English Lit, Real Housewives Style

Last night I determined that the Real Housewives of New Jersey, is, in fact educational.

I learned the word Ingredientses.

Last season I was introduced to the new accepted plural of the word woman: womens. Also, as Cheryl reminded me on Twitter, last week we were schooled in the interchangeable application of delicatessen and delicacy. As in,  I know, I know... [Fois Gras] is a delicatessen in French.

(Ah, my favorite European country: French.)

Of course I realize that I should not be judging. If I had cameras pointed at me every second of every waking moment of every day, I would humiliate myself verbally to no end. Just last night, Sage exclaimed over her ravioli, "I cutted mines all by myself!"

I corrected her: "I cutted mine, sweetie."

Things I saw in Brooklyn this weekend

 

 

Take that, all you fancy Hamptons people.

The essential awesomeness of devoted grandparents

This post is part of a two-part series sponsored by Yahoo! Mail which lets you connect with the people you lurve. You can read the first one about my mom's awesome emails here.

Last week, I had the pleasure of speaking on a panel in New York moderated by the always inspiring  (and well-dressed) Samantha Ettus, about mommy guilt. Despite the topic--and an audience made up of nearly entirely senior citizens--it actually turned out to be one of the more fun, upbeat panel discussions I've been on.

One woman (of actual childbearing age) in the audience raised her hand to ask about the guilt of taking time for herself while her young kids are at home. Fortunately, that's one thing I've never had an issue with. Without grown-up time, I would simply die.

Some of it is not optional--I work, I travel for work, I speak at conferences, I attend client dinners. Some of it is personal. Some of it is indulgent. Some of it is about keeping my relationship with Nate an actual relationship. But all of it is important.

My saving grace as I've said ohhhh, about a billion times, are my parents. All four of them are mercifully close by, and don't hesitate for a moment to snatch the children for a night or a weekend or  longer. If my mother-in-law lived closer I'd imagine I could count her in too.

My parents don't just help with the kids. They don't just "see" the kids. They help us raise them.

I feel no shame in admitting it.

Although many parents do. Ugh, it's such a 21st century White American thing, as Marisa Thalberg reminded me on the panel.

It's not to say I'm without guilt entirely when I wave goodbye for a night or pack their cute little kids-size suitcase full of clean underwear for a weekend. But one thing that keeps me going are the email updates from my parents--the quick descriptions of who's getting a face painted, who's dancing on the "stage" at Barnes + Noble, who's picking fat peas from the garden, who's eating her seventh pancake, who's the new Mayor of Central Park, who's destined for a future in comedy.

My father is on Facebook. My mother is not. My stepfather...well, he still writes on a typewriter.

So we were eating dinner and quizzing the girls, again, about the name of the red Christmas flower on the table. We told them many times; in fact, Thalia seemed to remember it from years ago.


"What is the name of the red flower?" Chris asked.


"BOBBIE", says Sage. And so it is that the poinsettia is now officially called BOBBIE in our house!


XXOOO Mom

When the email comes through, the first thing I do is cross my fingers and hope for that little paper clip icon, the one that tells me that there's a photo attached.

There's something magical about those candid, spontaneous snapshots that show up in my inbox, generally sent from a cell phone mid-activity. It's like a front row to the joy of childhood seen through a doting grandparent prism. Through the blur, the imperfections, I feel how complete unposed, unplanned the moments are.

I know my kids will never want for love.

It's hard to feel guilty when I think of it that way.

Spying on your kids - or the time when Mom-101 becomes Mom-007

Right now I have little kids. I have yet to worry about things like texting (oy), sexting (eek), and Chat Roulette (kill me now). But I am already thinking a lot about trust. And privacy. And how the two don't always jibe.

Starting now, I tell my kids that they can ask me any question however silly or embarrassing or incriminating. I think that's an essential first step. But let's be honest--their questions now are about whether your eyes change color if you stare at something too long, or how the first baby was born, or why Daddy hates the Dallas Cowboys. These are the good old days.

