"Janet is fat"

"Janet is fat," Thalia told my mother this weekend. She didn't say it matter-of-factly. That would have been easier. Instead she said it in that sheepish, timid way that indicated she was testing the waters with her description of her preschool teacher to see how we would react.

"What does that mean, fat?" my mother (ever the Socratic scholar) asked, and Thalia just shrugged.

I tried it myself.

"Well who told you about fat?"

She didn't answer. She just did that cute thing where she clutches her hands together under her chin and sways side to side.

"Do you know what fat is? How do you know that Janet is fat?"

"I just know. I can see her fat."

"What is it that you see?"

"It's a big belly," she finally admitted. "A big round belly." And I suppose she was right.

I just thought I'd have a little longer. A little longer where she didn't see things like fat and freckles and frizzy hair and moles and lisps, and all the superficial traits that children use to divide the world up cruelly. A little longer of being the kid who said she could tell McCain from Obama because McCain's hair was white. A little longer of knowing Janet not as the fat teacher, but as the teacher who played REM for the kids to dance to, treated each magic marker scribble like a hallowed piece of art, and simply loved Thalia to pieces.

Mommybloggings Part Deux: The marketers are here to stay. Are we?

Once upon a time I wrote a post called Mommybloggings that is so out of date now it's practically hilarious. In fact I think I may have been wearing a bonnet and petticoat as I dipped my quill feather in ink and described how some moms were here for community and some were here to become better writers, and how the division occasionally caused tension.

Of course this was all back in the day that you were a sell-out if you joined the BlogHer ad network, and it was rare to be asked to review much more than a book or the occasional ill-conceived personal lubricant. It was certainly before Nielsen started quantifying blogger "power" and moms accepted free trips to Disney and holy cow, is this the blog world I joined where people wrote funny stories about their kids? Or some wacky free-for-all where air fresheners and other assorted package goods fall from the sky and the goal is to grab as many as you can, quick! Quick, before someone else gets them!

Now people are fighting. Turf wars! Mommy gangland! The lines are drawn, the shivs have been whittled out of Fisher Price toddler spoons, the FTC is on the case, and it hasn't been pretty.

One one side you've got the earlier "mommybloggers" (who I still choose to call parenting bloggers), people like Erin and Lindsay who have been outspoken about their distaste for the blurred distinction between editorial and compensated posts, among other things.

On the other side, you've got the moms who are very excited to share their opinions on the new Turtle Wax Miracle Towel or whatnot (provided they get one for free and an identical one for their readers which they'll give away in a twitter contest) who say What do you care what I write about? You're not the boss of me. And by the way, I totally love Turtle Wax Miracle Towel and always have and my readers want nothing more than to read about the Turtle Wax Miracle Towel and my personal experiences with it and by the way, did I mention you're not the boss of me?

And they'd be right.

I've been saying for ages that there is a semantic issue here: We need to ditch the term mommyblog because it defines the blogger and not the blog.

There are review blogers and there are parenting bloggers. The fact that we are all parents is incidental. Jessica Smith would be the first person to agree to that. (The second would be Stephanie Smirnov who wrote a great post on bloggers and brands from the PR perspective.)

We're different people here for different reasons, despite finding ourselves on the same pitch lists and Evites, attending the same conferences and sharing plenty of Twitter followers. We have different goals and different measurements of success.

But of course it's not quite so black and white as those two categories, same as how it wasn't with my original Mommybloggings post (as many kind readers pointed out back then).

There are bloggers like Kimberly of Mom in the City who posts reviews and while she might not fit into an old school definition of mommyblogging, is one of the kindest, coolest, most authentic, honest writers I've had the privilege of meeting. I've sat on panels with her and she brings a thoughtfulness to the conversation that most of us could learn from. Any time anyone disses a product blogger I think, well - look at Kimberly. I love what she brings to blog comments anytime I catch her name beneath a post.

Then there are also classic essay sort of bloggers - say, me? - who, while we write about our lives as parents, are happy to accept certain opportunities like phone calls with Gloria Steinem and sitcom set visits because they are experiential. They fit into our lives, they provide content for our blogs, and they give us the ability to make jokes about celebrity urine that then the Wall Street Journal can go and attribute to someone else.

