't think Danny is a bad guy or that he was intending to be as sleazy as his first email came across.

But I am retelling this because I don't want to see his client's ads on any of your blogs, knowing that you took 10% off the price for him.

Don't mess with my girlz. They be my mommygang.

Not Necessarily a BlogHer Recap

I am trying to collect my thoughts from this weekend's BlogHer Con, which isn't easy to do when I'm operating on no sleep. Sage graciously picked last night of all nights to fall off the bed at 3:48 AM and while she went right back to sleep, I stayed up for another hour with the 3AM crazies, convinced that her rapid return to slumber was due to the brain-altering concussion she'd just gotten.

(She's fine.)

Also, I'm recovering from closing my right nipple in my stroller as I went through security at O'Hare. I suppose I was a little distracted by the guard confiscating my shaving cream at the time since, as we all know, a 39 year-old mother from New York with BlogHer buttons on her diaper bag and a canister of Edge in the toiletry case pretty much screams Al Qaeda to anyone proficient in terrorist profiling.

(My nipple's mostly fine.)

I will say that to link all the amazing women I met this weekend would take me until Thursday. The Toronto contingent alone would take until Wednesday. But it was a fabulous time.

It seemed less political than last year, I didn't sense any mommyblogger v nonmommyblogger tension, and aside from some minor drama of little consequence most everyone seemed to enjoy herself. The complaints were mostly channeled into constructive discussions--like the one at Citymama right now regarding PR pitches to mombloggers in general and women of color in particular. Or Joy's awesome panel on the politics of blogrolls which I missed. Because it was the same time as my own panel. Which was mostly me just standing there and listening to a lot of stuff about tax code while thinking about what a bad hair day I was having.

I'm sure by tomorrow there will be plenty of overanalyzing and and overthinking in order to uncover one not-so-fun aspect of the weekend to write about. After all, don't most women live by Descartes' wife's much underquoted line, I Complain Therefore I Am? I know I do.

Until I figure about what I really want to say about the weekend, I am basking in the thoughts of new friends, old friends, Sage's new friends, my mother's new friends, my photo with Elizabeth Edwards, and the 18 cookies that I totally shoved into my tote bag when no one was looking.

PS I'd like to thank the crew of American Airlines flight 390 for being super cool during our 2 hours on the runway yesterday. A smile and free bottled water goes a long way.

PPS I'd like to thank the makers of Spanx for the new semi-crotchless design that allows one to easily pee, even standing at a urinal. Photo courtesy of Rebecca who knows how to wear a hat.

It's a WOMEN'S conference, see?
So we're commandeering the men's room, see?

PutStuffOnHerBadMother.Com

(With apologies to putstuffonyourcat.com)















Thanks to Her Royal Badness for allowing us to take her dignity right along with her consciousness.

Frequent Flyer Mile(Stones)s

It's just 2:21 EST and so far Sage is rocking it with the many exciting firsts for the baby book that I have yet to purchase.

-Her first flight cancellation
-Her first teeny weeny plane ride (to DC which, last I checked--not exactly on the way from New York to Chicago but better than Raleigh which was our other option)
-Her first induction into the mile-high nursing club
-Her first three hour delay

So as it turns out, Chicago? Maybe not the best place for a convention in the middle of thunderstorm season. Just ask Kristen who is now driving (DRIVING) from Cincinatti where she was stranded with her own baby.

With any luck we'll get there by 7. I feel like Vince Vaughan and Jon Favreau in that scene in Swingers where the VEGAS, BABY! rallying cry becomes a half-hearted whoo. vegas. after 6 hours in the car.

whoo. blogher.

Thank God for grandma. And Wi-Fi in Washington National.

I still can't bring myself to call it Reagan Airport.

Blogging Me. Like That's Any Different Than Any Other Day Around Here.

BlogHer Conference blogging officially begins Thursday. Fair warning: There will be shameless name-dropping, gratuitous photos of favorite online writers, references to alcohol and Amy Sedaris (maybe together?), and gossip.

Definitely gossip.

Because you want to know about me in 10 seconds? I always have a camera on me. And I'm not afraid to use it.

