Juggling On The Journey

The Best of 2011

2012-01-14T10:15:00.000-08:00

This year wasn't one of my best. In fact, it is probably up there as one of the worst. However in reflecting back, I've realized that amidst all of the deceit and challenges that faced me, I learned some great lessons about friendship, family, and the power to begin again. These lessons are what I am carrying forward into 2012 choosing to leave behind me the shrapnel from last year. My five children continue to be my inspiration to find success on my new journey, and I am grateful for their presence in my life.

I wish all of you a Happy New Year! May this year bring you strength in your new beginnings and a renewed sense of confidence in your ability to thrive on your path.

xo
Kristy

MY TOP 5 ARTICLES FROM 2011

ModernMom.com

Talking To My Son About The Penn State Sex Scandal

By Kristy Campbell on November 9, 2011

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Driving home from football practice last night with my 11-year old son was a moment to which I’d given careful consideration.

I had similar moments throughout the years with his older sister when I’ve had to deliver news that kills a little bit of childhood innocence but I knew I had to talk to my son since the story is every where in the news. Penn State. Joe Paterno. Sex scandal.

I’ve hammered home the “inappropriate touching” message to my two girls, but I realized that my past dialogues with the three boys were pretty much a “don’t let anyone touch you there - OK? OK.” kind of message. Today, I needed to be stronger in my message to oldest son.

This story hits close to home since my brother went to Penn State. Our family, like every other Penn State family, has always had a soft-spot for Joe Pa. He is an American football icon, and we were proud to have been part of the Penn State legacy. However, as the news has poured out of State College, Pennsylvania, this past week, the tarnishing has begun. It has made us wonder just how far people will go to preserve an image…an image of a coach, an image of a winning football team, an image of a university.

After the opening questions about how practice went, I launched in…“Hey buddy, you are going to hear some stories about Joe Paterno stepping down as coach,” I said knowing I’d just opened the floodgates.

“Why? I thought he said he’d never retire?” he asked as he opened his bag of sunflower seeds.

“Well, you are also going to hear things like sexual scandal, sexual abuse. Have you heard those words before?”

He started spitting out his sunflower seeds and I could see the nervousness in the tightening of his lips. “Nope.

“There were some incidents that happened with an older coach and some younger boys that involved sexual activity and inappropriate touching,” I said treading lightly.

“Joe Pa did that?”

“No, honey. One of his coaches. But he knew about it and didn’t do anything so it makes him as responsible. You know you can’t watch somehow hurt someone else and not do anything. Seeing the wrong-doing involves you, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. What did he do exactly?” he said still spitting sunflower seeds.

I paused. Do I tell him? Do I not tell him? Yes? No? Um… “Have you ever heard of oral sex?” I asked trying not to drive off of the road.

“No but I know what sex is and oral means your mouth,” he said looking at me in a kind of interested yet horrified way.

“Exactly. Oral sex is when you put your mouth on someone’s private areas or they put their mouth on yours. You can’t make a baby that way, but it is still sex. This older coach was putting his mouth on one of the younger boy's private areas, and that is what is called sexual abuse,” I said trying to be direct, factual, and not one bit hysterical.

“GROSS!!!! That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of in my whole life. Ewww. Why would anyone let someone do that?” he screamed while shuddering.

I have had to answer the “what’s a blow job?” question before with my older daughter, and I remember wanting to give her information without giving her judgment for future sexual behavior. This felt different, though.

“Those kinds of people are called pedophiles. They are mentally sick. You can be put in prison for this kind of behavior. It’s wrong. Now I know I’ve never really talked about this with you, in detail, but I just want you to know that it is not ok under any circumstance to have an adult touch you or play around with you while touching your privates and he should never ask you to touch his. If any of your coaches or other fathers or older brothers or moms or anyone ever touches you or makes you feel uncomfortable EVEN IF HE SAYS HE IS ROUGH-HOUSING OR HE’LL GIVE YOU A LUXURY BOX AT THE SUPERBOWL WITH ALL THE FREE SODA YOU CAN DRINK, it is wrong. I want you to know that you can stop it and say NO, and you can tell me, ok?” There. I got it out. I’m done.

“Duh, mom. No one is ever touching me. That’s just so creepy,” he said staring out the window.

We sat for a few moments in silence: me wondering if I had done the right thing in telling him about oral sex. I hate having to invade the innocence of my children with horrible tales and real dangers in the world, but in my heart, I know they need to know. I’d rather have them prepared for situations than be naïve.