Which means guess what? Pretty much everyone is in bed with a marketer to some degree. Whores, all of us!

Except Blog Antagonist, bless her.

So I've been reading all these posts over the past few weeks, asking myself why should I care?

Why should I care what anyone else does with her blog? Why shouldn't I simply avoid the blogs I find distasteful and stick with the writers who continue to thrill me and delight me and entertain me enough to make up for the fact that there are other things I could be doing with my time besides reading their posts?

The truth of the matter is, I do care.

I care because how we behave in this space impacts one another. It affects the community as it is currently defined - that one with all of us in it together.

It's the same way you would care if you suddenly found your neighbor in your overpriced subdivision painted his house purple and gold and flew pirate flags out all the windows and bred chickens on the front lawn.

I care because I hate seeing moms demean themselves and accept less than they're worth - and I hate seeing them make demands that make us all worth a little less.

I care because I love this space. And I value the fact that that we can discuss--out in the open and with our real names attached--the issues that affect us. And because I think it's worthwhile to put other perspectives out there than the one out there that suggests bloggers should spend their days writing to PR folks in search of free stuff "for review." Because those PR people are horrified. And they are freaked out. And they are trying to figure out how to handle it, all the while floating phrases like shameless and unprofessional about our community--the community I love--behind closed doors.

Now of course I think that people have the right to write whatever the heck they want on their own personal blogs. There's certainly enough bandwidth to go around. I also have no problems with bloggers aligning themselves with marketers and causes they believe in as long as they're not misleading me about it.

But then, I am also sad that the marketing is no longer a small part of the blog world but what seems to be the biggest part.

I am sad that it's making some of the most authentic, talented writers on the web question their relevance.

I am sad that when a mom decides to blog, she is not told that rule number one is write well (with the merciful exception of advice from Citymama and Lindsay) but that rule number one is to make sure your contact info can be easily found by people who want to pitch you.

I am most sad that marketing is pulling us apart.

Did we all used to get along and hug and love every single mom who launched a free Blogspot account? God, no. Hell to the no. But we never questioned each other's authenticity. A blogger wrote what was in her heart and either we agreed or we didn't. Now no one can mention a trip to the zoo or a great movie without someone questioning whether it's been sponsored.

Gosh, that's more than sad, it's tragic. What do we have if not our integrity?

In the end, I wonder where it all this corporate interaction leave blogging. Where will it leave all these beautiful personal little virtual homes for self-expression and story trading and photo sharing?

I fear they'll be deserted and left to litter the internet, like the endless strip malls in Florida abandoned when the newer, shinier strip mall across the street opens for business.

It's flattering to be recognized by marketers, of course. But as I keep reminding myself, that's not why I'm here.

You are.

The No-Sleep Sleep Solution, Round II

I am hereby convinced that I am some sort of bad sleeper lightning rod. I am filled with bad sleeper mojo and turn every child in my presence into some kind of raging insomniac.

When we accept weekend visits with friends and family, their little angels don't sleep and the whole time the parents sweeeear that normally they're not like this, no really they never are, why they're just angels, angels sent from heaven--angels sent from heaven who sleep on command and we can't imagine whatever could be the matter!

But there's no need to explain. I know the truth.

It's me.

So I shouldn't be surprised that I've gone and done it to my own kid. Oh sure Sage resisted for two years, tricking us into thinking she was a great sleeper from day one. But now, just as her older sister decides to start sleeping in her own bed consistently for the first time (oh joy!) in close to four years, Sage has decided that nope, not happening. Not interested. Not now, not ever. Haha, fooled you Mommy. Fooled you Daddy.

Suckers.

We put her in her crib and then she wails and hollers and shrieks and sobs just loudly enough that should we be in, oh say...CAIRO at the time, we would hear her loud and clear. She wails and hollers and shrieks and sobs until her sister says YOU'RE WAKING ME UP SAGE. Because, see, they're in the same room. That's what happens in New York. Sharing rooms and tired parents.