The croc-slandering Motherhood Uncensored:
CAUGHT SHOPPING FOR CROCS

Respectable academic Her Bad Mother:
CAUGHT THROWING HERSELF AT 80s ROCK ICON DEE SNYDER

Devoted Jesus-loving wife and mother Yvonne:
CAUGHT EXHIBITING LESBIAN TENDENCIES

What else can I tell you about me that I haven't already on Mom101?

-I hate diet soda.
-I am hunky dory with ads on blogs as a rule, and you're welcome to fight me on it at my panel on the Art+Commerce of Blogging Saturday at 2:45 which, hilariously, is sponsored by PR firm Edelman. Why not!
-If I have a glass of wine in my hand, I am likely talking too much.
-For those participating in the Great BlogHer Photo Scavenger Hunt my shoe size is 6.5, my name is Liz, and I will in fact be nursing when I'm not pawning the baby off on my mother.
-Yes, my mother is coming.
-You will like my mother better than me.

-Also, I can't do anything in 10 seconds where writing is concerned. I'm hopelessly verbose.

D.W.A.

So my skinny little girl is officially my too-skinny little girl. At least according to Dr. S at Thalia's last well visit.

(When did check-ups become called well visits anyway? It sounds like the PC police got a hold of this one accidentally on a break from yelling at people who still say stewardess.)

I've mentioned my pediatric practice in the past as a team of docs somewhat lacking in bedside manner. I think of them as DWA - Doctors With Attitude. Instead of good cop/bad cop they're more like condescending cop/more condescending cop. Only they're not cops, they're doctors. And doctors are supposed to be nice and smiley and hold your hand and say "there, there" then give your children lollipops when they're done. That doctor from Little House on the Prairie? That's who I want. Although I'd settle for Doc on the Love Boat. Heck, I'd take Doc Severenson. If only my insurance covered him.

Instead I've got pediatricians who, while perfectly competent, like to start each session with some comment designed to make me feel far inferior to their masterful medicine-practicing selves.

"Well that's an interesting breastfeeding position," Dr S once said as she walked in on me nursing Sage in a position that I suppose deviated from the handbook.

Or another favorite from Sage's first visit: "That's quite a yellow baby you've got there. You didn't notice?" No, we didn't notice, terrible parents that we are. Terrible, unobservant, neglectful parents. She rushed my 5 day-old daughter out to look at her in the sunlight before admitting, without apology, that it was the light in the examining room that was discolored and not my daughter.

Got the picture?

So when she scrutinized the horizontal line on the weight chart and informed me that Thalia hadn't gained a pound in six months, I shouldn't have been surprised that she did so with an accusatory, "What's going on here?" Never mind that it might be a little upsetting to hear that my daughter is wasting away into nothingness with my profound neglect of her nutritional needs.

The retorts come to me later, as they always do. (Wait, so you mean we're supposed to be feeding her all this time? Damn.) Instead, I murmured something like She doesn't like to eat I mean eat a lot, it's not like she doesn't eat ever...she likes peas and she likes ice cream, but wait I didn't mean she only eats peas and ice cream because she likes rice especially with peas and WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?

You see, I have no bravado where the DWA are concerned. They just look at me with their fancy med school eyes and I melt into a quivering little puddle of ums and ers. It's only here that I can come back and sound all indignant and sarcastic. But in the moment? I'm like a schoolgirl being scolded while quietly looking down at my shoes.

You would have thought that I were the first patient ever to sit in front of Dr. S saying that I had a picky two-year old. That no, I couldn't mix ground beef into her mac n cheese because she will not eat mac n cheese in the first place, and if there was some way sneak meat into Dora cereal, then maybe we could talk strategy.

Each of my responses (No, she doesn't like fishsticks. No, she doesn't like French toast.) was met with disbelief. Sometimes eye rolling. But she continued making suggestions in that bored monotone of hers until finally shrugging me off and moving onto a hopefully more exciting patient in the next room. With any luck it was a kid with the Plague.

I was told to come back in three months for a weight check.

In my heart I know Thalia's fine. She's active, she's energetic, she's healthy. Nate was a string bean of a child growing up, and I didn't top 95 pounds until I got to college and discovered the all-carb-and-alcohol diet. Surely it's Thalia's genetic destiny to show off her rib cage under stretchy tank tops and wear pants that fit lengthwise, but that slip down to her knees as soon as she takes a step.