I stared at my son wanting to give him a hug and keep him this age forever. It makes me sad sometimes to think of all our children will have to face as they grow up in this world; things I didn’t have to worry about.

Interrupting the silence, I said, “Oh, and I’m going to talk to your brother about the 'no touching…EVER' part of all of this but please don’t be graphic with him. He’s 7, you’re 11. He still believes in the Tooth Fairy,” I said hoping my son would get my point.

“What?? There’s no tooth fairy?” he said flashing his clever grin at me.

“Very funny. How much homework do you have?” I asked, letting our conversation drift back to the usual mother-son banter I so love.

“The usual dumb amount,” he said going back to his seeds.

Juggling On The Journey Blog

RAISING CAVEMEN

As I watch my three boys (ages 10, 7, and 3) in their daily routines, I observe natural behavior that is foreign to me, and it seems primal and crass. Fart jokes and nose-picking aside, I am witnessing a deeper construct that is taking hold in their development. They seem to be turning into cavemen before my very eyes.

My older son hunches over his meals and shovels food in his mouth as if he hasn’t eaten in days. I continually need to remind him to sit up, put a napkin on his lap, and use a utensil of some sort. My middle son has no awareness on any level of another person around him. He takes care of his own needs and moves through the day in a me-centric bubble. I usually have to remind him that setting the table includes more than just one place setting. And my darling, sweet 3-year old son has started to come up to me and kick me in the leg for no apparent reason.

It is my goal to raise my sons to be the kind of men I’d want my daughters to marry…strong, capable, sensitive family men. I think about that as I watch my little cavemen run through the house with Nerf guns and wonder if using those words in the same sentence is even a possibility. Is our culture ready for softer men? I have a huge question mark as to how to raise my sons to be men of the future as I'm not really certain what is to be expected of men in the future.

Turns out I’m not alone in my quandary. Maria Shriver raised a question last week about the changing role of masculinity in America. It brought up the issue of whether we are starting to see a kindler, gentler male leader. The comments following the post revealed to me that men and women are struggling to figure out what the future looks like for both sexes. Can we really count on men who are compassionate, caring, and sensitive? Can women truly be tough and forceful? I have often wondered if we are exchanging roles or simply evolving.

My concern is that our culture doesn't currently seem to value emotive men. John Boehner is making strides by publicly shedding an empathic tear once in awhile, but the media continues to rip him apart every time he cries. Republican strategist Ed Rollins said in reference to Boehner, "we've seen his sensitive side enough already. But a sensitive side isn't what the country wants to see in a strong leader. He's got to show strength and leadership and a willingness to stand up to the President." So much for raw emotion.

I recognize that we live in a world where we still want our men to be tough, so I need to be careful in just how much I try to reprogram my sons. I want them to be able to show how they feel, but I also need for them to be aware that they still will be living in world where tears equal weakness.

As my older son slurps his cereal into his mouth, I remember how he turned everything into a weapon when he was younger. The “no gun” policy in my house didn’t matter: toothbrushes, rolls of wrapping paper, even Popsicle sticks became weapons of mass destruction. I wonder if I’m fighting the same evolutionary predisposition with emotionality, or if it is simply a cultural bias that emotions are feminine. Either way, I plan to continue with my caveman battle and teach my boys that feelings are not just for girls…or at the very least, get them to use a napkin.

Maria Shriver.com

TIPS FOR TRANSFORMATION

The Power of the Posse

By Kristy Campbell

I pushed away all of my friends this past summer. It wasn’t intentional; it just happened.

My upheaval, like so many other women’s, seemed to happen overnight. I went to bed one night thinking my life was one thing only to wake up and discover it was nothing of what I thought. Quick transitions are sometime the most difficult because it feels like you are running out of a burning building grabbing only the most important parts of your life: kids, wallet, keys, and every framed photo you can carry.

My divorce was proceeding as expected until one day my soon-to-be-ex-husband divulged the truth of our financial situation to me. Sitting in a cafe, I remember he apologized, turned over the spreadsheet, and then the floor beneath me gave way as I began my free-fall.

I’ve often wondered what happens in that moment when you hear words about how your life has just dramatically changed…the moment when you hear a breast cancer diagnosis or news that your husband was killed in battle or the fact that your child has autism. I suddenly had insight.

As my panic set in, all I could focus on was the “there is nothing left” financial future. Facing me from that spreadsheet was the stark reality that at the age of 45 with five children, I was going to be homeless in a few months. The room was spinning but my reflexes took over and I found myself doing what I always have done: said a quick prayer asking for strength, reassured my soon-to-be-ex-husband that we’d get through it, and then went to my car and cried the whole way home.