To this day, the greatest stumbling block in my rocky, early teenage-years relationship with my mother was discovering she had read my diary in seventh grade. (I think what she got out of it was that I was in love with some short boy, we made out after school one day, and I had horribly low self-esteem. A normal 13 year-old! Surprise!) I swore I would never do that to my own kid.

And now, here I am with my own daughters, hoping I can make good on that promise. Because I also know that the stakes are so much higher for kids in this World 2.0 that we're living in.

Again: sexting.

Gah.

So here's something cool.

In my spare time (generally between 3 and 4 AM although in this case, I made an exception) I taped a series of short webisodes for iVillage called The Conversation Thread. My fellow featured panelists include iVillage chief correspondent Kelly Wallace, comedienne Judy Gold, and iVillage blogger Brandi Jeter.

You can tell when we taped it based on the Charlie Sheen references.

(Kelly and I are twinsies.)

It's a fast, fun discussion about hot topics including whether parenting makes you happy, dealing with kids who talk back, and whether it's okay to spy on your kids.  Please watch it and let me know what you think. If it's nice.

I have to say, if I got one do-over, it would be a cleaner response to the spying question. (Speaking in soundbytes is hard!) I joked about telling my kids upfront that I have a right to snoop on them, so really, it's not actually spying if they're in on it. But I'm not so sure that that's the right answer.

I think the right answer is that I have no freaking idea what I will do. Same as any other question that comes up about a hypothetical person that my children may or may not be in 5 or 10 years.

If I have children who are deserving of my trust, then they will receive it.

That seems like the best I can promise.

I also would like to say that I have the right to change my mind on that and totally spy on my kids if I am guaranteed to have one of those James Bond Aston Martins with front-firing rockets and an OCTOPUSSY plate. Which will go over huge in Brooklyn.

What do you think about the discussion? Do you agree with Judy's idea that very little is off limits when it comes to keeping an eye out for your kids?

Apocalypse: The Creative Brief

Hi.

We're still here.

Just wanted to let you know, since I haven't posted in a few days.

So yeah--no apocalyptic disasters, no doomsday scenarios, no flying off to heaven yesterday. No mythic figures in flowing white robes, unless you count my stepfather coming out of the shower.

We did allow the kids three whole turns on the carousel at Bear Mountain. Which, I suppose when you're five, is some version of heaven.

I keep thinking about the creative brief for the Rapture ad campaign, ever since Stephanie Smirnov wondered what it would look like.

CLIENT: Family Radio Inc. Christian Radio Network

ASSIGNMENT: Create an unbranded campaign to promote the Rapture on May 21, 2011. Drive people to www.familyradio.com and to unbranded website wecannow.com; solicit donations without actually asking for the; stir up the crazy.

MEDIUM: Out of home (billboards, bus sides, guerilla); radio (:30, :60); consider social media opportunities

SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT MESSAGE: The rapture is coming May 21, please visit our website for more information

CONSUMER INSIGHT: Our audience is low-income, highly religious, easily persuaded, and most likely depressed. They watch Fox News and consider Miracle Whip a food group. They have probably been hit hard by the recession and are looking for excuses to sell their homes and Hummel figurine collections anyway. They do not watch the Daily Show. They watched the Simpsons once, in the dark, when their parents thought they were asleep. 

TONE: Think the bad guys from every Scooby Doo episode. 

CREATIVE INSPIRATION:

The number five equals "atonement", the number ten equals "completeness", and the number seventeen equals "heaven." Also, the number ten equals "metric system" and the number sixty-nine equals "crazy sexy time." These need not be included in messaging.

BUDGET: $100,000,000 in media. About four cents in production.

Ad humor. /Rimshot.

I spent weeks making fun of these people, but I have to admit, today I feel kind of sad for them. This morning, I got to wake up to a big bush of fuschia azaleas in perfect bloom out the window at my mother's house, and marvel at the beauty of the world. I get to sneak a bit of the perfect French almond croissant Nate brought me from the city. I get sit in the audience with my family and hold back the tears as Thalia's flits on stage at her very first ballet recital. Surely there will be ice cream to follow.

