From the monthly archives:

July 2010

My babysitter is a better mother than I am

Jeff and I have been away for the past several days on Captiva Island, Florida (endless beaches, piña coladas and naps… ahhhh…) My house is being cared for by the A team consisting of my mother at night, the thirteen year old dog walker for Penelope and my college bound babysitter during the day. From what I hear, things are going quite well.

Too well, actually.

I have not received one tear-filled phone call, urgent text or emergency e-mail. I blame my sitter.

My children have gone to the zoo and to the aquarium and to art camp. They’ve been to the library and the bookstore and the park. My mom, who normally does laundry at our house, hasn’t even had a chance to tackle it because my babysitter keeps the basket empty. She washes and dries and actually folds rather than simply stuffing everything into drawers. She loads and unloads the dishwasher and puts everything back where it goes rather than leaving it all on the counters. She’s got the boys on a nap schedule and they’ve been bathed each day. Oh, yes. My babysitter is a better mother than I am. By a lot.

If I take all three of the kids out to the farm or zoo or wherever, by the end of it, I’m exhausted. My sitter takes them out for four hours, brings them home for lunch and then takes them out again. I couldn’t handle that without some sort of upper in between. During the summer, the kids are lucky if they get bathed every other day (pool water totally counts right?) but she keeps them fresh and clean daily. And a schedule? What’s that? I’ve never had my children on any such thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has them on a raw food diet by now. It’s humiliating.

It’s a good thing we’ll be home today so I can fuck them up all over again. Like any good mother.

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Project Mom

I never had a voice. I mean I had a voice, but not really a voice. I simply didn’t have much to say.

I used to hate writing. I was told in high school that I clearly had no future in English and to concentrate on art instead. The highest I ever scored on a paper was a C. Writing simply was not my thing.

Neither was speaking. I shied away from performances and public speaking, preferring the solitude of art and later, graphic design.

I knew who I was, and the words vocal, writer and speaker never described me.

But then, I started this blog, and everything changed. I changed.

Suddenly, I have a voice.

What is that voice?

It’s imperfect. It’s passionate. It’s sarcastic. It’s sometimes profanity-filled. It’s angry. It’s adoring. It’s complicated.

It’s me. And it’s getting louder.

{What the hell was this post about? It was written for the producers of “Project Mom” Who are they? They are the team hoping to make a reality TV show about moms who blog. Interviews will be held at BlogHer on August 6 and 7. Though I hate the idea of reality television, I am intrigued by the idea of a show on mommy bloggers and the community who helped me find my voice. I want to explore the possibility. Wish me luck.}

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Medicating Children

I spoke to a reporter from CNN on Wednesday for a story about medicating children with non-prescription medication.

Had I ever done it, she asked?

Yes, I replied. One time, under the recommendation of my doctor, I gave my 18 month old daughter Benadryl on a 2 hour flight to help her cope. The plan backfired. She was wired, the flight was a disaster and that was the end of that. Since then, I have never given my children medication as a way to benefit me. Lesson learned.

Do you know people who do, she asked?

Yes, I said. It’s a totally selfish act, but who am I to judge? I’m hardly a perfect parent.

Under what circumstances do you think it is acceptable?

I suppose it’s better than screaming at or beating a kid when all your buttons are being pushed. An airplane ride with three out of control toddlers? Yeah, that might be a good reason. A survival mechanism, I said.

And that was the end of that.

To clear things up: Obviously, drugging your child is not a good idea. Big fat fucking duh. Neither is beating them or losing it on an airplane full of 200 people.

It’s been so enlightening to read about all of the parents out there who never make a less than perfect decision. The posts dedicated to bashing me have been especially fun to read. And, the comments on the article? Woot! Good times.

For all of you perfect parents making perfect decisions in your perfect lives, this isn’t the place for you. Why don’t you look up some of the feminist/breastfeeding blogs? Those folks always seem to have the right answers.

And, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

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Sir Richard Owen

Have you ever heard of Sir Richard Owen?

I hadn’t. Or, maybe I had years ago but like most other information I learned before motherhood, it evaporated from my brain.

But, I digress.

Tonight, my neighbor was over retrieving her daughter from my house. In her arms was her (most adorable) baby boy. Lily peered over him.

He looks just like Sir Richard Owen, she pronounced.

Huh, we asked looking at her?

He looks just like Sir Richard Owen. Look it up on the computer!

So I did.

And he does.

Remarkably.

Sir Richard Owen

Lily tells me Sir Richard Owen named the dinosaurs. Wikipedia confirms.

She’s way too smart for me.

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Excuse me while I go vomit

I threw Jeff a 30th birthday party a few years back. It was an intimate affair, filled with our closest friends and some family. Around 3o people. I worked for months coming up with the decor and the drinks and the menu. (Gold color tones and pomegranate martinis and appetisers galore. In case you wondered.) The one thing that never dawned on me? Actually having to give some sort of toast. At one point in the evening, Jeff turned to me and asked if I was going to say anything. Say anything? Um, okay…

I stood in my living room and nervously stammered, “thanks everyone for coming… Happy Birthday, Jeff!” I don’t think it was quite what he had in mind.

I was surrounded by people I knew– some of whom for a decade or more and I simply couldn’t pull together an intelligent string of words. It was a pretty lame moment to be me.

So, when I found out that I was selected to be a keynote speaker at BlogHer in two weeks, my immediate response was excitement. Holy shit- this is really cool! A room filled with the most influential people in this business, along with so many people I consider friends. What an opportunity!

Until it hit me: A couple thousand people. Plus me. On a stage. Speaking. And, so I fainted.

Okay, maybe not really, but I felt like it.

So, any tips on public speaking? Other than the whole picturing them naked thing? Because all that’s going to do is make me want a tummy tuck and a boob job.