But still:

"Let's keep an eye on her."

I think my emotions about discovering my daughter is something short of a specimen of biological perfection are compounded by feeling like the mom who, two kids later, still doesn't know what she's doing--and the doctor knows it. Like I'm the parent who's feeding my kids nothing but Count Chocula and Kit Kat bars, then washing it down with Red Bull. Like I'm not the parent who sits in front of my daughter's high chair, begging her to finish that measly little quarter of a peanut butter sandwich every day.

All I wanted--needed--was for the doctor to say "She's healthy in every way, but you should start giving her an egg a day." Or "Wow, she's speaking in full sentences! Now just try to get some more protein into her." But nope. That's not what I got.

Not even close.

No parent ever wants to hear "let's keep an eye on her," not from any doctor, and not for any reason. Even one that you know in your heart is not really a major issue. (Even if you can come back to your blog later and get all passive-aggressive about it.) Is it so hard for some doctors to remember this fact when they're delivering the news?

Not too many pie-eating contest wins in her future, I'm afraid.

__

Every Monday, whatever I write here also miraculously appears over at Time Out NY/Kids. Funny how that works.

__

Edited to add: Thank you all so much for the much needed-support and suggestions for cramming protein down her throat surreptitiously. I suppose the cure for this supposed obesity epidemic in children has something to do with blogging, since all of you seem to have skinny little wisps of children too.

I just remembered something called to mind by Melizzard's comment. When my mother was worried about my brother's low weight as a kid, the pediatrician said something that calmed her down immensely: I've yet to lose a Jewish kid to starvation.

Do I Amuse You? Do I Amuse You?

I had been waiting to take Thalia to Rye Playland for ages. The only one more excited was my father, who spent many 70's summer weekends coaxing my brother and me onto the ricky-ticky haunted house ride, springing for caramel apples and unwinnable midway games, and gobbling down lukewarm hot dogs (the contents of which might convert the most stalwart carnivore to vegetarianism) all for the love of his children. We only lived a few towns over, and each summer we could count on at least one family excursion there.

The Playland of my youth was a far cry from the how-long-can-you-go-without-puking theme parks of today. You'd find art deco architecture, beautiful gardens, classic rides like bumper cars and the whip, and a single adult coaster in the old-style wooden Dragon Coaster. The boardwalk on the park's eastern border was magical even before the movie Big came along and introduced it to the world. And you could also always count on some amateur dance troop to kick-ball-change across the main stage (Jazz hands, everyone!) for your entertainment when you needed to sit down out of the sun for a bit.

In high school, there was a brief summer when the park experimented with pay-one-price admission instead of ride tickets. That was the year we'd take on The Rotor 10 times in a row, allowing the centrifugal force to stick us to the carpeted wall while trading urban legends about previous Rotor riders and the wacky and wild things that happened to their semi-digested lunches.

(Is it even possible that my own stomach was ever able to withstand such torture without emptying its contents in foul and violent ways? And afterwards, take in beer? Cheap beer? I can hardly believe it.)

But it was my younger days in Kiddieland with its little toot-toot cars and helicopters you could "drive" which formed my sweetest memories--and where I couldn't wait to take Thalia.

The place is far more run down than I remembered it; the attractions representing old amusement park charm--like little tableaus of animatronic nursery rhyme characters--are sorely neglected. The "Playland Express" train ride takes you on a tour past painted plywood cutouts of such can't-miss local landmarks as the Westchester County Center. Most of the teenage ride operators were apathetic, if not downright annoyed. (Would it kill ya to smile at a cute two year-old even once?) The food was frightening.

And our day? Absolutely, deliciously perfect.

A few things I learned:

-Just because you rode the Rotor 10 consecutive times in high school does not mean you ride the Kiddieland car ride even once without feeling nauseated when you're pushing 40.

-Oh my God, I am old.

-If the makers of Windex would consider making a deal with the park, I think the Hall of Mirrors could very much use your sponsorship. I knew I was That Mom (as Her Bad Mother put it) when I chased Thalia through the glass maze crying, "Don't touch anything! Don't touch anything!"

-The single most captivating attraction to a 2 year old girl at Playland: No idea, but it has Care Bears in it.

"Ooooohhhhh..."

