Greetings from Aruba

Did I happen to mention I'm in Aruba?

Actual unretouched Mom101 Aruba photo.   

Headphones make me look all production-ready and official-like.

It's true, the curse is definitely broken, as I creek into day 7 of an 11-day commercial shoot here.

I won't protest too much; business travel always has its sweet side. Dipping my toes in the turquoise Caribbean is delightful. A boozy, frosty, pink drink at the lobby bar after a 15-hour shoot day is one of life's great joys. Sleeping in a bed without children crawling all over me is a luxury I didn't realize just how much I needed until I slept a whole seven hours straight without an elbow in my ear. I've even squeaked in a couple of decent meals and some interesting sightseeing in the course of location scouting.

Big Mama's Cafe. Guess what they don't actually sell there...

But the image that creeps into my consciousness and haunts me throughout the week aren't the turquoise lizards or the sweet pineapple, but Thalia's tear-stained face as she sobbed into the phone from Grandma's house, I [sniff] want [sniff] to come [sniffle] hooooome. I want to see mommmmyyyyyy.

I had the opportunity to bring them here for some of the trip, but I did (what I thought was) the right thing and turned it down; I thought it would be too distracting on a very grueling project. Next time I may see things differently.

Thalia and Sage made a calendar so they could tick off the days until Monday. What they don't realize is, I'm doing the same.

The etiquette bitch - Righter of wrongs, defender of moms

It's been a while since the etiquette bitch has surfaced. Maybe I've just been too busy staring down at my iPhone to notice children throwing garbage all over the aisles of Target, or too engrossed in Girl with the Dragon Tattoo to catch people spitting on the subway platform.

And then there was yesterday.

A new mom in our building's lobby was bouncing a sweaty little, barely 3 month-old baby in a Bjorn. I perceived that look of panic starting to set in on the mother's face, before the quiet fussing even devolved into those long, high-pitched, unfortunately familiar wails.

She fidgeted more and bounced more fervently and shh'd more, as the lunchtime crowd outside the elevator slowly inched farther away from her. I tossed her that sympathetic I'm a mom too look--you know the one--and said something about missing the days that mine were old enough to ride around in a carrier. I was drawing lines in the sand.

She quickly explained that the baby was teething already and miserable which blew my mind considering my kids were pretty much crawling, talking and doing long division before they had teeth.

As we got into the crowded elevator the baby's cries grew sharper and louder and the bounces and shhh'ing grew more urgent. "Sorry everyone," she said over and over. "I'm so sorry."

The 20-something tech geeks in the elevator they threw each other silent glances and barely detectable eyerolls, until a couple caught my eye. I stared them down with that evil, silent, protective mama bear glare, just daring them to roll those eyes. Just you try it, Mr. Entry Level IT Guy. 

Heads whipped forward towards the door and down towards Blackberries.

The Etiquette Bitch slays with silence.

I am fairly certain that a few short years ago, I would have been them. Easy.  I'd have rolled my eyes and cracked a joke and silently thanked Zeus for getting that stupid crying baby off the elevator on a low floor.

I hate that I might have ever been that person.

Because it would have been my loss.

There's something wonderfully satisfying, I discovered, about being the defender of the mom with the screeching baby, and not the one complaining about it.

2010 Blogher Conference FAQ: NYC edition

Well, it's that time again: The annual pre-Blogher freakout.

Only this year it's amplified because it's now closer to 1500 people freaking out instead of 400 and because it's in New York ohmigod NEW YORK and what will I wear and what if a homeless guy pees on me and OHMIGOD NEW YORK and hey, is that Kathie Lee?

This is now my fifth Blogher conference (I expect my commemorative watch, Lisa) so coupled with the fact that I'm one of those rare 8.3 million New Yorkers, I believe I have the basic qualifications to answer a few questions about the weekend.

Wait, you live in New York City? I thought you live in Brooklyn.
Both are true.

Is it true that New Yorkers all wear black?
Wearing pastels in New York is like taping a sign to your back that says mug me, please. Wearing white is simply a gift to the dry cleaners of the world.

