And with that, the mom blog world subdivides once again

The momblog world, it is a-changing.

(What hasn't changed is my refusal to say mommyblog because I hate that word with the fiery passion of a thousand habanero chilis. But I digrees.)

Yesterday I read Kristen's post about being introduced like a kooky mom at a professional conference, instead of a professional blogger who runs a successful website (if I do say so myself). Even if at times she is indeed both. I can attest to that. The post gave me pause about how far we still have to go in terms of being taken as seriously as male bloggers in some circles, and how hard that might be when we're not all business all the time. There's a reason Hillary wore pantsuits.

And then I just read Lindsay's post about the lengths some moms are going to get free stuff from marketers. Bloggers are leaving their business cards on random shelves of a grocery store? Isn't that like, up there with nail salons that stick flyers under your windshield wipers in the parking lot or attorneys who buy ads on the subway?

Like Lindsay, my jaw fell open and small pesky flies rushed in.

As a mom, I want to be supportive of what my fellow sisters in momhood do with their little corner of the www. There's plenty of bandwidth for all of us, whether we consider ourselves memoirists, journalers, online scrapbookers, or honest product reviewers. I got no beef with self-promotion, twittering, facebooking, networking, conference attending and community building 864 ways to Sunday. If you've got the goods and you want people to know it? Go for it, mama!

What I am not supportive of, however, are moms demeaning themselves for crap.

(Demeaning themselves for crap? Ack, did I really just say that?)

This is an issue I've had ever since my mom told me about participating in focus groups to earn extra cash when she was newly divorced in the 70's. The men were always paid 2-3 more times than the moms because their time was perceived as more valuable. Never mind that the moms actually controlled more of the household budgets and probably accounted for more of the sales. For years, moms have not been important in the marketing mix, except as spenders.

If we want to change that, if we want to be treated as professionals, we have an obligation to be professionals. There's a fine line between self-promoting and shilling, between desire and desperation.

And then, we need to understand our value.

Nothing makes me more insane than knowing there are talented moms out there willing to give it all up for nothing. Whether it's an advertiser asking to place a text link in your hard-written post for compensation, or a multi billion-dollar retail giant that spends $570 million on advertising in a year but doesn't give a cent to the mom bloggers who write for them. It. Makes. Me. Crrrrazy.

(Trill the r if you can - Go on, it's fun. And makes you feel kind of fancy.)

You are worth more than that. We, collectively, are worth more than that.

On the other hand - maybe we're not. Are we?

If we're not creating great content, building strong communities, and being discerning with our product reviews, then what is the value? What is the value to the marketer? Hell, what is the value to our friends, the ones whose trust we've worked so hard to build? I'm fairly certain that most moms are not coming to the parenting blogs to read about the new Clorox SKU, and that there are very few bloggers with the wit, the creativity, the humor and the smarts to turn a post about a new widdgitywhatchamacallitthingie into a thing of genius.

As Lindsey just wrote in her own comments: Three of my favorite bloggers have tricked me into reading a paid "advertisement" post in the last month, and I can't describe how nauseated that made me feel, and disappointed in them for slipping that paid content into their main blogs

Worth noting.

I'm going to be speaking with some amazing women on a panel at Blogher 09 about working with marketers in ways that are constructive and rewarding for everyone involved. How to act like a professional, be treated like a professional, and adapt to this new world where personal blogging and commerce are paired up and doing a sometimes clumsy tango--all without being perceived as a shill.

I will say that I strongly believe it all starts with amazing writing. If you write compelling blog posts, brands will want to work with you. Good ones. They might even lend you a car.

So if you're going to fling your fancy new business cards around the doctor's office or reach out to marketers and convince them the value of flying you to a conference, you'd better make sure there's some worthy content under that banner of yours and not just some decent drive-by traffic because you optimize your headlines.

Because now? You're the marketer.

Or as the old advertising industry adage goes: Nothing kills a bad product faster than a good ad.

---

Click here for the follow-up post, some clarity, and yeah, some funny pictures

Four generations of separation

After having children, I think it's fair to say that we start judging our friends, family, even strangers based on how they treat them.

I can't help it; there's something divine about discovering a distant relative who always remembers your kid's birthday each year with a card. And there's something equally off-putting about the friend who hardly acknowledges that your child is in the room, let alone humoring her with gushy compliments about the carefully scribbled purple and orange horse she's so proud of having drawn.