By the time I hit my driveway, I had formulated a plan: call my parents, get a storage unit, pack up the house, and immediately start looking for work after being a full-time mom for a decade. Somehow, having a plan made me feel like I had control over the situation.

That night, I called, texted, and sent out emails to my friends asking for their help in executing my plan, and within a week, they had mobilized in full force bringing over boxes and packing paper, leaving dinners at my doorstep, and editing my resume. It was this group of friends, my posse, who got me through those first few weeks.

When the school year ended, I packed up the U-Haul, headed to my parents’ home, and waved goodbye to the life I had known for 11 years.

I threw myself into my new life with getting my kids on the swim team and introducing myself to anyone with children. As my new life fell into place, I began to push away my posse. I didn’t return their calls. I didn’t respond to texts or emails. I tried to disconnect from the very support group I had needed, and I wasn’t sure why. It suddenly felt painful to reach out to them.

Despite my silence, my friends kept reaching out, and I received an email from a friend who is going through a serious health issue and a divorce. She told me she understood what I was doing as she did the same thing. Once her treatments had started and she had dinners, carpools, and childcare in place, she went into hiding because she didn’t feel like she was the same person as she was before. She had a reputation for being capable and reliable, and she had never been needy in her life. She wasn’t comfortable admitting that she finally needed help, especially of the emotional kind.

I felt a strange sense of relief since I finally had a word to describe what I was feeling: vulnerable.

Her email made me realize that transition often means taking a different role within your circle of friends. You may have to reach out and ask for help rather than be the one offering it, but by reaching out you allow yourself growth within your friendships as well as within yourself.

I continue to have days that I don’t think I can get out of bed, but the power of my posse has taught me that asking for help doesn’t make me weak…it makes me human.

From HuffingtonPost.com

Til Death Do Us Part

Posted: 7/12/11 08:02 PM ET

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I was 30 during my first divorce. Now, at 45, I'm heading down the divorce path for a second time. Older? Yes. Wiser? Perhaps.

One of the greatest lessons I learned the first time around the divorce track is that the "til death do us part" clause in your marriage vows is tough to escape...especially when children are involved.

Divorce #1 was textbook and straight out of the Divorce chapter from "The Guide On How To Make Your Life Hell." We filled our opposing teams with high-power attorneys, accountants, mediators, therapists, and even a restraining order to really add interest. The irony? After all the bills were paid, the papers were signed, and the dust settled, it was just the two of us with our daughter left standing to figure out what to do next. I remember being somewhat dumbfounded that I hadn't thought far enough ahead to understand that at the end of the process, we were still parents together and needed to partner to raise our daughter.

Shortly after our divorce was finalized, my ex-husband and I had a cocktail and acknowledged that we had two choices: 1) move forward amicably or 2) move forward with a pledge to torture each other for as long as possible. Knowing that the latter choice would only harm our daughter, we put down our weapons and became friends. Admittedly, it took a few years to build a friendship, as it's hard to trust someone who you knew at one point in your life would have been happy to destroy you, but we made the effort. It took patience to let comments go by without sarcastic remarks. It took understanding to rework visitation so each of us could date. It took humor to stand side-by-side at events and be met with the "I thought they were divorced" stares. In the end, it was the deep love of our daughter that allowed us to find a way to move our fractured family forward.

Thirteen years later, he and I are still divorced but remain together for our daughter. We've shared numerous plays and dance recitals, gymnastics meets, vacations, middle school and high school graduations, and even dinners where it is just the three of us. Thankfully, our new spouses understand and support our decision to be friends.

As I move down the divorce path with my second husband, I recognize the potential road ahead. It could be filled with nastiness, bitterness, and ridiculous legal fees, and I've often said that you don't ever really know a person until you divorce him. Perhaps there is an inevitable part of the divorce process that requires figuring out who is to blame, who's the victim, who didn't want to have sex, or who spent too much money. But, I'd like to think there is a way to fast-forward to the place where the dust is settled and the children can be at the center of creating a new model for being a separate parenting unit that functions together without all of the animosity.

It's difficult to have a marriage end after years of trying, but I know that my second husband and I will have a relationship 'til death do us part. I'm hoping it will be amiable as I've learned there are no loopholes to the clause when kids are involved.