This is the point that I finally give in and retrieve Sage from her Ragazzi prison, justifying that one sleeping child is better than no sleeping children. And then, in some sort of odd twist, Sage decides that now, perhaps she is interested in sleeping after all. It's just that she can only sleep with me.

(So it would seem that the magic sleeping repellent that I somehow possess becomes inactive at closer range.)

I am constantly amused that I get a steady stream of emails from new parents who have stumbled upon one of my earlier agonized, tortured blog posts in search of tips about sleep-training. Not because they are writing to commiserate but because they are searching for advice.

Advice? Me?

Haven't you seen the tagline up there, the one under the little winking woman that has been coopted by some cafe press site? Yeah, that one about not knowing what I'm doing?

That one.

My sleep-training advice is this: Don't ask me for sleep-training advice.

Why I'm loving the Christian Science Monitor today

We say we write for ourselves, here in this weird place that most of our parents and friends have yet to understand. But we kind of don't. We hope people are reading. And I don't mean marketers exactly. (Well, at least some of us.)

When we write, we hope to varying degrees that we've touched people in some way, connected with someone, made someone's day a little happier. We love the personal letters in our inboxes, and the comments thanking us for providing a kindred spirit in the 3 AM crazies, troubled pregnancies, or fear of Midwestern hair.

So when we have the chance to reach a broader audience, we're always grateful. As I was when the Christian Science Monitor asked if they could republish my Sanctimommy essay. Only without the sex with Danny Bonaduce reference.

(They also asked me if I would like six billion dollars for it and I said nah, I'm happy just to be published. That's the kind of thing we writers do.)

And in a brilliant move right out of the Mom-101 playbook, the day it runs, I'm leading with a post about sex and chocolate with the f-word right at the top.

Sorry CSM readers. I swear I don't usually curse until at least the third paragraph.

"Hey, you got sexual innuendo in my chocolate." "Hey, you got chocolate in my sexual innuendo!"

If there's one thing I can tell you about advertising, it's that commercials would consistently be awesome if there weren't any pesky clients around to rewrite it and tell you the word "not" is a negative so you can't use it, and that they'd like to put the head of HR's kids in the ad, and that their CEO would be upset if you presented something with the word fuck in it.

Such whiners.

Nate used to tell me he hated copywriters. Haaaated them. Just thought they were the biggest hack writers of the universe, all failed comics and failed novelists, devoting all their time to figuring out something that rhymes with "Zestfully clean." (And that would have been me, circa 1992. Forgive me.)

Then, after a few months of seeing me come home depressed from meetings where The Single Greatest Idea In the History of Advertising Ever was reduced to hey, can you do something with a monkey in it? he realized realized he was mistaken. There are a few hacks in the bunch, but there are also a whole lot of smart, creative people trying to make something entertaining and artful. Sort of like bloggers?

That's why I always give credit to great ads, in part because there was a smart marketer somewhere in there willing to go, "Sure, let's give it a shot."

This week a reader sent me a link to this NPR story about the new Fling chocolate for women, and their test campaign in California and I have to admit it cracked me up. Also because I am predisposed to like ads that I think I'm supposed to be outraged about.



Now let's overlook the fact that the woman is skinny and gorgeous and does not look for one second like those of us who might have the kinds of issues that would force us to sneak a chocolate bar in the dressing room. I am dying to try it, and I love the tagline Naughty, but not that naughty.

And kudos to the agency for the restraint. Because if Mars had put, say, the Mominatrix and me on the case, they might have ended up with something like

Fling. You know you want it.

Fling. Oh yeah, just like that baby. Right there.

Fling. What, you can't handle a Snickers?

Got any others?

Well there's one way to scare the crap out of me.

This is what I found on my entryway bookshelf last night. Just sitting there at eye level. A wig. A really creepy wig. Oh, for no reason at all.

And that pretty much sums up life with Nate.

Chutes & Ladders: A Cheater's Guide

I'm finding this really weird thing now in that I actually have to play with my kids. I can't just turn on Mario Kart for the Wii, hand Thalia a steering wheel that's not plugged in to anything in particular, and say "look, you're driving, honey!" any more.