What? I was busy pouring the Pinot.

But I hadn't stopped to think about how we feel when the our kids behave nicely towards the other people we love in our lives.

This past week, we spent a week in Florida with my nearly 91 year-old grandmother. I realize you can't expect too much of a three and a half year old and a 21 month-old in terms of empathy towards a relative they hardly know. You can't expect them to notice when Momsie is sitting alone in a chair, to come to her on demand, or to be entirely comfortable with her wrinkled hands and her slow walk. When she calls on the phone, I can hardly count on them to say much more than Hi...alldonebyebye before racing off to attend something far more interesting. Like a TV show. Or a rubber band.

And yet, I kept hoping throughout the week that they would give Momsie a little attention and maybe even a little affection. That despite their limited human experience, Thalia and Sage might somehow intuit that a nearly 91 year old great-grandmother who has outlived her husband by 20 years and damn near all of her friends--that this woman lives for the little moments.

Sometimes a teeny hand clutched around weathered fingers means a lot to the bearer of the fingers.

And so every time we gathered together and I saw Momsie set her sights on a little attention from the great-grandchildren I held my breath to see if she would get it.

In fact, she got more.

She got long descriptions of preschool and best friends, cats and chocolate cupcakes. She got awkward, silly, exuberant dancing on demand to Benny Goodman and Na Na Na Hey Hey Goodbye. She got copious lap sitting, hand holding, and walks up and down the sunny hallway. She even got in a game of hide and seek with Thalia who hides behind the same curtain every single time.

She got many kisses, many hugs, and two painstakingly hand-decorated Valentine's cards with MOMSIE on the inside, both now clipped to the fridge beneath the growing collection of family snapshots.

She got love.

Witnessing my girls connecting with their great-grandmother was of course joyous in itself. What I hadn't expected was how much more deeply it made me fall in love with my own girls. I want those I care about to love my girls, but I also want my girls to care about those I love.

Fourth Annual Morning-After Oscars Recap

I was totally going to blow this off this year but then Kristen had to go and ask me to do it again. What can I say, I'm a people pleaser. I love to please the people. Or, um...person. I'm a person pleaser. There ya go.

And with that, just a few of the awards I wish they had given last night.

Best opening number: The one that opened the show. Yes, that one. With Hugh Jackman. Uh-huh. It was great. It was funny. It was clever. And I will lose like 6% respect for you if you say otherwise.

Best impression of an ancient statue dug out from six thousand years of dust, covered in talcum powder then dumped in flour and a little more talcum powder: Tilda Swinton

Art imitating life award: Mickey Rourke, with lips the size of a large bass, coming back as a wrestler who comes back with lips the size of a large bass

Best acceptance speech: Dustin Lance Black winning best original screenplay for Milk and giving marriage equality a heartfelt, eloquent shoutout.

Okay, best acceptance speech for real this time: The one with Mr. Roboto in it. I was just kidding about Milk.

The Johnny Depp commemorative award for actor having earned enough critical acclaim that he can start dressing like a homeless person: Phillip Seymour Hoffman. No excuses about bad hair for acting roles. There are other hats, you know.

Best impression of Joaquin Phoenix thinking he was Andy Kaufman impersonating Bob Dylan channeling ZZ Top with a little Matisyahu thrown in: Ben Stiller

Most disappointing loss: Heath Ledger

The ooh lookie who's blowing one of the Oscar producers award: Wall-E. Dude was in like every single montage, no matter what it was for. Best supporting actress? There's Wall-E. Great movie musical moments? Wall-E. 2008 Death montage? Wall-E again.

The I'm happy just to be nominated - no really - award: Anne Hathaway who got to sit there and glow as Shirley McLaine sang her praises. That will last as long as some statue.

Big winner of the night: Twitter. Hands down.

The free shot award: Miley Cyrus presents it to you. Go ahead, take it. You've earned it.

The SoFla Chronicles

You know, you'd think that halfway through your Florida vacation, you'd deign to interrup your poolside lounging only to share the gorgeous photos of your kid alone in an inner tube for the first time. Or your toddler sticking her fingers in a fish's eye socket. Or the gorgeous sunsets over the picnic table where the 11 of you eat fresh grilled meat (yay Nate) each night. Or the "art gallery" set up by the four cousins, full of finger paints and crayon drawings of cats and rainbows and dots and more cats.

