"Mommy blogs are women blogs"

This week, I was minding my own business on the commute to work, picking my nose, reading about the Beastie Boys, daydreaming about cheese, adjusting a wedgie--whatever things you do in the privacy of a packed A-train car filled with anonymous commuters.

As the train pulled up to the West 4th Street station, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to face this young woman with the sweetest smile and a fedora, who I expected to be giving directions to, or thanking her for pointing out that I had dropped my MetroCard. Instead, she blurted out in the brief second before the doors closed, that while she has no kids, she reads my blog.

It kind of made my day.

At least after I nervously replayed my train ride, hoping that she didn't see me doing something totally embarrassing like knocking over an old lady to grab the last seat.

(But I didn't. I only do that on the commute home when my feet really hurt.)

What stayed with me all week, though, was the email Kelly sent me later that morning. As I told her, I  think it's too good not to share it.

If I had a quick moment, I would have told you why I was so enthusiastic (besides being a total nerd). Sometimes when I’m out with my single lady friends, who all read blogs, and I mention some mommy blog, I’m met with judgmental silence.  

You read mommy blogs?

I’m met with the same look, the look your best girlfriend gives you when you admit that you keep calling that loser ex who cheated on you.

What my friends don’t understand is that Mommy Blogs are women blogs.

If I skipped out on Mommy blogs because I don’t have kids I would be missing out on the yummy recipes of GGC or the general angst all New Yorkers have when celebrating anything on 9/11.

So, please know that lots of different kinds of people [read mom blogs] and love it. Some are mommies. Some are single, chubby black girls who live in Bed Stuy. And we could all learn from each other.

I always wonder if I would have read mom blogs, had I discovered them before I actually spawned. Whether I would find kindred spirits in the community of women writers, writing about womanly things and shared experiences--as people like Laurie White and Roo and Leah and Heather B have.

I would hope I would have. I would hope I'd have been open to the stories of women with children, and not hindered by my anxiety at being single myself, or jealous at their secret codes and inside jokes about playgroups and mucus plugs and other things I never knew had names. I hope I would have had Kelly's wisdom and willingness to see what unifies us over what separates us.

But I don't know.

One thing I do know: Kelly needs her own blog.

Tattoo You

Today, I want to wish a very happy birthday to the father of my children.

The maker of the dinners, the arbiter of the playlist, the master of the remote, the orderer of the wine, the pusher of the buttons, the teller of the fart jokes, the lover of animals, the dreamer of big dreams,  the devotee of all pork products.

And the guy who is just hilarious enough to do this to his arms. Permanently. For life.

before

after

Happy birthday Nate.

Secret preteen crush confessions. No, not Chachi.

Tonight, the kids begged me to stay up an extra few minutes to watch a little of Happy Days. Why a 3 and 5 year-old might be interested, I have no idea. Now maybe it has something to do with me singing the theme song to them as babies in the middle of the night when I couldn't think of anything else besides Eye of the Tiger.

Or maybe it's somehow genetic. I was a Happy Days addict as a kid. It made every Tuesday a happy day.

(Ha! See how I just did that?)

Friday was also special by the way, thanks to my weekly sleepovers with Tamar, the company of her excellent comic book collection, a well-stocked junk food drawer, and the musical stylings of Donny and Marie. But Tuesday? Most special school night hands down.

So I cuddled up with Thalia and Sage, watching the opening credits roll for the first time in forever, and ready for a little nostalgic Fonzie and Richie action. The first thing that struck me: the theme song was off. Why was it off? Did The Hub reedit the theme song? Lord no--it turned out to be the final season of Happy Days; the dreaded Ted McGinley Season. This was a season so far beyond jumping the shark that I had tuned out myself by then. Even 15 year-olds have their limits.

But the next thing that triggered a visceral reaction that totally surprised me, was Anson Williams popping onto the screen.

Potsie made my heart race.

