A different kind of love

I have a neighbor I really like - a lovely woman with no children of her own, but a dedicated Aunt to her out-of-town nieces and nephews. She's always so kind to my kids when she sees them. Then later, when we have some time alone in the elevator or at a neighbor's potluck, she never hesitates to rave about Thalia and how absolutely fabulous she is. "Oh, I'm sure Sage is nice too," she'll add, "but THALIA well, wow. What a great kid!"

And Nate and I kind of pinch each other under the table and gently remind her that you know, we are the parents of both of them right? We don't actually pick favorites. That you know of.

It's always interesting to me to see who relates to Sage. Thalia is easy. The good girl--save for the typical four year-old tantrumy, bratty, chicken nuggets are STUPID stuff--but generally she's a happy kid. Let's say she skips a lot.

Sage however, is the one who will break my heart. She's tough, she's independent, she's not the child who automatically laughs at your jokes or who will pander for your love. You have to earn her affection, and when you do, it's worth the effort. It makes her a 2.5 year old you can respect, in my book. 

Where Thalia wakes up happy, Sage wakes up grunting. Where Thalia will run up and whisper You are the best mommy I ever had in my ear, Sage will run up and whisper Don't call me Sage, my name is Max. In fact, she identifies strongly with male characters and when they role play, she's the Luke to Thalia's Leia, the Diego to her Dora, the Peter Pan to her Wendy, the Wall-E to her Eva.

(And don't ask me how the hell they discovered Star Wars. I guess it was a kid at school. All I know is that Thalia wants me to put her hair in side buns for school and begs me to do the R2D2 sounds.)

It's not to say Sage completely out of touch with the feminine - sometimes Peter Pan wears a tutu and Diego, evidently, can be a princess too.  But she's not the cuddly, effusive, affectionate, teacher's pet of a child that Thalia is. And so I learn to accept a little less with Sage: A little less affection, a little less flying into my arms at the end of the day, a little less I love you mommy.

Not less love, just fewer expressions of it. And I admit, it leads to moments of doubt, moments where it twists my heart around to hear her say NO when I ask for a hug, or to refuse to eat cereal unless Daddy pours it.

I am still learning to accept that we have a different kind of love between us.

Last night I came home late from an emotionally brutal day at work, to find her still awake in the dark in our bed, Nate lying by her side for an hour trying to get her to sleep. (Grrrr, whole other story.)

Mommy! she burst out brightly, springing upright when she saw me enter the room. I admit I felt a tinge of joy from from the unexpected expression of happiness. I let Nate creep out of the bedroom and I quietly took his place.

Sage reached for my hand and clutched it tightly in her tiny palm, flinging one leg over mine and settling back into the bed.

As I peered down at her trying to catch a final look at her before sleep set in, I noticed that her face didn't have the semi-panicked expression that Thalia sometimes has when she falls asleep, grasping my hand tightly for fear that I'll sneak away. Instead, Sage wore an enormous smile. It curled the corners of her mouth high into her chubby cheeks, and it pressed her eyes into squinty, happy crescent moons.  She looked simply radiant, even in the near pitch darkness of the room, with the delight of having me next to her.

At that moment, we needed each other.

Inspired.

Returning from the Mom 2.0 Summit in Houston yesterday, I feel smarter. Uplifted. Spiritually fulfilled. But I think if there's one word that describes my takeaway from the weekend it would be inspired.

A conference that inspires. Wow. I mean, if you're going to leave your kids for three days that's a pretty darn good reason to do it.

Well, that and a Mad Men party.

Just like the women of Mad Men only with better birth control options.

Bottom photo by Mainline Mom

The keynote from the wonderful Gretchen Rubin, who I was so excited to get to meet after having been interviewed for her Happiness Project blog a few months ago, was a gift from above. She's the poster child for pursuing dreams, and her description of realizing that I'd rather be a failed writer than a successful lawyer will stay with me for a good long time. She's also made me vow to make my bed every morning but that may be a tougher battle than finishing my book.

 Art by Katherine Center, photo by Gabby Blair, neck by...uh...