A whole group of other people woke up thinking, none of that is enough.

The Etiquette Bitch says: RSVP, parents!

I hate throwing parties. I mean, I love having thrown a party but the actual planning part consumes me with stress.  

What if no one comes? What if they say they will come and don't? What if everyone hates each other? What if it rains so no one comes? What if it's sunny so no one comes? What if the party is crashed by a group of drunken hooligans? What if the drunken hooligan is Nate? And he's on on a long rant against religion? And he's right? And I'm forced to defend him?

Really, it's a problem possibly requiring medication.

A couple years ago, deeply in the horrific money-scrounging phase of our lives, we scrounged all our money to throw Sage a birthday party--more for the adults. Nate's birthday sangria is legendarily worth a trip to Brooklyn. The morning of the event, half the people bailed on us. Yes, every excuse was perfect and relevant and acceptable and la la la la la. One kid wasn't feeling well. One mom forgot. One mom was tired. I ran out of gracious ways to say "Don't worry about it"

I get it. I'm a mom too. Sometimes you are, simply, tired.

That said, I am forever traumatized by the experience. Do you know what a pasta salad for 40 looks like after a party of 15 people?

A pasta salad for 40.

Yesterday, we threw our first real birthday party for Sage. In fact, it was our first real birthday party for either kid; the kind with entertainment and organization and cake and balloons. And as we parents know, all good things end with balloons.

I had a fabulous time, and left with nothing but happy feelings. But this morning, I felt a little squidgy as I realized several of the parents who RSVP'd yes were no-shows. No-calls and no-emails either.

I am not without sin in this department and so the Etiquette Bitch in me hesitates to throw this ugly, jagged stone. I have said yes to PR events that totally slipped my mind or were pushed out of the way for some other unfortunately pressing obligation. In times of major stress and overcommitment, I have ignored a flurry of invites in my inbox, some of which I probably should have made time to respond to. And yes, I once sent Nate to a friend's wedding alone at the last minute, because I was 2 weeks postpartum, fat, depressed, leaking from my size 86 DDDDD boobs, and would have been probably kicked out for showing up in sweatpants anyway.

So let me say for the record: I suck at times.

But a kid's birthday party seems different.

It's not just letting down a host (who may have already paid for your kid, ahem), but about letting down a little girl who doesn't understand why her friends didn't come.

Fortunately, Sage is resilient and awesome. It's her mother that could use a few more of those attributes.

My mom and I talk about this often. We've debated as to whether this is a New York thing, or a Generation X/Y thing, or a technology thing. Are people less considerate than they used to be? Are we just too busy? Have we lost our sense of empathy and courtesy? Or do invitations and requests flood us with such great frequency in this digital age that they've really lost all meaning?

I'm not sure what it is. But I know it makes me want to do better. I want to be the kind of person who says yes and means yes. Or the person who sometimes says yes but, or who simply says no--because that's okay too.

Is it too late to make a New Year's Resolution in mid-May?

A special kind of four

I'm not entirely sure how this

became four.

How a helpless, sweet, do-nothing lump of peachy cheeks and juicy baby thighs could become the force of nature that is Sage.

Sage, you are a confident, independent, self-assured human being--for four, or any age. Trust me, as one who has been through quite a few of those ages. Your confidence is on brilliant display through your humor, your curiosity, your challenge of conventions.

Only you could sleep with a cross-dressing rag doll named Diego. Only you could name your animals Huntz, Herrika and Pukebok. Only you could decide that you don't want to be Wendy, you want to be Peter Pan. Or Charlie Bucket. Or Woody. Or the Bandersnatch. Only you could look at a pack of older kids at the playground and tell them you're making up a new game, and here are the rules. Only you can't be bribed with dessert.