I was not your average pre-teen hormonal gal in the 70s. I mean sure I liked Chachi--it was the law in 1978. But deep down, really deep down, I harbored deeper affections for Potsie Weber. He was cute, he was witty, and he was totally non-threatening in those little v-neck sweater vests. Plus, as I recall, he could sing. Like, acoustic guitar, serenade a gal, melt-your-heart sing. Even if the songs were heinous. Pump Your Blood anyone? Glee's got nothing on this scene.

While I was far too insecure to confess my secret love then, I feel fairly justified in doing it now. Especially with more kindred spirits in my Twitter stream when I first announced it, than I would have imagined.

image: Obey Giant

Who was your secret pre-teen crush? I promise not to tell anyone.

Peaster 2011 summed up in 3 photos

 

1.

2. 

3.

Dispatches from the Not Particularly God-Y Passover Seder

Passover blindsided me this year. One minute I'm in New Orleans, whooping it up over praline bacon, the next I'm home thinking oh shoot...Seder.

Not that I feel it's necessary to have a Seder. I'm of a member of the Not Particularly God-y sect of Jewishness, which is definitely a giant step below Reform on the pious ladder. But I have always loved the culture and the traditions and the wonderful celebrations. Of any religion, really. Greek Easter? Christmas Caroling? Buddhist wedding? Sign me up. If there's some Zoroastrian holiday that requires good food and wine and off-key singing, let me know so I can pencil it in. Especially if there are costumes involved.

Despite my own ill-preparedness, the the kids have been begging to "do the thing where you put your finger in the grape juice" for weeks; I felt obliged to somehow cobble together a Passover dinner. So I assembled the most last-minute, improptu, pathetically abridged, nutritionally deficient, Seder in history. My more devout ancestors would be horrified.

And let me tell you, it was awesome.

Guided by the wonderful new My Haggadah Made it Myself which is like a Taro Gomi coloring book-Haggadah mashup, the three of sat down to matzoh, deli-made matzoh ball soup, and sticky sweet grape juice. I figure they won't eat the lamb or the egg or the parlsey anyway so...eh. I'm not making any.

We skipped the boring parts of the story, and we glazed over any God stuff. (It's easier than you think to simply describe a "magic burning bush" or a "magic power that made frogs fall from the sky.") We lit the candles and we sang Dayenu. We colored pictures of wine and eggs. We hid the matzoh and ate it with lots of butter. And the kids guzzled the juice out of wine glasses, a privilege that requires sitting up very very straight and drinking very very carefully. Like a princess, Thalia said. She thought that was more interesting than reclining.

At the end, I asked the girls what they felt lucky for in their lives. Thalia said for friends and family. Sage said for the cats. And farts. Then I asked them what they want to do better in the coming year. Thalia said coloring in the lines. Sage said fart.

It's strange when we start to break away from family and create our own traditions. It's this blank slate I almost didn't realize I had available to me. But it's this kind of awesome, grown-up moment to recognize that we are--I am--responsible for the next generation. For their memories, their values, their silly holiday dinners. And that we can keep what works, toss what doesn't, improvise the rest, and in the end, create something that's all new and all ours.

I'd imagine we'll do it again next year. But tomorrow? Peaster. Where, in another example of weird family tradition, Nate will turn Easter Eggs into bloody eyeballs.

The Mom 2.0 Summit. Or, the one where I say thank you 172 times.

There was this one moment Friday night in New Orleans, after a fantastic dinner at Méson 923,  when the owners invited a few of us to the kitchen to meet the chef. (That kind of thing happens a lot when you procreate with another trained chef.) I realized immediately that Nate, not quite the social butterfly, was himself in that environment. He was relaxed. He was so at home walking around that restaurant, looking at the shining steel counters and trading barbs with the guys on the line. Nate was Nate.

That's how I felt all weekend long at the Mom 2.0 summit.

I might have been exhausted at times, socially anxious at times, and my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. But I also felt inspired,  motivated, psychically nourished, and very, very me.

I need to thank everyone who contributed to this feeling, because I want to feel it all the time.