-Some people need to bring boom boxes into a theme park to have a good time. You can totally see why--theme parks just aren't inherently fun. In fact I put them in the same category as traffic court and the hospital emergency room on Christmas Eve.

-If your daughter is begging to see the singing cats and you have no idea what in God's name she is muttering about, take a look around. If you still see no singing cats, but your daughter is now on the verge of tears asking for the singing cats, look again. When you decide to walk away assuming there's some sort of cat character walking around, yet your daughter is now flailing wildly in your arms screaming SINGING CATS, that is when you'll notice that right in front of your face is something that to a toddler very much looks like singing cats. Stupid Mommy.

Of course she was a little upset when her
daddy wailed baseballs at the singing cats.

-Food at a theme park is an afterthought. Not for you maybe, but for the theme park. And if Dippin' Dots are the "Ice Cream of the Future" I will happily remain in 2007 forever.

-While you can put any number of vegetables in front of your daughter and she will refuse to even try them, you can offer her some puffy pink thing on a stick that looks like stuffed animal innards, and even though she's never heard of it before, she instinctively knows it will taste like pure sugar.

Even better than fat peas!

-Grandpas, not money, make the world go round. Although a grandpa with money is definitely an asset on the midway.

-If you find a midway game filled with a bunch of seven year-old campers, don't be all nice and parent-like and wait for them to finish up. Take those beyatches on! You may very well win that Dora doll on your first try for a total cost of $2, instead of the $168 it customarily takes.

Licensed characters! Licensed characters!
Now I can cross that yearly good mommy deed off my list.

-Turn your head for one second and you child will inevitably find the one thing you don't want her to.

Thalia ranked lukewarm, but Dora was downright frigid.

-Whatever you do, save the carousel for last. Nothing will compare. Not even the Dora doll.

New York City Apartment Building Lobby, 9:14 AM, Saturday July 21

The Loyalty Test

Thank you so much for all the candid thoughts about blog advertising, good, bad and--well, not really ugly but maybe a little homely if the light hits it in the wrong way. Read the comments - so much intelligent thinking! Please keep it coming if you haven't weighed in. It will help me seem sharper on my BlogHer panel than I really am these days. (Really. Think about trying to slice through a pineapple with one of those free popsicle stick-looking ice cream taster thingies and that's sort of how my brain is functioning in these fourth trimester days.)

And since I now know that quite a few of you absolutely hate when bloggers write, "Hey, see what I wrote over at thisotherwebsite.com today!" I'm going to do just that. Just to see what happens.

So,

Hey...see what I wrote over at Wonderland on AlphaMom today. I'm keeping the place warm and toasty for Alice in her absence. Or maybe I just farted, which wouldn't be entirely out of the question. I'm writing about Harry Potter. Ever heard of the guy?

The Great Sellout: Maybe Me? Maybe You?

There's a good brawl going over at Metrodad's place on, of all things, ads on personal blogs. And just in time! As Weird Girl says, it's been a slow summer, fight-wise. Sure, the crazy "Animals should roam the world free while people are in cages" folks came by to tell me I should have my ovaries forcibly removed from my body for writing this post, but otherwise, s-l-o-w.

Why I was just thinking about posting a good ol' BREASTFEEDING IS FOR PUSSIES post just to get things going around here.

By the way, I can say PUSSIES here. Why? Because I didn't check the "I don't use profanity on my blog so that advertisers can feel happy about advertising here" button in my BlogHer Ads agreement. I feel like a well-placed "fuck" can have great literary value. Besides, if a "holy shitballs, I have toxoplasmosis" line is what needs to come out of my head and onto these pages, I'm not going to hold back.

That's another story. But it is a good segue.

I've got opinions about ads on blogs. Loads of them, some of which I've expressed here from time to time. But eh, I'm sick of hearing me think. So I want to know what you think. Especially because next week, I'm speaking at BlogHer about this very thing. So I'm turning to you, my intelligent, opinionated, and attractively blemish-free readers.

What do you think about ads on blogs? Where do you draw the line? Have you ever stopped reading a blog because of too many ads or annoying blinking ads or ads for nuclear munitions? Are there any blog ads you do like to see? Does it matter what kind of blog it is, or are all blogs the same?