But nope.

Because last night the adults - Nate, my brother Jeff, his wife Maggie and me - were given a free night on the town courtesy of the very doting grandparents.

So what does one do on the town when that town is OldLadyVille, Florida? Well the bowling alley was packed, the movie theater choices are not worth the price of popcorn, and we tried to go to the mini golf place following the iPhone Google Map directions - only it turns out that Monster Golf off Sample Road in Cyprus Gardens, FL is actually Monster Golf off Sample Road in Lafayette, Indiana?

We go to Dave & Busters.

I have never been to such an establishment before although I do recall Brett Michaels giving it the big thumbs up. And that was good enough for me.

Holy hell is it pretty much the funnest place on the planet--or at least in OldLadyVille, Florida at 10PM on a Wednesday night.

I'm not sure however which was the most pathetic aspect of the evening:
-The four of us scolding a ten year-old for cheating at the horse race game (Dude, two balls at once? That's not cool.)
-The verocity with which we shot down enemy WWII fighter planes screaming DIE DIE.
-My score at Pop-A-Shot: 5.
-Nate tilting the stupid Wheel of Fortune game that pushes the coins into the well.
-A 40 year-old mom attempting Dance Dance Revolution in bare feet
-The fact that we earned 4,094 tickets.

What is the sound of one hand clapping because the other is holding 4,094 tickets? Maggie attempts to demonstrate.

Spending 4,094 tickets in the final 3 minutes before closing is no easy task, particularly when you can't stop laughing. It is indeed challenging to choose amongst a roomful of piece of crap toys made by six year-olds in China, none of which you would pay 5 tickets for let alone 4,094.

A mere 2,000 tickets short for a Guitar Hero Wii game, in the end our four girls collectively reaped the joys of two battery operated dancing pigs, a couple of stuffed cow pillows, and a ring pop each.

Although as Jeff pointed out, the kids would have probably just as well played with the 4,094 tickets.

Rednecks and showers: An unusual combination

There are some people who just seem to be too good for this world. I'm not exactly sure what they're doing walking among us, but for some reason they deign us with their presence and make life a whole lot better for everyone. One of those is my friend Tanis, aka The Redneck Mommy. I hear that she has like 2 or 3 blog readers so maybe one of them is you.

If you want to know a little more about her you can read my roast of her at Cynical Dad's place. Or you can simply read her blog and learn how she's pretty much walked over hot coals and ate leaches whole and whatever else they asked her to do over the last several years in order to adopt a special needs child --

who as of this week is officially her beautiful five year-old son.

In any case, there's a an online shower for her this weekend because hey, what the hell. When you're a redneck you don't give a crap about stuff like etiquette and only having showers for your first six or seven kids.


All you have to do is fill in the rest of the sentence "You know you're a redneck mommy when..." and you can be entered to win some truly embarrassing prizes.

For example, you know you're a redneck mommy when you have no problems using the phrase love sausage waiting for some muff love with little to no irony.

As for me, at first glance you wouldn't think I have a whole lot of redneck in me. But then I remember that I've vacationed in a trailer, have allowed myself to be photographed in a trucker hat, and have no problem declaring my love for mac n cheese in a box.

Redneck Jews, the other chosen people.

Congrats Tanis. From all my heart.

[photo via Yvonne, poached shamelessly off flick'r]

Bad parenting report, week 189

Last night Sage woke up crying which she does every so often. I went in to check on her figuring she just needed a diaper change or some rocking.

Nope.

I had put her to sleep with a shoe in her footsie pajamas.

A shoe.

In her pajamas.

It was right around her butt in the back, so yeah, I guess she was a little uncomfortable sleeping ON A SHOE.

The culprit. You can just tell it's up to no good.

Let's say I'm overwhelmed with life a bit these days. There are times I am parenting half asleep, like I'm going through the motions but my head is not entirely in the game. All the business of parenting - the birthday party coordination, the school obligations, the wardrobe refreshing, pediatrician visits, the tuition payments (gak), the childcare - all conspire to take up brain cells that could be spent on actual parenting. Not to mention the business of blogging, the business of running a household, the business of business...

A shoe.

In her pajamas.