Only you could say you don't want to eat steak because it tastes like muenster cheese.

And when you giggle, there's no sound like it in the world. 

You challenge me, Sage. Every day. You don't offer affection easily or indiscriminately. You don't take words at face value, even from grown-ups--everything is negotiable in your world. It's frustrating. And it's wonderful.

It is a sign of the four year-old (and fourteen year-old, so help me) that you are to be.

I hope four is everything it can be and everything it should be. Even if you don't want to be four. Even if you told me you only want to be three. Or six. Or never grow up at all, just like Peter Pan.

Happy birthday, Sage. God, I love you.

The best Mother's Day Gift: Mother's Day

We sat in the rickety, patina-ed patio chairs of the ordinarily hipster-packed Brooklyn restaurant, delighted for the first al fresco dinner of the season. There were a few other mothers there too, mostly with grown children, and I could feel their eyes on us. There was that sweet longing. That melancholy recognition of their own early Mother's Days. You could imagine the inner dialogue, the how did my kids get to be 16/19/31 so fast?
  
This year, I was too tired to please everyone else. Mothers, stepmothers, mothers-in-law. This year, I decided to be selfish. I just wanted dinner with my children.

Sage sat up straight, proud to have put her napkin on her lap. Thalia lead her in a very quiet rendition of the Itsy Bitsy Spider. I toasted to the man who impregnated me (good new kindergarten vocabulary word) and to Thalia for making me a mother, and to Sage for making us the family that we are.

Sage chair-hopped from her chair to Nate's to mine. Thalia helped Sage count the four days left until her birthday. Sage refused to eat. Thalia devoured a wad of blue cheese and an entire bowl of pasta, and deigned to try an artichoke. I tried to entice her to eat asparagus by telling her how cool it would be to smell her pee afterward, but was promptly scolded for inappropriate dinner conversation--this from the guy who has taught them to start every knock knock joke with "fart."

We tried fruitlessly to keep the girls in their seats as we crept toward the 90 minute mark. The patio crowd didn't seem to disapprove, and so our pleas for them to settle down were mostly for show, as they twirled and named the flowers in the garden and put on general displays of little girl cuteness that they won't be able to get away with much longer.

They scraped at the "wet cream" of the top of the salted caramel custard, and nothing we could say to get them to sample the miracle of caloric perfection below that white layer. Sage wondered why there was no big cake that said HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY LIZ with a candle on it. Isn't that the symbol of all things celebratory?

I ran through the card in my head, the one in which Nate had written the kinds of things that keep you going when you think you just don't have it in you anymore.

I felt my new necklaces in my fingers, the dainty black heart that Sage had chosen "because I love you" and the dainty gold star that Thalia had chosen "because a star is something amazing and you are amazing and I love you."

"They couldn't choose between them," Nate said, "and so we got both."

Earlier in the day, a delivery man in our building lobby whispered to Nate, These are the best years of your life. I think it might be true.

Love letters from my mom

This post is part of a two-part series sponsored by Yahoo! Mail. It's something I've been meaning to write anyway.

I am a saver. I have the shoeboxes (and baskets and files and more boxes) to show for it; cards from my grandmother, notes passed in grade school, mementos from vacations, flower petals from celebrations so long ago I have no idea who gave them to me. All of them live in my home, and show no signs of ever going away, unless they suddenly grow feet, steal a pair of my old Pradas and hoof it themselves.

This year,  I realized I don't need all of it. Most of it yet, but not all of it. I decided I would finally toss the December 1989 Italy trip photo album with the long-ago ex. That's a big move for a sappy, sentimental, nostalgic type like me.

There's one box though that's never going anywhere, and it's a single file in my inbox that I've had for about six years.

I named it Mom Mail.

It contains nearly every email my mother has ever sent me.

Because if you had my mom, you would know how very saveable her emails are.