Here's something else I'm curious about: I often see the retort "I'm feeding my family with the ads on my blog" at which point the ad-hater generally stutters "well, uh, I guess that's okay then. Sorry to have bothered you." Like we're talking about panhandling here. Is it acceptable to make money off your blog if it's your only source of income but for no other reason?

Okay so I'm getting awfully close to my opinions again here (dammit!) which is not the point of this.

See how I said "dammit?" I can do that!

In Search of a Smile

Edited: Now, with photo!

----

Sage's birth announcements have finally arrived, two months to the day after the actual birth that the cards are designed to announce. You know, since they are called birth announcements

and all. Now who in our circle hasn't yet heard about my youngest daughter, I don't know, but here I am in any case, applying ugly 41 cent Liberty Bell stamps (it was that or Star Wars) to the top right corner of a hundred envelopes. Etiquette dictates that This is What You Do and who am I to argue with etiquette. Besides, I need one for the page of the baby book that says "attach announcement here."

Never mind that I don't have a baby book. Minor detail.

Of course the timeline of this announcement business is quite different than it was the first time around. With Thalia, I heralded the news of her abandonment of my womb mere days after the actual event. By this time roughly two years ago, the cards were already delivered, torn open, and tossed into junk drawers across America. All I had left to do was manage the returned envelopes marked addressee unknown from Nate's family members who move with the frequency that most people change their underwear.

I wish I could say that the delay in Sage's cards had something to do with fatigue or juggling a toddler or even announcement apathy, that underrated affliction that runs rampant among second-time moms.

The truth is, I just couldn't find the perfect photo.

There was something very specific I had in mind, and I believed I'd know it when I saw this one brilliant snapshot (out of the roughly 42 billion) I had taken of Sage. Within its borders, the baby would be looking directly at camera. Of course she'd be smiling, piercing the lens with a joyous intensity that proclaimed to the world just how happy she was to be cooing and gurgling and passing exceedingly loud gas among us. It might even have a sort of otherworldly glow around it, if not a flashing neon sign proclaiming THIS IS THE ONE.

But nope, no such photo to be found.

Sage's smiles were never big enough. Her gaze was not direct. She just sort of lay there looking serious. Sometimes severe. Occasionally sweet. And when she did smile, which was not too often, she mostly seemed to be smiling for herself.

So I kept snapping. Dozens more every day.

I'd diligently upload the set onto my computer and lean into the screen to scrutinize the entire lot until my lower back started aching, before rejecting each one for falling somewhere short of magical.

With every day that I failed to take the perfect photo, Sage grew (as babies tend to do). By six weeks she looked less like a squished, fresh newborn and more like a child. My time was up.

That's when I realized: The picture I had in mind was nothing I'd ever have taken.

Not if I snapped a hundred more photos, not if I snapped a hundred million more photos. Because it wasn't a description of Sage.

It was a description of Thalia.

It pained me to become aware of having already fallen into the one trap I swore I would not with child #2.

Sage is not her sister. She wasn't born smiling. Sage's earliest toothless grins were slower to come, her gaze less demanding of your attention, her expressions somehow newer. Quieter. Softer.

Now that she finally does smile, she will not be compared to the Gerber baby. Her eyes nearly squint to closing. Her tongue hangs out over her bottom lip and her cheeks puff out to her ears. It’s the smile so honest that it can’t be held back or even contained within the perimeter of her face. It’s awkward and goofy and utterly enchanting.

Sage may not become the child who stands up in the center of the circle at music class and dances by herself. She may not become the child who's speaking in full sentences at two and knows the names of birds and fish that even I can't identify. She will have her own quirks and her own accomplishments and her own funny traits for me to write about so I can embarrass her in years to come. I thought I knew these things from the start. But I didn’t. Not really. Not until I spent six weeks looking for a representation of Sage that didn't exist.

I went back to my photo library with a clear mind and no expectations. Wouldn't you know it, there were dozens of beautiful pictures of my littlest girl. Too many to count. To many to even send to her grandparents to fawn all over.

The one I chose, it's perfect. Because it's her.

--

Every Monday you can find Mom101 at TimeOut/Kids along with great NYC area listings and articles, some nearly as witty and entertaining as Mom101.