The Bad Is the New Good panel starring Kristen Chase, Cecily Kellogg and Catherine Connors touched on the false portrayal of mothers in the media, and Kristen expressed the hope that our daughters--and sons--will grow up seeing ads in which dad is in the kitchen or wielding a vacuum too. Are you listening advertising pros? Oh, wait...that's me. Here, my own friends inspired me to try harder to depict the truth, to challenge more of my coworkers and clients, to do right by the community of women out there, even in the face of 60 years of "I just got my whites whiter and now my life is PERFECT!"

My friend Julie Marsh set out to jog two miles with the Shredheads on Saturday morning--even after a night of killer Tex-Mex and margaritas--and kept going for another six. While I almost put an APB out on her, I thought that's it. I'm getting the Wii hooked up again and getting in shape. Also because when Susan Wagner grabbed my butt at the Cheeseburgher party, my first thought was shoot, I'm not wearing Spanx.

 Don't look for me - I'm not in there. Photo by Emily McKhann

An impromptu political roundtable discussion with honorary mom Heather Barmore and Gina Caroll who I was so excited to meet in person, was a great motivator for me to continue to inject my voice into the political process--and not just during election years. It reaffirmed my support for the White Ribbon Alliance for Safe Motherhood and reminded me that we do have a voice that's valuable. Especially together. Hear that, Momocrats?

 "Think mothers aren't political? Think again" - Pundit Mom.

Photo by Sarah Braesch

The incomparable Heather B! Photo by Mainline Mom.

Some people are simply positive people. They just seem to escape the drama, rise above conflict and exude kindness and graciousness, to everyone, always, even when it's unwarranted or unexpected. I'm thinking of people like Karen Walrond, Tracey Clark, Gabrielle Blair (doesn't her name even sound ethereal?), Gwen Bell, Isabel Kalman, and conference organizer Laura Mayes. When I grow up, I want to be then. But I'll start trying now instead.

 Embodying awesomeness: Christine Koh. Photo by Gabrielle Blair

This was a conference about bringing online relationships into our offline lives, the coming together as a community, the validation of what it is we do here which I wrote about recently. It was brilliantly embodied in the Mom 2.0: Defining a Movement photography exhibit that had more than a few of us claiming "allergies" as we meandered the gallery,  marveling at the talent that is among us. I was exceptionally honored to find one of my quotes from that post, "We are here for each other," brought to life in an amazing photograph by Leah Peterson. And at no better time.

 One iota of the brilliance in that gallery. Photo by Laura Mayes.

In recent days, a semi-anonymous commenter on that post has taken me to task for claiming that blogging and online communities bring us together. Her point: It contributes to our isolation. And meeting long-distance friends in person is not practical. It's not ecological. (I swear, she said that.)

I can't argue with her because I can't win. I only know that you all have given me community where I didn't have one, and it's not make-believe, and if I have to buy some carbon credits to be a part of it, I'll gladly do so. There's a reason Tanis packed her bags in light of debilitating back pain, and hopped two flights from Calgary to be here this weekend.

Taking it offline with Julie Marsh. Photo by Tanis Miller.

If you're a mom, if you're a marketer, if you're a daughter or father or friend: Please take a moment to watch this wonderful video from Katherine Center which incorporates a lot of the photography from the show, and perfectly encapsulates what it means to be a mother today, in this moment in time in 2010.




If that's not inspiration I don't know what is.

Marketing to Mom Bloggers: Still needs work.

It's been a while since I gave PR a hard time about pitching this blog. I've grown increasingly more tolerant and accepting of the fact that most people just suck at their jobs. Also that the idea of READING A BLOG that you're pitching or at least having a basic understanding of it is simply too hard a thing. Especially when you're a junior PR exc--or possibly, "Intern 2"--and your boss is like, Hey Michelle...here's a list of 100 random mommybloggers. Do me a favor and send out a form letter will ya? Oh, and when you're done, there's some leftover donuts in conference room B.

How can we compete with donuts, really? I understand. Truly I do. Especially those honey-glazed ones. Fantastic!

But there's one pitch I got last night from a major PR firm that just, well, wow.

The headline:

Need meal ideas for Lent? Check out what [famous cartoon character tuna fish spokesman] has to say!

Here's why Mom-101 might not want to hear what [famous cartoon character tuna fish spokesman] has to say about meal ideas for Lent:

1. I'm Jewish. An Athiest Jew at that. Last I checked, denial of tasty meat products to commemorate the resurrection of our lord and savior Jesus Christ was not part of our repertoire.