That's okay, two nights ago I left the oven on. Again.

Mad Libs, 3 year old style

For some reason, Nate has been inordinately excited to do Mad Libs with the kids from the day they were born. Thalia could hardy say the word "noun" before he was stocking up on those little pads and dreaming of the day we could lie around filling in the blanks and making up high-LA-rious stories about visits to purple farms, petting curly elephants and windy llamas.

I am convinced he had his first sexual experience around Mad Libs. There is no other rationale, really.

And so...Mad Libs it is. Thalia loves them. It's good clean fun. And it gets the TV off.

What we hadn't counted on however is that Thalia, at 3 1/2, falls back on the same two or three words for each part of speech.

Verb: Flip

Adjective: Short, pink, flippy.

Noun: TV, lemonade, flip

Person in room: Mommy

Liquid: Lemonade

Exclamation: WOW! LOOK AT THAT PONYTAIL!

We haven't gotten quite up to explaining adverbs yet. I know I could say "word ending in -ly" and help her fudge her way through it but I fear she'll be a smart ass like my brother always was and answer Fly.

So funny I forgot to laugh

D'OH.

Yesterday I awarded my first ever post for the ROFL awards and wouldn't you know, I forgot to tell you about it. If you haven't already read 'Roid Rage over at Sundry Morning, you will want to.

This is the post you wave in the face of people who roll their eyes with disdain when they refer to "mommybloggers." The post that allows you to spit back, "Oh yeah? Read this, motherf*cker, and tell me that's not as funny as anything David Sedaris would write, should David Sedaris choose to write about his rectum after giving birth."

Find the other winners at Chicky Chicky Baby and Oh The Joys. Then nominate your own next month. You totally can.

The truth about Facebook

I am suddenly realizing what Facebook really is:

A mire of people you'd forgotten completely about and had hoped to continue doing so for the rest of your life.

A putrid cesspool of bosses who'd fired you, men who wronged you, girls who made your life hell.

A delightful opportunity to reconnect with women who you thought were your friends in high school, only for you to discover that maybe they never were, particularly when they "friend" you with Hey there - I still remember you with frizzy hair and food in your braces. What's up?

And then there's the one guy who turns up. The former best friend who you wondered if you'd ever see again.

The guy who made you laugh all through freshman year, who kept you sane through late night rehearsals of The Pajama Game, who dared to join you on a three week masochistic canoe trip through the wilds of Canada where neither of you had any business being. The guy you missed so terribly when his family moved away after tenth grade.

You tried to keep up in college but as these things often do, you went your separate ways.

And then one sunny morning in LA, nearly 25 years after he hoisted you up on his shoulders to sing Once a Year Day off-tune in the high school auditorium, you sit across from each other over breakfast. You reminisce. You giggle. You briefly consider holding hands and skipping.

He reminds you about the time you dressed up all fancy and hosted a very sophisticated fondue party, just like grownups. Grownups who eat fondue. You suddenly remember that he's color blind, and that he wore purple pants for years mistakenly thinking they were blue. He confesses how jealous he was that you made out with Matt A at a house party. You confess that you were drunk enough that you thought Matt was his brother Steve.

You smile so hard for so long your cheeks hurt.

And then you get to the hard part - condensing nearly two decades apart into the hour before you leave for the airport. Some of the details become blurry but the essence is clear: You love the path he's chosen, the life he's living, the man he became.

And as always, those kind eyes.

Here's to finding you again Ben. And to Facebook, which sometimes doesn't suck at all.

Potty training tips that guarantee success within a week

1. Be a slacker parent.*

2. Do not even bother thinking about potty training until you realize that every other kid in the class is out of diapers.

3. Beat yourself up just a little. Then remind yourself that the year and month of actual potty training will not go down on her permanent record. Or yours.

4. Go to the store. Let your kid pick out some underwear. If it has Dora on it, fine. If it has a rainbow monkey on it playing drums, fine. If it says Home of the whopper, not fine.

5. When she has to pee, you take her to the bathroom.

6. Done.


*Step 1 is of the utmost importance. If you do not follow step 1, this plan will not work and you will email me wondering what the heck you did wrong that your 18 month old is not regularly using the toilet by himself. I will write back to you and point you towards step 1. Or actually, I probably won't write you back at all. See also: Step 1.