In other words, the people here? They are the opiates of the mom blogging world.

Thank you to my co-panelists Maggie Mason and Erin Loechner who were incredibly forthcoming with their advice on how to pitch potential brand partners. I was so busy reaping their wisdom on that panel, I sometimes forgot I could jump in and speak too.

Thank you to Morra Aarons, Emily McKhann, Jen Singer, Roxanna Sarmiento, Polly Pagenhart, Loralee Choate, Rita Arens, Lindsay Maines, Audrey McClelland, Laurie Smithwick, Colleen Padilla, Cecily Kellogg, Renee J Ross,  Kari Dahlen, Dina Freeman, The Rookie Moms, Lindsay Ferrier, Miss Yvonne, Mir, Beth Blecherman, Kelcey and Marinka, who make me smile just by seeing them, even if we didn't spend enough time together.

Thank you to Chef John Besh, Zatarain's, and the cast and crew of Domenica whose most excellent peach bellinis, savory beignets, and pork a la everything made me swear off eating ever again for life; a promise which lasted for a whole 90 minutes. Also? Thanks to homemade limoncello.

An extra big thank you to Eden Kennedy and Alice Bradley, whose writerly advice on their panel has stayed with me for days now. Key takeaways:

• Stop procrastinating and write.
• The more you write, the better you get.
• "Don't make average things for average people."
• -John Updike has psoriasis.

Thanks to new dad blogger friends, especially the ones who thought I was 30. Giving you a big whoo-hoo for Dad 2.0.

Thank you to Almond Accents and the Zone Bars provided by Similac for saving me from blood sugar crashes around 3PM each day.

Thank you to fellow Saturday night benefit readers Doug, Kyran, Meagan, Jenny, Heather and the rest, who make me want to be better writers.  And to the team at Tide Loads of Hope for doing what you do. My reading, silly as it was, was dedicated to the schoolchildren in Haiti that my daughter's kindergarten has adopted, the ones who probably don't get to eat all day if they can't make it to school. I'm glad they are not forgotten.

Thank you to Gabrielle Blair who cited Cool Mom Picks in her panel as her example of a nicely designed blog. This is kind of like Woody Allen telling you your joke was funny. Or Charlie Sheen telling you your crack was good.

Thank you to Elizabeth's for the Praline Bacon.

No, seriously. Thank you. 

Thanks to all the savvy business minds who can make a gal smarter simply by standing next to them. I'm talking to you, Shelly Kramer, Erica Diamond, Stephanie Smirnov, Susan Getgood, Stephanie Schwab, Adam Keats, Caleb Gardner.

Thank you to Anissa Mayhew for not flinching when I called her high-maintenance, what with those crazy glasses of hers. Wheelchair or not, she could totally kick my ass. 

Thank you for the kindness and deep abiding friendship of Julie Marsh, Kristen Chase, Isabel Kallman, Anna Fader, Karen Gerwin, Stacey Morrison, Megan Francis,  Catherine Connors, Asha Dornfest and her husband Rael, who is Nate's new boyfriend. Meaning Asha and I now need to move to Utah and create an alternative family arrangement.

Thank you to new friend Jyl Johnson Pattee who evidently said something nice about my post The Unspoken Truths of Mothers on Top in her panel about influencers, which I'm sad to have missed. (Not just because she mentioned me; but because I heard it was a great panel.) When posts that mean something to me mean something to someone else too, that may be the greatest writing reward of all.

Thank you to Delta Airlines for putting the chick with her bare feet up on the seat in front of her behind Kristen, and not me. For the first time ever, the last row of the plane was preferable to the first.

And of course, thank you for Laura Mayes and her team for putting on one hell of a conference; the only one I've been to with brilliant panels, wonderful social events, and Greek feta-almond bruschetta. Don't ever hold it at a discount hotel chain or skimp on the food. And that's all I'll say about that. 