You're Good Enough, You're Smart Enough, and Doggonit, People Like You As Long As You Shower

It's two weeks to the BlogHer conference and I am already seeing a heapin' helping of nervous twittering around the 'net. And I don't mean Twittering twittering. (If you don't know what that means, you can learn about it at BlogHer, right?)

In general, there's a whole a whole lot of OMG-ing: OMG what if I don't meet anyone? And OMG what if no one likes me? And OMG what if one of the popular girls spreads rumors about me and everyone thinks I smell and someone puts a Kick Me sign on my back and then another girl trips me in the cafeteria line and I get beans all over my new shoes?

I am here to assure you that none of the above things will happen. It's a professional conference, not a gathering of the Greater Chicago Chapter of the National Mean Girls Association.

You will meet people. You will learn things. You will get to hear Elizabeth Edwards speak inspiring words. You will find many women to clink Yahootinis with, and all will be right with the world.

But just in case you don't believe me, Kristen had this idea for a BlogHer mixer: A scavenger hunt. Only with photos. So don't worry you don't have to steal Lisa Stone's license plate or Mayor Daley's steak knives to win. (Seriously, what is it about Chicagoans and meat? The entire city smells like meat. It's uncanny.)

A few brilliant women offered ideas and help, and suddenly The Great BlogHer Photo Hunt was born.



There are even serious prizes for the winners--stuff any woman would like (not just moms), like jewelry and bags and a one-night stand with your choice of Grey's Anatomy Cast Members. Yes, I have that kind of pull.

You don't have to be a parent. You don't even have to be a woman. I respect your right, men, to want to win that hot leather Rian handbag, if that is your choice.

All the rules and blah blah blah are here.

You may now resume worrying about the size of your asses.

Fish Begone

One of my most vivid childhood memories is not walking along the beach in Cape Cod when I was about four. I say not walking because I refused to allow my feet to touch the ground, after seeing the myriad little air holes that snails buried beneath the sand left in the wake of the receding tide.

Snails! Beneath the sand! Snails that could touch me!

I recall shrieking and raising my feet as high as I could away from the invisible sand monsters below me, while my parents each grabbed an arm and dangled me between them.

This post at Notes from the Trenches just shook free this and other memories tied to my fear of fish.

Yeah, I know.

Shut up.

Stop laughing.

Despite my uncharacteristic affection for spicy tuna rolls, I don't much care for sea creatures. I don't like looking at them, I don't like smelling them, I don't like being too close to them. To this day I am reluctant to jump in the lake across from my mother's house, even on a sweltering day like today, for fear that something might touch me. Something cool and slimy. Something alive. Something with gills. Because if one touches me...well, then. You know what could happen.

Exactly.

I'll go in, eventually, but I don't enjoy it the same as if I were swimming in a nice, crystal clear, fish-free swimming pool.

Oddly though, I like the aquarium. There's a lot to be said for plate glass.

The great irony of my life is that my mom had to go ahead and marry a fisherman years later. Christopher is a guy who catches crab and planks shad for a living. A guy who used to gut fish on our kitchen counter during my extra-squeamish teen years. He even once dumped a pile of fresh shad roe into my high school girlfriend's mitten. Like ohmigooooood, like your mom's boyfriend is like soooooo weird to put fish eggs in my MITTEN.

Last week at the beach, Chris returned from the shoreline with a small black mussel that he placed in my daughter's hand.

Far from freaked out, she was smitten.

"Baby animal!" she squealed, with the same delight as if this button-sized shell contained a kitten or a bunny.

She pet it and she kissed it and then clutched it tightly in her palm so that she could bring it back to its home in the water.

In some ways, I am delighted that Thalia is not like me.

Thalia's Birthday Weekend in Numbers

2: Number of family celebrations for Thalia (So take that, America)

47: Number of minutes she lasted in her birthday dress before deciding that "naked time" would be more fun

7: Total number of times the happy birthday song was sung and candles were blown out

Party #1, Happy Birthday Song #3,
and we're just getting started here

2: Number of parents coming to the realization that you can buy your child a ridiculously overpriced top of the line supertricycle that promises real air tires, a comfortable ride and an authentic bell, but only when presented with a little Melissa & Doug animal toy thingie will she exclaim WOWWWWW! OH MY GOODNESS! HEY, COOOOOOOOL!