I've got long emails, short ones, funny observations, links I must follow, and a whole lot of You Go Girl rah-rah mom support. I've got poetic observations about my kids. Thoughtful wisdom about problems. Hilarious commentary about political news and articles I must read. Yet? Not one single chain letter. Not one "forward this to a friend and Bill Gates will send you $50."

Not one sappy e-card with bad auto-play music.

Take note, other relatives!

Flipping through the file this morning, I love you can put together a fairly accurate portrait of my mom simply from the subject line.

See What's Getting My Goat Today

re: ThankYouStephenColbert.org

This show looks so funny!

Blogs, yours

FW: Thank you for fostering an orphan elephant

FW: Anne Carson's  "Gnosticism V"

When the pupil is ready the teacher appears

Re: Bosnia

Re: One more post on feminism. Nice!

For ‘EcoMoms,’ Saving Earth Begins at Home - New York Times

I hope today was better than you thought

Photo: Sage and Itchy and Scratchy

But of course, the best part of her emails are the little gems inside:

Thank you for the photos of Thalia. This gift, this child, this chance to see the future in a baby's face.

How did the sleeping go last night? Send Nate to us for a week. Or send the baby to us. Yeah, that sounds good!

Haven't you noticed that it is absolutely no longer cool to think about, write about, or wear fashion in these times? Even if you're Kate Moss. Gay men and the staff of French Vogue are exempt.

Liz, I can't tell you how excited I am to be able to read these intelligent, sensitive, literate words, ones that validate all that I feel-have ever felt-and will continue to believe long after many around me snicker and roll their eyes each time I posit an opinion. I've never been part of the mainstream, as you must know. I've paid the price, but the price of going along to get along isn't even worth thinking about.

oh, my god...goddess. You're asking the grandmother if this picture of the baby is perfect? Does a bear poo in the woods? If makes my heart sing. Mom

"I could make that sweater,"she said as she drifted off to sleep. "Oh, yes, I already did." Then she remembered that she was no longer 35 and that her dreams had taken a different turn.

Dear Thalia, The peas are coming to an end for the year. We've picked enough to freeze and to make soup for dinner tonight. Please ask your mother or father to bring you here to pick more peas before they are mere memories. Or, figure out another way for us to get them to you.

Thanks for bringing me into  the 21st century with the newest symbols. 
:oP to the wet weather
:) to Thalia, Emily, Nate, and you
and a little ;) ;) to the truth

I loved catching up with your blogs this morning. Reading what you're thinking about gives me goose bumps. It's one thing to be with you; quite another to hear the inner voice. I'm so happy to know the woman you are becoming. And I promise: the best is yet to come.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it all. I've thought about putting them together in a book. (But then someone beat me to it, rats.) Or maybe I'll just put them together for my girls. What a gift to have  grandmother like this.

And what a gift for me to have a mother who does this in an email. Just because.


------

This post is part of a two-part series sponsored by Yahoo! Mail which helps you keep in touch with friends and family in kinda the easiest way possible.

Working moms: 97% inspiration, 3% breast milk stains

This week, in time for Mother's Day, I'm so hugely honored to be a part of an iVillage feature on Work After Baby: Inspiring Stories From Inspiring Moms.

I somehow managed to sneak in at number 25 (out of 25), joining amazing women like Kathleen Sebelius, Jennifer Garner, Samantha Bee, Deborah Norville, and my new friend, the extra-amazing  Kelly Wallace. Seriously. This woman is very full of amazing.

For the feature, I was asked to describe an early working mom moment, and right away it conjured up these memories of Thalia and Nate joining me on a commercial shoot, and how easily everyone jumped in to help take care of my new baby. And you know? I realized that's one group that we don't always thank enough.

We thank our parents, our partners, our grandparents, our sitters, our teachers. But sometimes we need to say thank you to our co-workers and colleagues; the ones who cover you when you have a birthday party to plan or have to run home for emergency stitches on your daughter's head (that was me last night, and yes, Sage is okay). The ones who dig out their office toys on Take Your Child to Work Day. The ones who hold your Stella while you get the baby back in the Bjorn--or the ones who hold the baby while you focus on your Stella.