Fantasy New York

Real New York

Should I wear my comfortable shoes?
We don't do comfortable because we spend all our time getting in and out of our cars and not actually walking anywhere.

Oh no, wait...sorry, that's LA. So then, yes, by all means wear your comfortable shoes.

How do people dress for the cocktail parties?
The PC answer is wear whatever you want. You will see that answer all over the place.

The real answer, that everyone is afraid to tell you, is MAKE AN EFFORT, PEOPLE.

If you're dressed in New York, you'll always be ready for anything--or anyone--you encounter. There are 362 other days a year that you can sit home braless and unshaven in your khaki shorts and stretched-out tank top.

 Random Blogher celebrity encounter with Rocco DiSpirito.

He wore blue. I wore purple. And probably breast milk.

Do people really get mugged? Will I get mugged on the subway?
Definitely. 4.8 million people a day ride the subway because they get mugged. Here's a picture of my daughter on the subway only seconds before a guy in a Yoda suit and a ski mask swiped her lollipop.

She looks TERRIFIED!

What do I do if forget to pack something?
We now have stores in NYC! It's one of Mayor Bloomberg's greatest legacies. What do you need? Mascara? Flat iron? Doughnut maker? Spy equipment? Edible pasties? We've got it.

Also, there are people at Blogher who allow you to borrow things. I've borrowed deodorant. It's true.

Will I see a celebrity? 
Not at the Hilton.

Let me rephrase that - where can I see a celebrity?
Ree Drummond's room.

I'm shy - what can I say to my absolute most favorite ever blogger when I meet her?
GOOD: I'm so happy to meet you - I really like your writing.
BAD: I am your stalker. Come to my room later and I'll show you the shrine made out of Jell-o and barbed wire.

Why didn't that big blogger talk to me?
There are a few possibilities:
     -You smell.
     -You introduced yourself as her stalker and talked about your shrine.
     -You're giving out "I hate the world and have a huge chip on my shoulder" vibes.
     -She's overwhelmed at this particular moment because she's human too; try her again later.

Whatever the reason, if someone doesn't talk to you it is probably not because she is "popular" and you are "not popular." For further elaboration, please refer to my 2009 Bloggers v Popular People Field Guide.

What if a popular blogger really doesn't talk to me?
Every year there is that one blogger who writes a big angst-filled post-Blogher tell-all piece of link-baiting garbage on who didn't talk to her at Blogher. Don't be that person. Focus on the people you like, who like you back, and go have fun. I'd hate to think you left your family and friends for three days and risked being mugged on the scary subway just to dwell on one person who you didn't connect with.

Do I need business cards?
It depends whether you want to give your contact info to people you meet or not. Maybe you have one of those secret password protected blogs and a pseudonym from the Witness Protection Plan. In that case, business cards are not for you.

What if I don't like one of the sponsors?
Ignore their booth and don't take any of their freebies. Not everyone's politics are your politics and it's bad form to stage a sit-in on the conference floor.

What if I really really don't like one of the sponsors?
Write about it thoughtfully on your blog.


No you don't understand, I have inside information about one of the sponsors that involves embezzling, illegal off-shore funds, an arms for hostages deal and a dog-fighting ring.
Get a book deal.

What is the real scoop on the behavior around conference swag?
You know those old ladies who take all the dinner rolls from the restaurant and put them into their handbags and then ask for more? Some of them will be there this weekend, only they're disguised as 28 year-olds. And really, they're only asking for more so they can host a dinner roll giveaway for their readers to drive more quality traffic to their blogs.

Like them on Facebook to earn an extra entry towards a bonus loaf of pumpernickel. Then give them a big hug.

What do I do if there's a party I'm not invited to?
May a free night in Manhattan be the biggest problem of your weekend. Grab a friend and go explore!

Suzanne Reisman has a smart post on NYC attractions off the beaten path. And Genie of The Inadvertent Gardener suggests some great dinner splurges in New York with fantastic suggestions in comments too. I can personally vouch for that $26 Minetta Tavern Black Label Burger; Nate used to make them for a living.