1 million: Number of dollars I wish I had so I could pay my relatives to live with me and attend to my children whenever I need to take a nap.

3: Number of friends made; 2 of them inanimate

New Friends, L to R: Quinlan, "Girl," "Boy," Thalia

100: Estimated number of times I felt like a complete dork tearing up over having a 2 year-old.

Two! How is that even possible?

Gifts for Everyone!

Today, for Thalia's birthday, I am giving her the best gift ever: I am totally unplugging for the weekend while we're down at the beach.

And you get a gift too! A guest post from me at AlphaMom's Wonderland, while Alice takes a breather.

Alice is a very important and powerful person. She can have me killed if she thinks I ruined her column in her absence. I hope you'll go there and leave nice comments.

See y'all next week.

Halfheartedly Waving My Flag

While it's easy for me to riff on outlandish kids parties the truth is, I'm a little bitter about them. I'll never get a chance to throw some crazy bash for Thalia. I'll never get to sneak a pony up the elevator or have REM show up and sing the birthday song Thalia's closest 375 friends. Not even if I had a hundred schmillion dollars in the bank. Why?

She shares a birthday week with America.

This would be all well and good if America would kindly do for Thalia what people often do that have the same birthday--have their parties together. But nope. America has gone and claimed the whole week for itself, selfish country. No sharing here. No benevolent gesture for a sweet little two year-old girl who might like a party. Never mind that America has had TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY birthday celebrations and Thalia's only had one.

Big meanie.

This is the week that kids of friends are hauled off to summer homes and vacation cottages and cabins in the mountains. This is the week the city is so, vacant you can hear the clicks of the traffic lights if you listen carefully enough. This is the week that belongs to tourists, stumbling around with their guide books and purses clutched to their chests in the out-of-towner death grip. You think the blogworld is quiet? Try looking up kids' activities in the city. The computer all but laughs at you. Don't you know you're supposed to hightail it out of here this week, silly woman? This is AMERICA'S week, not Thalia's.

Instead we're going to head uptown to Grandpa and Grammye's for a barbecue, then down to the beach for a low-key celebration with more family. And it will be awesome. Because Thalia will be surrounded by people who love her, love her enough to give their holiday weekend to her and put on funny hats when they sing, just like she's asked for. She'll get to eat chocolate cake off Sesame Street (TM) branded plates. She'll blow bubbles. She'll open presents.

And then I'll have a whole year to figure out what the heck we'll do next July 6th.

So happy birthday America. Jerk.

Tonight We're Going to Party Like it’s 1999 Only I Have Kids Now and My 401(k) Was Destroyed

Every Monday, find Mom-101 cross-posted at Time Out Kids where you'll find many great diversions around NYC for the family, to compensate for ignoring them while you're reading blogs.
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There are plenty of scary things about parenting in New York: Playground germs, the price of preschool, navigating c-store aisles with a double stroller. But the thing that’s caused more anxiety in me has been the prospect of throwing a children’s birthday party.

These days, it’s impossible to keep up with even the other keeper-uppers, or those keeping up with the keeper-uppers, let alone the Joneses themselves. We’ve all heard the stories. And they’re insane. I can just imagine some of these parents having to say to their children one day, Sorry honey, we can't afford college for you, but you did have Jean-Georges make your birthday cake when you were two. It was chocolate-raspberry! Remember? Remember?

Thalia’s about to turn two on Friday so I still have some time before the parties get out of control. (Also until she has more than one friend to invite.) But when that time comes, I can't compete with the $50,000 princess/ superhero/ Daddy-made-millions-on-hedge-funds parties. I don't want to compete. Did I mention I can't compete?

I figure if you can’t outspend, outwit. So I jotted down a few local but affordable party ideas for the future that I'm tossing around instead:

Sleepover at the Mayor's Office
Who needs to sleep over at the Bronx Zoo or the Museum of Natural History when one of the great city landmarks is just over the bridge from us? The highlight of the evening is gathering the kids around a single flashlight at midnight and telling scary stories of budget cuts, transit fare hikes, and the D'Amato years.

Backyard Barbecue
Our friends in Chelsea with a coveted fire escape off the living room (i.e. "outdoor space") will lend us the place for the afternoon. Nate can set up a mini hibachi grill out there, churning out about six hot dogs an hour. The kids will take turns playing in the great outdoors, one at a time. Fresh air!