(Okay, I can. And we did last night. But sometimes we can't. Man, kids - they're so high maintenance.)

So when I spotted a copy of Chutes and Ladders on sale at Target, I figured I had deprived my child of some great American board game milestone long enough. The age thingie says four, she's four...she's ready.

As it turns out, I was not ready.

Good God, this game is tedious. How did I not remember this important detail from my childhood? I remembered fun chutes, I remembered fun ladders, I did not remember a second-grader year-old could finish Ulysses by the time someone lands on that damn final square.

So I cheated.

Oh look! This chute goes up instead of down, isn't that crazy?

A 4? Really? I could have sworn you spun a 2...which lands you right on this huge ladder that shoots you right to the top, wow!

Hey look...over there...what's that?

I was shameless.

Eventually she won. Which was actually a victory for both of us.

Then, in a shocking turn of events, Thalia asked me to play Chutes & Ladders with her again this morning.

Again?

As in, you mean I don't just get to play it once, check it off the list and put it away forever?

I'm screwed.

Humidity, hot dogs, charity, and enough buttercream frosting to kill a diabetic horse.

The rain mercifully held off yesterday but the humidity loomed, creating the single worst hair day of the year. And so what does one do on the single worst hair day of the year? Photograph everyone you know, of course.

Bloggers: They go to parties, just like real people!

Isabel and Betsy: Avowed Hebrew National fans. Because if you're going to eat a hot dog, it might as well be one that doesn't have like beaks and who knows whatever else in it.

Dana, Betsy, Beth, Thalia and whatshername in the dirty jeans jacket

Katja, Nancy, Barbara, Paula, Danielle, Amy

Elisa, Carole and Amy (again. She photographs well, what can I say.)

Kids never have bad hair days. Damn kids.

The thing is, when I was asked to do host this Hebrew National Picnic with a Purpose I looked at it as a cool opportunity to invite friends and their families to hang out and eat some free dogs. I didn't realize how moved I'd be by the kids of Abbott House who we were there to support.



Talking about do-gooding type stuff is never the same as actually doing it. And meeting the people you're supporting is a whole lot of different from just sending in a check.

These were some cool kids. And they did get over being mad at us that we didn't bring any 16 year-old girls to the picnic, but I had to distract them with the make-your-own cupcakes.

Subtle!

I also had to promise to make them famous on the internet.

And then there was the moment, towards the end of the day, that they sheepishly approached and asked about the stack of games and CDs and sports equipment and DVDs that everyone brought to help put a little more rec into their rec room.

"Are those prizes?" One of the kids asked, pointing towards the pile. "Do we have to win them?"

"Nope," I said. "They're for you guys."

"They are? For what? Why?"

"Everyone here brought them for you guys to have back at the house."

"All these rap CDs?"

"All of them. Yeah."

"Even the baseball gloves?"

"Even the baseball gloves."

"Even the skateboard?"

"Even the skateboard."

"Wowwwwwww..."

By the end of , they didn't even think the paints and markers were just "for like, six year olds." In fact, they were pretty psyched they got to take them home too.



------
Thanks so much to Emily for putting this all together and rocking the world with her orzo salad, Andy the master griller, and to everyone who came: Barbara, Isabel, Brian, Doug and his flat tire, Amy, Betsy, Elisa, Carole, Katja, Maggie, Beth, Andi, Lori, Paula, all the spouses, all the kids, and the dozens of other guests who (shocking!) don't even have blogs. Who am I forgetting?

Also if you have a recap, or pictures, let me know so I can link it up. Like so:

Selfish Mom
NYCMama
Magpie Musing
Gray Matter Matters
Looky, Daddy!
Hebrew National Picnics With a Purpose Flickr Page
Picnics with a Purpose circle on The Motherhood

If your'e going to be emotional, might as well do it in front of a room of four year-olds who might not remember it later.

Over the past few weeks, Thalia's school has had these "all about me" days in which each child gets to show the class some of her favorite things, read her favorite book, and for all I know lie back in a lounger being fed grapes by some bare-chested Disney character or something.

One of the other components is that the parents have to write a letter to their child.

Then come in. And read it.

To their child.

To everyone.