Really Hallmark, get on the ball. If there's a Sweetest Day and a Flag Day, there can certainly be a Thank Your Co-Worker Who Wiped Your Baby's Puke Off the Conference Table While You Ran to Get More Wipes Day

If I haven't said it before, I'll say it now--thank you Mike and Anne and Melissa and Ann. Thank you Gretchen and Kurt. I remember that trip fondly.

And thank you Frank. I still think you should have been our holiday card that year.

These are the things that happen when you have a theme park for a client.

Do you working moms--sorry...go-to-work moms/work-out-of-the-house-moms/ office-monkey moms--have any great stories about your early days of getting back to the grind?

Asking for help

18 months ago, I wrote about my brother's niece Florence.

Florence is Thalia's age. Her mom and my sister-in-law and I were all pregnant at the same time, comparing belly growth and whining about nausea. Florence was a perfectly normal, sweet, funny baby and then toddler - I still remember the first time my girls, and my brother's two girls, and Florence and her sister all raced around the backyard together as we all cooed and ahhed at all that lovely estrogen, and imagined what they'd be like as teenagers, borrowing mascaras and comparing boyfriend stories and pretty much scaring the crap out of us.

And then Florence turned 20 months. She started to have tremors.

Later, she started limping. Then she started speaking less. Then she developed Celiac. Then tremors became blank stare seizures. Those became body drop seizures. She had to wear a helmet. A fucking helmet, people. A three year-old had to wear a helmet because they never knew if she was going to just fall down at any moment.

This August she stopped walking.

This September she stopped talking.

There is still no diagnosis. 

Today, 18 months later Florence has undergone blood plasma transfusions and transplants and seizure management and hospitals and more hospitals and more helmets and all kinds of stuff that you should pray you never ever ever have to deal with in your life. Ever.

Today, 18 months later, Florence is recovering from a bone marrow transplant she underwent yesterday. It's essentially the nuclear option. And it's a $25,000 procedure.

Friends and family have been supporting them with donations through the Children's Organ Transplant Association. While this is not something I am normally comfortable doing, screw my comfort. I am putting the link here in case even one benevolent stranger out there wants to do the same. But the other thing that I ask for? Good thoughts, wishes, prayers, and a teeny sliver of your heart--for a little girl who did absolutely nothing to deserve any of this.

---
Update 5/4: If anything could serve to remind me that people, overall, are good, it is you. The comments, the Tweets, the generosity of heart and spirit...it is quite simply, overwhelming. And beyond what I could have imagined.

Florence's grandma emailed me this morning to say thank you. And now allow me to say it too. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. May it come back to you in a million ways. 

If you want to keep up with Florence's progress, you can follow the COTA blog here. 

The morning after Bin Laden

This morning I woke up to a sliver or orange sun rising over the northern Florida Atlantic and stood out on the hotel room terrace to watch it grow. A brief moment of zen far from the images of rage and celebration and triumph that are flooding the media in the wake of Bin Laden's death.

I am glad we killed the terrorist fuck, no doubt about it. I hope he rots in whatever version of hell he spent his sick, misdirected life fearing, and I hope it's a million times worse than anything he could have imagined. But I look at the photos of American celebration and I think...am I missing something?

I feel proud of my President and our military. I feel some degree of relief. I feel like shouting NOW THAT'S WHAT MISSION ACCOMPLISHED LOOKS LIKE. But I don't feel like partying.


Maybe I'd feel differently if I were home, where the gaping hole in the downtown skyline is a constant reminder of 2001, and not alone in a sterile hotel room.  It's possible.

I do wish I could hug my kids right now. Painfully and desperately. I do wish I could be a part of the the energy of my family, my neighbors, and the city of New York right now, just to know what it feels like.

I also wish we all learn someday whether the White House intentionally planned the announcement right in the middle of The Apprentice. Because that was awesome in every way.