(And I totally know I'm forgetting a zillion people. If you saved me a seat, or smiled at me from my panel, or hugged me tight, or didn't make fun of my hair at any point during the weekend then I thank you too.)

I've often said that you can judge where you are in your life by looking at the people who surround you.

Right now, I feel like I am surrounded by amazing.

The Myth of Doing it All

No sooner did the comments (amazing, amazing comments!) on my last post about working moms start coming in, that I knew a follow-up was in order. Something about this notion of "doing it all." Because it seems that whether we work out of the home or not, one thing so many of us seem to have in common is this struggle with balance; the feeling that maybe we do too much.

(And God, don't you hate that expression "juggling?" I wish there were a term that didn't come from the world of mimes.)

Recently, I was speaking on a panel about moms and mobile technology when an audience member raised his hand to ask how I "do it all." It was a wildly uncomfortable moment for me (geez, you couldn't just ask me my favorite app?) and I mumbled something awkward about making the most of every minute, Then I think I said something about waking up really early to write, segued into a self-deprecating quip about not doing everything so well, and made a bad analogy about hourglass sand or something before settling on some point about how it takes a village and my parents are very helpful. 

Not my finest public speaking moment.

I'm not insulted when people ask about "doing it all" - I just find it to be a difficult question. Lisse summed it up so well in comments by paraphrasing a brilliant Tina Fey essay in the New Yorker: When you ask a working mom about how she does it all, it either puts her in the position to say something disparaging about herself (check) or deliver an answer that makes the questioner feel somehow inadequate for doing less.

Thank you Tina Fey. I kees you.

Frankly, I don't do it all nor do I want to. I'm sure I do more than some and less than others; there's great comfort in that middle section of the bell curve. I also find solace in the fact that I won't be busy forever. There are times for productivity and times for rest.  Times for input and times for output. There were times in my life when I sat around and played Spades on Yahoo for hours on end. I just don't have that luxury right now.

Those of us who are visibly busy I think at times give a false impression of togetherness that's rather unfortunate and unattainable. You don't see my trainwreck of a bedroom. (Well, some people have. And they've been sworn to secrecy.) You don't see the dishes in my sink or the scary, scary things under my couch. You don't see my overdue bills or the crud under my keyboard or the lightbulb that's been out for three weeks in the closet. You don't see when my toenail polish is chipping and when you do see that I'm way overdue for some hair color, thankfully you don't mention it.

We busy people, we prioritize. We make concessions.

I don't read the New Yorker articles my mother flags, rips out, and places right in my hand insisting READ THIS NOW, or I'd have written about that Tina Fey piece a month ago.

I don't exercise. It's been four years since I've been to a gym. I do however climb a million subway steps every day. I also own a lot of Spanx.

I don't go to every pediatric visit. I've already been skewered about that on Babble, so no need to do it here.

I don't do the laundry. God bless my sitter. I have also given up on the pile of Nate's clothes that grows in the bedroom like a fungus. In fact I don't make cleaning much of a priority any more, which is why I do not throw a lot of dinner parties either. Clear a place on the floor! We'll throw down a blanket and make it a picnic! just doesn't sound all that inviting.

I don't cook much.  Definitely not eggs.

I don't feed the homeless, foster rescue animals, host benefits, endure walkathons, chair volunteer committees. Although I did drunk bid at our preschool auction last week and end up with a very expensive drum lesson for Thalia.

I don't RSVP yes as often as I RSVP maybe.

I don't look at my Google reader. In fact, it kind of scares me to think about.

I don't write hand-written thank you notes. Hooray for Paperless Post, and a culture that's increasingly accepting of rude behavior.

(Thanks Kelly for the suggestion. Phew, that was liberating.)

Do people think you do it all? What are the things you "do it all-ers" don't do?

---
Thank you for including this post in Five-Star Friday, Schmutzie.