While I spend a good chunk of my time writing about Thalia here, I had yet to be faced with the daunting task of writing something about her, for her and read it right to her.

Which of course I did with tears streaming down my face as I rambled on about how proud I was of her and how far she's come and how she makes everyone in her life so spectacularly happy. Man, it was brutal.

I couldn't get the words "you're a big girl now" out of my mouth and I just kind of did that stupid thing where I sputtered and smiled and fake fanned myself in front of a dozen kids and their teachers.

Why do we do that stupid fanning thing when we cry? Why do we wave our hands back and forth towards our chins like Janice from Friends? I need to put an end to that, stat. Because as it turns out, it doesn't make the tears stop. Not even one bit.

Must be love

Today Sage turns two. And in an odd twist of fate, I fell in deeply in love with her this past week.

Which makes me believe that perhaps I perhaps wasn't before.

It's like seeing a favorite flower on the windowsill, one you could have sworn was in full blossom - and then it opens just a little bit more and its beauty multiplies by a zillion.

It's her sweet eyes, the way she throws her head back as she smiles. It's how tightly she clutches me when she's feeling shy, and how quickly she lets go when she's not. It's her strong personality, her shameless independence, her remarkable sense of self at such a young age, I'm terrified to think of what she'll be doing at ten.

Of course it doesn't hurt that the girl also has perfect comedic timing--a trait which is valued in our household above things like obedience and vegetable eating.

I find myself unable to put her down. I find myself unable to stop pressing my lips to her smooth, fat cheeks. I find my heart skipping just a wee bit faster when she looks my way.

It's love.

We don't love our children perfectly equally at the exact same time, all the time. I think we lie to ourselves if we say we do. I think it's as if they're running hand in hand across a finish line, only one crosses the finish line just a hair before the other.

This is Sage's week.

Happy birthday Sagey. And thank you for giving me the best Mother's Day gift ever: You.

Five Easy Pieces, snotty Brooklyn coffee shop style

Me: Can I get a croissant with brie?

Barrista With an Attitude: Um, I don't know if we can do that.

Me: Well you have croissants. And you have brie, right?

BWA: Yes.

Me: So is that okay then?

BWA: Well what I have to do is order a brie on a baguette, then also charge you for a croissant.

Me: That's ridiculous. I just want brie on a croissant. You can't like charge me for a croissant and add brie? Or charge me for the baguette and just add the 50 cent difference for the croissant?

BWA: No. You have to order both.

Me: Well that's silly. I'll just get the baguette.

BWA: Or wait - here's an idea! Order both, and then you can take the brie off the baguette, put it on the croissant, and then bring home the baguette for later.

Me: I think God is telling me to ease up on the carbs.

BWA: Huh?

Me: Nothing.

Friends inside the computer, outside the computer

It's a funny thing about these internet relationships. You meet a friend online (so to speak), you bond quickly over things like 80s hair, good writing, big rings, and a passion for supporting other moms. So you start a business together that combines all of those things (although not so much the 80s hair) and from that day forward you spend pretty much every single day talking and chatting and IM'ing and twittering and connecting in every way.

Except in person.

(Oh, that.)

"Has it really been since BlogHer last July that we last saw each other?" Kristen asked.

Yeah, I guess it has.

I hadn't even met the beautiful baby yet.

Whatchoo talkin 'bout Willis?

So when I flew down to Atlanta as a birthday surprise, thanks to her handsome pilot of a husband and a freelance job that unbooked me last minute, it was a necessary reminder of how important it is for friends to connect in person. To just shut off the damn computer, get off Twitter, and have a margarita or two in abject defiance of swine flu at a Mexican restaurant on Cinco de Mayo.

One down...

It didn't take too long to realize I need to do it more. We all need to do it more, I imagine. And not just at conferences or blogger events or sponsored press junkets where we talk shop. We need to connect when there's no one else around.

You know, a girlfriend day. Like we used to do. Before we had kids.

(Remember that?)

Because when you do, there's this magical point at which you stop catching up and start just being. You're done with the mental list of topics to go over and gossip to share and you can just bather about your marriage, something funny that happened in college, or your favorite wine. You can share the in-law stories you'd never reveal on your blog, confide your five-year plan, and trade real live hugs which kick the living shit out of (((this kind))).