2. Nate is a chef. Of the Michael Pollan variety. If he caught me making "tuna chili" from a can he'd kick me out.

3. I am not someone you want entrusting with "tuna chili."

4. Even the thought of a tuna fish sandwich triggers my gag reflex. Please don't ever order one when you're sitting next to me. I will have to switch seats and then...you know. Awkward.

5. This blog doesn't exist for reviewing products, passing on marketing information, hosting contests, or disseminating recipes, coupons, or VALUABLE OFFERS! for my readers. It says so right at the very top of my blog, right where I list my contact info.

6. Did I mention I'm Jewish?

I'm headed to the Mom 2.0 Summit in Houston today,  and I'm speaking on an amazing panel about FTC regulations as a tool to strengthen PR and reader relationships--although not about pitching. Stefania Butler, Stephanie Schwab, Amie Adams and Ciaran Blumenfeld are covering that one. 

In the end, I don't care if you know my first name or if you write "Dear mommyblogger" or if your press release is 6000 words long. I'm long past that. I'd just like the ratio of relevant to irrelevant pitches start to tilt in the right direction. It feels to me, however, that it's all going the wrong way.

Don't eat the brown snow

"Rain is kind of like pee Mommy. And poop...is like snow." 

Why is that?

"Because they both fall down."

So how is poop like snow?

"Well, because you can break it. And it's bigger. But some poops are smaller. Like snowflakes."

That's poetry Thalia. 

"I know."

Valentine's Day: Where romance isn't dead, it's just sleeping really soundly.

The note card that accompanied the two dozen beautiful pink and white roses read,

I had these flowers murdered for you to show how much I love you. 

Classic Nate.

I sensed he had a little more up his sleeve last night when he raced home from work around 6:30 so we could actually eke out some semblance of a Valentine's Day together. So I ran out to grab some wine, poured us each a glass, put the crazy, overtired kids to sleep around 8...

 and promptly fell asleep next to them.

So now I'm in the doghouse. But at least it smells like roses in here.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone. Hope your partners hate you less than mine hates me right now.

Making Valentine's Day more undisappointingish

Valentine's Day was never one of my favorite holidays. When I was single it was generally disappointing, and when I was coupled...well, it was generally disappointing.

But after having children, Hallmark Holidays took on a whole new meaning because it became about them: The miraculous evolution of doilies and glitter into Valentine's Day cards, the hunt for cute red barrettes, the opportunity to teach them about the joy of giving and making other people feel happy, no matter what you get in return.

(Okay, I'm overstating my benevolence here. Of course I do a happy dance when Nate comes with my annual box of Knipschildt Chocolate, even if he does tend to suck down about 17 himself for every one I eat and then I yell at him and he denies it and we have a fight over it and...did I mention how Valentine's Day is better when it's about the kids?)

In that spirit, I just wanted to tell you about the kids' color-your-own Valentine's Day cards that Kristen and I put together at Cool Mom Picks in partnership with the absolutely lovely folks at Etsy.  When you buy one of the downloadable, printable PDFs (a mere $3.99!) every penny goes to the Children's Heart Foundation to support kids with congenital heart defects. You'll get 12 kid-friendly designs, each from a different amazing artist who donated their time and talent to the cause.

Artist created, Thalia approved

Did I mention just $3.99? And if you print out 400 of them, that comes to less than a penny apiece. A steal, in this economy, I tell ya!

We're trying to raise $1000 and we're actually getting close. So if this seems like it's up your alley, we'd be honored if you'd head over to the Etsy Store, grab your own, print it out and make some kids happy. Including your own.

Grass: Greener.

Most afternoons  these days, I race through the delightful Chelsea Market, grabbing a sandwich or a cup of overpriced Hale & Hearty to slurp down at my desk in the four minutes I've got before I'm snatched away to the next EMERGENCY OH MY GOD IT'S AN EMERGENCY at work.

In that time, meandering the long corridor of the historic building and peeking my head into the various storefronts to learn daily specials and tempt myself with evil thigh-enhancing confections (I'm looking at you, Fat Witch Brownies), I pass tables of parents.

So many parents.