Sidewalk Petting Zoo
Without spending one penny or waiting on one line, the kids will have unfettered access to animals from squirrels to pigeons to squirrels.

Dora the Urban Explorer Party
Each kid gets a purple backpack filled with snacks and toy binoculars as we journey to uncharted territory like the Times Square Olive Garden and Staten Island.

Camping
We’ll pitch our own tents outside the Public Theater a week before Shakespeare in the Park tickets go on sale. Come on! It will be fun! And mommy wants to see Kevin Kline.

A Day of Crafts
We can set up tables in Dag Hammarskjold plaza by the U.N. and paint colorful signs using pretty Arabic letters. Pay no attention to the photographer in the van with the CIA-issue Ray Bans.

Subway Party
Kids will get first-hand exposure to the color and diversity of New York spending three consecutive hours underground. Refreshments provided by children selling boxes of M-n-M's for their schools. (That’s, “for their schools.”) A continuous stream of musical entertainment provided by That Guy With the Guitar on the 6 train, That Guy With the Steel Drum on the 2 train, and on the A, That Guy Who Sort of Sings But Isn't Entirely Aware That Anyone's Watching Him.

Free Movies in Bryant Park Not on a Monday
Come on everybody, and gather around the iPod!

The Gift: It Keeps on Giving

I was never good at throwing things out. I have boxes filled with postcards from 20 years ago and more, greeting cards signed by people I've long forgotten, and photos - oh, the photos. It's as if throwing one out is somehow throwing out the person. And so I err on the side of caution and save them all.

I save memories too. I hoard them like treasures. Like Halloween candy. But I rely on my mind more than I should to preserve them. My mental snapshots need safer keeping than my brain will allow. Particularly the newborn memories, with their value in inverse proportion to the functionality of our gray matter during those weeks.

Thanks to Blog Antagonist, and her lovely essay (post seems an unworthy descriptor), The Gift, I am taking the time to write down more things. The little things, the ones not worthy of a blog post or even a personal journal entry, but maybe just a brief few words scribbled on a scrap of paper and tucked into a junk drawer or laid between the leaves of Thalia's half-finished baby book. I'm not always sure what I am saving these memories for. Maybe they'll appear here in some form some day. Maybe they're to share with family. Maybe they're just for me and Nate to laugh about in the dark when we have that odd, quiet moment alone.

Thalia dancing to the Backyardigans theme song.

Licking slices of pickled ginger and saying "mmmmm, sushi."

Anyone playing baseball is is "Yankees!"

The hiccups, all the time.

Sometimes it's funny moments I don't want to forget.

The dragonfly that stayed on our window for three days. Thalia ran to look at it every morning until Nate explained "it flew home to its mommy and daddy." Of course it was dead all along.

Trying to explain pronouns. When she asks for the baby she says "hold it?" I tell her her sister is not an it. She thinks a while and says confidently, "Hold...HIM."

I told Thalia not to stick her fingers into her butt and then into her mouth. "Eat it," she said. No, I told her. Don't eat it. A pause. A devilish smile. "Liiiiike it."

Or it's a list of those toddler misnomers--adorable really only when you catch them in person, and best left off the blog. Anything that in the retelling, might end with the disclaimer, "you had to be there."

A dragonfly is a dragontail.
A birthday cake is a happy cake.
Parmesan is yummy cheese.

As in BA's situation, some of the memories come back at strange times, kicked from the cobwebs of my mind into clear consciousness for unknown reasons.

Or sometimes they come back because we now have a baby here again.

As different as Sage is from Thalia, she's the harbinger of recessed recollections. She's giving me a gift, a second chance to remember things about Thalia too. Like how shakes her head frantically side to side when she wants to suck on something. (Generally me). Or how her little gurgly sounds after nursing sound like heureux, heureux--French for happy.

I would hate to have lost those. And now I have them back.

BA put it so perfectly poetically as she always does: "These memories are kept in the slippery gray folds of my mind, just waiting for something to beckon them forth on tendrils of memory that are like fine silken threads; soft and slender, but strong. Substantial. Enduring."



And that's why she easily gets my nomination for June's Perfect Post.