You can fill in the blanks of your life.

Or maybe you don't talk at all.

Maybe you just stretch out in the living room together in silence and watch your kids becoming friends too.

The 10,000 calorie photo.

Make it happen mamas. Days like this nourish your soul.

And happy happy birthday Kristen.

Just try prying that name change application out of my cold, dead hands

Thalia and Sage wake up this morning and toddle in together to the living room where I was already awake and working.

The first words out of Thalia's mouth, even before good morning, are that from now, on her name is going to be Joanna.

"Oh is that so?" I ask.

"I was tired of Sage always yelling HALLLL-YAAAAA and so I'm now Joanna. Also because of this necklace. This pretty necklace with beads. It's in a pattern and people who have this pattern are named Joanna. And Sage wants to call me Joanna."

"And what about you Sage? Do you have a new name too?"

She considers it for a minute.

"Poppy."

Poppy and Joanna? Um...no.

All I could think about was how freaking long Nate and I took picking the name Thalia and how I very nearly left him over the fact that he'd sooner call her Clinton Portis than Tillie for my great-grandmother. Then I think about how we spent so long naming Sage we had to beg the internet for help. (And still, he wanted to name her Clinton Portis.)

My first instinct wasn't simply to laugh at the nonsensical ramblings of a preschooler, but to feel a little bad that she was rejecting the name we had thoughtfully chosen for her. As if it were a tricycle when what she really wanted was a pony. Or a Dora balloon. Or a rock.

A rock named Joanna.

Suddenly I had a completely new perspective about the time I came home from day camp in second grade and told my mother I wanted to be named Maria.

Being a New York mom has its benefits

There are some things kind of messed up about living in New York. Like we have to walk 15 minutes to a garage to get our car and we pretend that Central Park is the beach.

But then, if you do live here, look at all the awesome things you can do. With me.

We can have a hot dog together!

Saturday May 16 from 12-3 I'm so honored to be hosting a Hebrew National Picnic with a Purpose with Emily McKhann of The Motherhood at Five-Islands Park in New Rochelle. Free food, fun stuff for kids to do, make-your-own cupcakes, and a really fun give-back project to help support the fine people of Abbott House who provide support to abandoned and abused kids in need of foster care, adoption, and plenty of love and kindness.

You and the fam are cordially invited to join me and make weiner jokes to your heart's content. And yes, we'll have veggie dogs for those of you who insist on eating such things. Email liz[at]coolmompicks.com and I'll hook you up with an invite.

Also? Its right on the water. The real water, not the fountain in Central Park.

You can laugh at my flop sweat!

I'm really excited to be contributing to the upcoming anthology, C://Mom Run: Sidesplitting Essays from the World's Most Harried Blogging Moms (and I'm told that I don't know what that whole c:// business means because I have a Mac. So PC users, feel free to fill me in). The truth is, I am so harried, I not only forgot to mention it here, I forgot to tell you that I'm going to be reading an essay at a benefit performance at The Comic Strip this coming Thursday from 6-8. Eep!

I am serious small beans in this whole thing. Other participants include Beth Feldman of Role Mommy who's also the evil genius behind the book, Jen Singer of Momma Said and Good Housekeeping, Tracy Beckerman of Lost in Suburbia, and Abby Peccoriello who's some big muckety-muck editor and grand overseer of all she surveys at Parents Connect.

Details are at Role Mommy and a portion of the proeeds supports women battling breast cancer through the Gal to Gal Foundation.

You can laugh at my flop sweat again!

I just got word that my Sanctimommy essay has gotten the thumbs-up to be included in the first New York City tour of the ongoing tour, Expressing Motherhood. Think Vagina Monologues, only for moms. My friend and blogging hero Rebecca Woolf was a part of the successful LA run, and I can't even believe I'm going to be following in those very big footsteps.

It's a three-night run in a real live actual NYC theater starting September 24 and I now have four months to be nervous about it.

That's okay, it's not like they're making me memorize it.

Oh wait - yes they are.