The unspoken truths of mothers on top

Last week, in one of the highlights of my year (and okay, life), I was honored to sit down in a small group of New York-based writers over lattes and lemon pancakes, along with Anna Quindlen. She is only one of my all-time favorite writers, and possibly yours too, if you're a parent who writes. As Lisa Belkin so aptly put it, Anna's 1980's New York Times column, Life in the 30's was in a sense, the very first mom blog.

It was like one of those Chinese Food conversations--the kind where you ask a million questions, get a million answers, and no matter how much information you consume, you're still hungry for more a moment later.  I could have gone on forever if the other women at the table didn't have their own questions too, damn them.

We talked social media (Anna promised her children she'd never join Facebook). We talked women in the newsroom (there were none). We talked career accomplishments and Philadelphia accents and how great Lisa Belkin is; stay-at-home dads and the joys of public schools, the New York Times paywall (a good thing) and why teenagers aren't so bad after all. And of course, we talked about her new novel Every Last One, which is, so far, exquisite. And then as we segued into the old life-work balance mythology conversation, I asked her about a topic that's been on my mind for a while: entrepreneurial women.

Or specifically, female entrepreneurship when you are the primary earner of the family.

I have so so few people to talk about this with. And what can I say--Anna reminded me of my mom, in the best possible way. So I just sort of blurted it out. And it's been on my mind ever since.

I am in a relatively unique situation. I'm not only doing my best to follow my bliss with my website, my writing career, and my advertising career, but I have to feed my family through it all. Nate brings a lot to the household, but a fat paycheck isn't one of them. So when people ask me how I "do it all" (a misnomer If I ever heard one--I certainly don't do it all. You see all the things I do, but you do not see all the things I don't do. But that's another post.) my first thought is often, well, what should I give up then?

Every day I struggle to find the balance, not just between work and home, but between work and fulfillment. Between security and passion. Between the bills I have to pay, and the whole living my dream thing that we daughters of feminists were promised in the 70's.

As Anna pointed out, working mothers are acceptable and accepted today. In fact more mothers must continue working now because of the economy. One-third of all US households now have a woman as the primary earner. And yet, she reminded us, we still do more of the housework and household management. This is nothing you don't know, my friends; we still send the thank you notes, manage the playdates, buy the birthday gifts, sign the permission slips, plan our own Mother's Day brunches, kiss the boo-boos, attend the PTA meetings, redecorate the kids' room, and fold the laundry, all while reassuring our husbands and partners that they're valuable too.

(Okay, you got me. I don't fold the laundry. A girl's got to delegate something.)

In other words, one-third of us are bringing home the bacon, frying it up in a pan, then washing the pan, and earning the money to buy a new one when that caked-on crud simply won't come off.

Every so often I find an advertising colleague in my boat, and we shut the door of my office and in hushed whispers, describe the fears and the burdens and the exhaustion and the secret, horrible anxiety of what ifs. But in the blogging world, women like this are either far and few between, or we're simply not discussing it. Maybe because we're so busy "doing it all?"

So I want to talk about it.

I want to say that it's hard. 

I want to say that I'm tired. A lot.

I want to say that there are inherent challenges when women have more financial power in a relationship. Your partner either has to be wildly confident in himself not to resent you...or, well, he'll resent you. I only know how it works in our household, and I'd say at times it's a little of both.

I want to say that sometimes, I feel more in common with working dads than working moms. 

I want to say that mothers face the kind of parental guilt when they work through dinner or miss a ballet recital for a business trip that fathers will never know.

I want to say that I love the "you go girl" aspect of women in business, and I adore those women who push others to follow their dreams, do their thang, explore their passions, quit their dayjobs and write that book/start that website/build that app/launch that consultancy. But I want to hear from those women who did it as single moms. Or as women who didn't happen to marry hedge fund managers. Or as women who don't have rich families to fall back on should Plan A turn into Plans B, C and D.

I want to say that my mother was right when she said "Life is a series of choices." And that you always give something up to get something else.

The best you can hope for is not to be the crane in that Aesop's fable, the one with a mouthful of grapes who sees his reflection in the lake, then drops all his grapes in an effort to grab more.