 Photo courtesy Serious Eats; price courtesy an improving economy

Oh my gosh, are burgers really $26 there?
No, some are as low as $22 if you know where to look. In fact former New Yorker Julie Marsh suggests you hightail it out of Times Square and walk two blocks west to 9th Avenue for some affordable, fun dining options with more local character. You didn't come all the way here to eat at the Olive Garden, right?

I still don't know where to eat or what to do in my free time.
You can always ask some of the locals and former locals who will be at Blogher. New Yorkers loooove giving advice.

Look for Anna of Mommy Poppins, Isabel of Alpha Mom, Kim of Mom in the City, Doug of Laid-off Dad, Beth of Role Mommy, Vera of I'm Not Obsessed, Elina of Mamaista, Carol of NY City Mama,  Kelcey of Mama Bird Diaries, Torrie, Metalia, Melissa Chapman, Marinka, and plenty of others.

They'll be the ones wearing black who talk really fast.

What is your least favorite part about Blogher?
When I get home to a post from someone saying, "I saw Mom-101 and wanted to say hi but didn't have the nerve." Please say hi? I won't bite. I might even hug you.

What is your real very best single most important tip ever about Blogher?
This one also from Julie: Be sure your Spanx don't show above your waistband when you lean over. Someone will take a picture. We've seen it happen.

Take your daughter to work day.

I can't think of the last time I had a whole week between posts. That's just the kind of week it's been.

Besides the ordinary madness of prepping for crazy projects, an upcoming 10-day trip, personal obligations, and you know, seeing the kids for a few seconds each day, I enjoyed the proverbial business trip from hell: Think canceled flights, an ear-piercing airport alarm that didn't let up, a mad dash from Newark to LaGuardia at rush hour, a waitress that ignored us for 15 minutes then refused to serve us because "the kitchen just closed," and a hotel that had given away our rooms at 1AM and sent us elsewhere--only to arrive 4.5 hours before my wake-up call.

My work schedule hasn't just been taking a toll on Mom-101, but those kids I like to mention around here every so often. This week alone Thalia had two huge, uncustomary meltdowns before I left in the morning, complete with shrieking, thigh-clinging, enormous tears, and me fighting off my own as I packed up my guilt and sneaked out to the elevator.

That's always fun. 

On my way to the subway I thought you know, there are a few people at work who bring their kids to the office from time to time in the summer. Why not me?

So I set up a playdate. For Thalia. At my office on Friday. Sage could stay with our sitter and have her own special day, and Thalia and I would have ours.

Thalia was so excited, she picked out her outfit the night before. She asked about what subway she'd take. She listened patiently as I explained the office rules. She told everyone she could that she was coming to my office for a playdate, and that she was going to get to be in her very own office just for kids! With toys in it! (That's what happens when the other kid is the CEO's son.)

She woke up at 6AM, and blearily asked how many minutes until we left for work. And then kept asking. Every four minutes or so.

The day was no disappointment. Thalia now she thinks that advertising is the single greatest job in the world, because you get to eat Lucky Charms for breakfast, pour your own water out of a machine in the kitchen, watch DVDs on a big TV, eat cupcakes that the interns had made, and spin in chairs.

She's not wrong, of course.

Thalia and Bryan also kept busy with plans for an office lemonade stand. They spent the entire day creating posters, taping them all over the office doors of kind colleagues, and daydreaming about how much they could charge for each cup. At first Thalia said she might charge $20 a cup because then she could have even more money. I gently explained the principles of supply and demand, and Bryan suggested 20 cents a cup. Smart kid. We settled on 50 cents.

I was so proud of my little capitalist until I realized that in the end, they scribbled out the cost, gave away their efforts (or really, Paul Newman's efforts) for free and were just happy to have done something fun and gotten some free snacks out of it.

In other words, just like a real advertising creative.

That night, for the first time...well, ever, Thalia crept into her room after dinner without saying a word. She got herself undressed, put on her pj's, slipped into bed without so much as a story request or a glass of milk, and fell soundly asleep.

Now she knows.

Things five year-olds say to random diners at brunch

"I'm Thalia and this is Sage. She's wearing my underwear today."