It's not tourists so much now that the holidays have passed, but the chic West Village mommies getting a little fresh air and human contact with their newborns nestled into Bugaboos and Stokkes. It's a trio fresh from a mommy and me class, trading stories over Chicken Caesars while their toddlers race around in front of them, high on Rice Krispie bars. It's scruffy-faced stay at home dads, dangling eco totes filled with fig jams and artisanal breads from their elbows and a baby strapped to their chests. Or sometimes it's that brand new mom, bleary-eyed and unfocused, pushing a pram back and forth from her chair with one hand while clutching a 16-ounce latte for dear life in the other.

And I'm jealous.

Every time I stare at one of these mothers, in her perfect clothes with her perfect hair, settling in along the brick walls with a child dancing on her knees I think, what I would give not to be racing back to the office right now. What I would give to be here instead with my girls, sharing a croissant or teaching them about the 30 kinds of cheeses at Lucy's Whey.

And surely, one of the moms looks at me and thinks: What I would give for a whole 10 minutes to walk through these halls by myself. To peek into the shops without navigating a stroller through the crowd.  To avert my eyes for three seconds without the fear that my toddler will throw herself head-first into the waterfall.

And I think: The sound of giggling, shrieking children is so much more appealing right now than the sound of desk chair wheels rumbling through the halls and the industrial Fiery printer belching out PowerPoint decks.

And she thinks: The crying. OH the crying I'm going to have to listen to later after having kept the baby out a whole hour past her naptime.

And I think: Ah, to be a stay at home mom with a hedge fund husband so I can plan my day around hot chocolate outings.

And she thinks: Ah, to be a mom with a job that requires me to wear fancy shoes and use four syllable words and get through an entire day without hearing Elmo's voice or someone throwing up on me.

And I think: I'm missing moments with my kids right now. I'm missing memories.

And she thinks: I'm missing myself.

And the funny thing is?

When the tables are turned and I'm the one sitting and eating and child-wrangling and mommying, the conversation in my head goes the exact same way.

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Thank you all so much for the incredible comments, and for honoring me and this community by opening up and sharing your own stories here. 

Also, thanks to Schmutzie for including this post in the always wonderful Five-Star Friday roundup, and to BlogHer for syndicating it on their own site. 

Eggs that taste like something

"I'll have eggs this morning, mommy," Thalia said.

To most moms, scrambled eggs would be a welcome break from, say, more a more work-intensive blueberry pancakes request, especially on a weekday. But, no. The thought of making eggs strikes terror in my heart knowing that one room over, snoring gently, is the culinary school-pedigreed fella who uses one of my past attempts at scrambled eggs as comedy fodder.

Evidently they weren't seasoned. The pan wasn't hot enough. The oil wasn't copious enough. And okay, so the smell was pretty awful. What can I say, I generally don't eat scrambled eggs myself. And indeed, I've let my cooking skills atrophy so long as there's been someone around to do it for me.  Kind of the same way Nate has unlearned the skill that enables one to put worn boxers in the hamper and not on the hamper?

('Nother story.)

But this morning I was determined to do right by my daughter. I preheated the pan. I chose a good oil. I beat the eggs first. I seasoned them only with a little salt and pepper and NO HERBS as requested. I didn't overcook them. And the smell...nonexistent. I was so proud of myself.

"So?" I asked Thalia eagerly. "How are your eggs?"

"They taste like...nothing," she said flatly.

"What? No! They're delicious! They taste like eggs! Yum yum yum! With just salt and pepper, as you said!"

"They taste like nothing."

She woke her daddy up a few moments later.

"Mommy made me eggs. They taste like nothing."

Behold! The early morning smirk of condescension! My favorite of all the early morning smirks.

"FINE," I said defensively. "If you want me to make eggs a certain way Nate, you're going to have to show me exactly what you do because I swear I did exactly what you told me."

I repeated my recipe to him and he smiled.

"That's not what I do," he said.

And then he explained his Eggs That Taste Like Something recipe:

Olive oil. Sesame oil. Seasoned salt. Cracked pepper. Herbs (despite the prostests).

Duck fat.

Duck fat!

I give up.

Thalia was cuddling up to me as I was about to publish this post. "I'm writing about the time I made eggs that taste like nothing and daddy made you eggs that taste like something," I explained.

"Both of those things are true," she said.