I want to say that despite all this, I'd do it anyway. Because even though it's counter to the old adage, what I do, in a lot of ways, is who I am. I'd imagine a lot of entrepreneurial women feel the same way.

This week, I'm thrilled to be honored at the Advertising Women of New York Game-Changers Luncheon. I'm going to be sitting side by side with captain-esses of industry who are going to share their accomplishments and encourage us to take risks, initiate change, and forge new paths. But I will be also quietly imagining what unspoken challenges they faced on the way up.

And I will sit back thinking of Anna Quindlen, and the other amazing, presumed do-it-all-er moms of the world, and wonder when we can sit down and really, really talk.

From earthquakes to goody bags

My kid are playing earthquake with their dollhouse right now. They're shaking it and flinging it around, and they've broken a bunkbed and a window in the process. I've scolded them to be careful. I spent four hours building that damn thing.

I overhear Thalia say, "The mom's birthday was the worst birthday ever because of the earthquake."

I hear Sage say, "Happy birthday! Let's all have a party!"

I hear Thalia say, "let's pretend the brother is really scared because they might all die, so they can hide in this special earthquake room."

I hear Sage say, "You can't hide the brother in the teapot because then we will drink them. Hey...this can be a birthday cake!"

I hear Thalia say, "Now I will play music on the piano that sounds like a thunderstorm."

I hear Sage say, "I am making you some tea. It's the kids' kind of tea. Let's get a gift!"

And then they gift wrap a bathing suit top in an orange cloth napkin, and hand it to Daddy to open it up.

I remember recently reading this amazing post about Twitter and disaster burnout. I wish I could find it. It described something I had written about too--how strange it is that our streams are so schizophrenic, alternating wildly between heartfelt wishes for Japan, quips about our kids, and jokes about pop culture icons. Up down up down.

Maybe that's totally normal. Maybe that's what we're supposed to be doing to keep ourselves sane. Because I see my girls doing it in their own way right this minute.

Best Mother's Day Gift Ever in the History of the World

I just received a pitch that is far too awesome not to reprint verbatim.

Pamper yourself or your mom with the comfort she deserves this Mother's Day

Hi Liz, 

Life moves too quickly. Help rejuvenate your mom with a day at the spa, indulge her with chocolates and flowers, help her relax and slow down from her fast-paced world full of deadlines, commitments and obligations. And help her be more comfortable with Replens, A Long Lasting Vaginal Moisturizer.

We all know how busy a mom’s life can be but this Mothers Day take time to educate your mom about the treatment options available for vaginal dryness. Nearly every woman will experience vaginal dryness sometime in her life, oftentimes making even daily activities unbearable. It is most often associated with the normal decline or fluctuation of the female hormone estrogen. This fluctuation can be triggered by childbirth, breastfeeding or menopause. Dryness can also be caused by stress, certain medications, or excessive exercise.

This Mothers Day take time for yourself or time to educate a woman you love about vaginal dryness and Replens!  

-------

I wonder if I can somehow get a picture of Wil Wheaton pampering his mother with a long-lasting vaginal moisturizer?

Boy does that sound all kinds of wrong.

-------
Edited to add: The pitch makes the NY Magazine Approval Matrix in the coveted lower left corner, after hitting Gawker, Media Bistro and a New Hampshire radio station. Congrats Replens, you've gone viral!
 

Welcome to the Dollhouse

A mid-morning meeting production session meant I could actually head to work a little late today. I imagined all the things I could get done in that rare extra half hour or so at home when I actually had a little energy--dishes needed to be done. Laundry put away. Posts edited. Emails checked. Travel booked. Bills paid. Taxes filed. Calls returned. Copy written.

But then, Sage asked me to play dollhouse with her.

I realized, in the three months since I helped put the darn thing together for her, it's something we hadn't done together. Not once.

I suddenly felt that flush of embarrassment and guilt. What kind of mom never plays dollhouse with a daughter who loves loves loves playing dollhouse?