On the Meatpacking District stabbing and Diet Coke and Catalina Sailboats

Last night, I stumbled onto a crime scene. I was walking past the Apple Store after work just after a random stabbing spree had ended in front. As the news is reporting, some guy went crazy for reasons unknown and simply started stabbing people with a three-inch folding knife in a trendy eyeglass store.  Then he attacked people in the restaurant next door, and then in the small plaza on 9th Avenue. Four were stabbed. Six held him down until the cops came. The dozens of us on the east side sidewalks were simply shaken.

I wasn't there for the violence; I came as the cops and the ambulances did. But the scene was morbid,  the air was heavier than even the brutal humidity, and the witness who told me in detail--and with a strange excitement--about the mayhem, relayed an account graphic enough to make last night's sleep a restless one.

I still have the picture of the two store employees in my head, a man and a woman fearful and wide-eyed behind the glass door, protected less than adequately by only a thin line of yellow crime scene tape surrounding the entrance.

This morning I woke up early (too early) feeling that perhaps it was one of those small gifts from the universe--one of those moments in life that makes you reassess what's important. Sometimes they're big obvious events like 9/11, sometimes they're scary near misses like the midtown crane collapse a block from my parents. Or sometimes they're happy things, like your first-born turning five.

I have this sort of mantra--a stupid one maybe--that you could be hit by a bus any day, and that's why I don't drink Diet Coke.

(I'd hate to think of my last drink on earth being anything but a good black-and-white milkshake in fact, but I don't think my thighs could handle the challenge.)

My mother puts it another way: She tells the story of a friend of hers who wanted a boat his whole life. He dreamed about it. He talked about it incessantly. He cut out photos of it and collected sailing magazines and dog-earred the corners. Everyone in his life knew that boat was his greatest wish.

And then, if I'm remembering this correctly, he died.

"Buy the boat," my mother always says.

Buy the boat.

Five is the gift

I went to sleep last night next to a four year-old and woke up next to a five-year old. However that happened, I have no idea.

(And I don't mean the sleeping next to part. That happened because the universe bequeathed me with crappy sleepers.)

Every year, we've been down at the beach with family over Thalia's birthday weekend, and so I've marked time seeing how big Thalia is each July 6 at the same dining room table. How she's gone from plugging her ears at the loud booms in the sky to the self-invented "fireworks dance" designed to make them come sooner. How she's gone from little girl I pushed down to the ice cream stand in a carriage, to little girl who picks out her own cone with rainbow sprinkles.

How she's gone from strong rider of tricycles to wobbly rider of a big girl training bike. How she has become the girl who puts on her own swimsuit and buckles her own sandals.

How she races down the street to the neighbor's house, no longer asking me to lead the way. How she races into the ocean, no longer asking me to take her hand.

How she has simply become a girl. A big girl

Today my little bean is five. It's not fair that those first five years are behind us already. It's magical that those first five years are behind us already.

This birthday however, I am thinking of more than how she has changed in the five years that she has graced us with the joy of her presence. I am thinking of how I have changed in the five years since I have been her mother. How I want to continue to change. I think I'm onto something.

Live the moments, mamas. Put down the crossword, look up from the laptop, turn off the cell phone. Come home early from work. Say yes to walks around the block for no reason. Enjoy the Saturday morning cartoons. Let them stay up for one more story. Rub their backs. Jump the waves.

This moment--any moment--only comes once.

My birthday gift to Thalia, beyond the Wiffle ball and bat, beyond the ice cream cake or the new party dress, is more of me, more of the time. She kisses me goodnight saying, You're the best mom I ever had. I want to have earned that.

Five.

God, it goes fast.

Happy birthday my sweet, beautiful girl. You're the best Thalia I ever had.

Mom-101's First Postulate of the Jersey Shore

First Postulate: Some people really do need to wear bras.

Second Postulate: Some people really do need to wear bras. Not all of them are women.

Third Postulate: The names Snooki, Pauly D, and The Situation are not to be mentioned in the company of those who own multi-million dollar oceanfront property.

Fourth Postulate: Wawa is a religion