I had to stop myself and make a mental list all the things we do do together in the limited time we do have together. We read books. We watch movies. We go to ballet. We play games. We draw. We have fashion shows (and oy, the last one nearly gave Nate a heart attack). We go out for pancakes. We build LEGOs. We eat dinner and sing silly songs and after, I poke her belly to "count" the number ravioli she's eaten.

Okay phew. So I'm not a total parenting failure.

In a short half hour, I learned that the mouse family and the people family can't live in the same house together. And that the mom and dad sleep in separate rooms because that's where the pillows are. The stove is outside for easier access. The daughter sleeps on the couch because it's pink. The brother was sick but is not sick any more. The kitchen is stocked with granola bars and fruit roll-ups and pizza with no sauce. There is a swimming pool outside, and a zoo and a trampoline in the backyard. The lamp is enchanted, so when you press a button it spins around and around and when you touch another button it freezes. And the daddy always likes to carry the children upstairs to bed.

Children live in such a magical world. I need to invite myself over more often.

The hardest questions

"Mommy," Thalia asked, approaching the couch, "I need to ask you a question."

She seemed uncharacteristically serious. Nervous even. Thalia is a girl rarely without a smile on her face, a wiggly dance move in her legs. I sat up straight and looked her in the eyes so she'd know I respected her question.

"Of course, honey. "

"Well," she said, shuffling side to side, "It's kind of a weird question. It's weird."

Weird is code for uncomfortable.

"Can I...can I ask you anyway?"

Oh no, I thought, bracing myself for something overheard at school about bodies or pregnancy or kissing boys. Oh no no no no no. She's not even six. I'm so not ready for this stage.

I love that my daughter asks questions. I love that she's a critical thinker who processes her world in thoughtful ways, and wants to understand the how and why behind the what. But it's scary to think about those questions that stem from dubious sources in her classroom, about alligators in the sewers or Bubble Yum filled with spider eggs or whatever rumors are being spread by the prepubescent set in this particular century. No doubt Hannah Montana is involved. As are the words internet and naked.

That said, I'm less worried about embarrassing questions or silly urban myths, and more concerned about values-based questions which, with the wrong answer,  pits us versus them.

I'm anxiously waiting for the day that Thalia skips home from school to inform me that Obama is bad, or that fat people are ugly. Or heck, she could one day ask whether it's true that good people go to church, or that mommies are supposed to stay home with the kids. Fortunately we live in Liberal York City where our progressive values are the norm, but still. Sage has already asked me whether it's true that people need to be good to live forever (oy).  It's hard to continue to say "here's what we think, though other people think something else," without making our perspective seem more right than the other. Of course, yes, we want our girls to believe a lot of what we believe. But we also want them to believe it because they've thought it through and it makes sense to them. Not just because we've told them it's so.

With the exception of a lifetime loyalty to the Washington Redskins, which, from Nate's perspective, is entirely non-neogotiable.

(Jayzus people, do you know how hard it is to talk about racial sensitivity when your home is covered with stuff that says RED SKINS on it?)

It's a Shirley Temple. Shut up.

I suppose all I can do is what I'm doing now--let my kids know what we believe, answer their questions as honestly as I can, and let them know that they can always talk to me about any subject at all. Even race (which I'm now much better at, thanks to all of you.) Even sexy toothpicks. My hope is that this open dialog thing can keep on keeping on, even and especially when my girls are slamming doors shut, and wailing through mascara'd lashes that they hate me.

I hear that's about 10 these days. Maybe 11 if you live in the suburbs.

"You can always ask me anything Thalia," I said, looking my beautiful, confident, growing-up-so-fast 5.5 year-old in the eye so she knew I took her seriously. "Anything. So tell me. What is it?"

"Well," she said, holding her breath for a moment then shifting from her right leg to her left. "Hailey said...Hailey said..."

"Yes?"

"Hailey said that if you stare at something long enough, your eyes will change color. Is that true?"

It was hard not to smile.