Maria Shriver.com

TIPS FOR TRANSFORMATION

5 Guidewords for Change and Transition

By Kristy Campbell

There is an epidemic of change occurring in the world today. From economic markets to political regimes to the fabric of our families, change is everywhere.

And as change brings stress and stress brings heightened levels of anxiety and worry, I understand why it feels like everything is tentative and upside down in our world. While I am concerned about the larger-scale effects of transition upon our global communities, I find myself mostly concerned about the every-day effects of transition upon my children and me. We have sailed into uncharted territories with huge upheavals in our life, and I am finally looking outward for help in navigating these waters.

My personal world collapsed last year, and I’m struggling through a high-conflict divorce without financial resources, and my four children and I have moved in with my parents, as the choice was either my parent’s home or my car. I spend a lot of nights staring out into the dark wondering what I am going to do. I’m in the “get-a-job” portion of my metamorphosis and have been sending out resumes and networking: I’ve applied at numerous companies to be told I’m over-qualified, under-qualified, or not-even-close-to-being qualified.

Funny thing, as I’ve shared my story, I’ve had more women open up to me about their own wide-awake, middle-of-the-night insomnia.

I heard a story last week of a woman whose husband died unexpectedly at 52 and left her with 2 middle-school-age children and a pile of debt she didn’t know about. She had to borrow money for his funeral. It hit me that the individual reasons each of us has for coming to this point in our life is less important than the collective “Now what?” question we all are asking ourselves. Whether divorce, personal or family illness, military deployment, job loss, or financial ruin, perhaps we can find strength in our bond as women, as mothers, and as new leaders in this time of transition.

I reached out to my good friend, noted physician and psychiatrist, Dr. Daniel J. Kostalnick. “Dr. K” has a large practice in the San Francisco Bay area and specializes in transition, rebuilding, and healing with an emphasis on adolescents, adults, and families who find themselves in the grasp of change. As an expert in women’s and family issues, I asked him to come up with some advice for women facing a transition knowing that most of us are good at putting on a brave face and keeping the emphasis on our children.

He gave me his “Five ‘S’ Guidewords for Change and Transition”:

1. SAME – Try to keep things as close to the same as possible for one year. Do not move, do not throw yourself into a new relationship, do not throw out everything.

2. SIMPLE – With your children, keep the messages simple. Answer their questions with age-appropriate answers. Remember, the truth is that your children do not want to know every detail or possible scenario that might happen. They just want to know they are safe and loved.

3. SAVVY – Use your parenting savvy - your intuition. Maybe what a book or friend advises doesn’t feel right. Lead with your gut. You feel like your kids need to stay home from school to bake cookies with you? Let them. You sense that your kids want to have one giant sleepover in your bedroom? Do it. At the end of the day, remember this is your unique family and use your savvy to do what is best for your family.

4. SILLY – Don’t forget your sense of humor. Humor is one of our higher-order defenses so don’t be afraid to laugh…even if you think it is a bit off-color to making jokes or finding humor during such a time of stress and seriousness.

5. SELF – Keep yourself in the equation. Women tend to put every other need in front of their own, but during a time of great transition, you need to make certain you take care of yourself. Yes, get your nails done. Yes, go for a run. Absolutely, go see a movie. Make sure you are allowing yourself time to process and feel what it going on in your life. You will have more to give to others if you take care of yourself first. It’s the classic “airplane oxygen mask” scenario: Place the mask over your nose and mouth first, and then help your children. You are no good to anyone if you unconscious to your own needs.

I took his list and thought about my last year. I’ve always used guidewords in my life because the concept is easy to reflect in prayer and mediation. I have two words, Faith and Family, that have gotten me through the tough days, but I’m always up for new inspiration.

Looking at Dr. K’s list, I see that I intuitively follow the Savvy, Simple, and Silly advice, so I’m good there. I also see that I’ve completely blown the Same concept as everything in my life has changed: from big issues like my entire community to small issues like my favorite coffee cup as everything I own is in storage. So what am I left with? Self? I take a moment to pause at this word as this concept continues to be a theme for me: take care of yourself.

The truth is I’m not sure I know how. I have been a wife and mother for what seems longer than I’ve been me.

So this is going to be my work in moving forward: find me and find my new path so I can, in turn, be a guide my children.

Through The Guardrail

2011-10-12T14:12:00.000-07:00

One major divorce lesson I’ve learned over the past fewmonths is that if someone is hell-bent on fighting then there is nothing youcan do but fight back. I’m not sure what the Zen belief is on this, but I knowthat our legal system requires a defense, even if attacked untruthfully.

My desire to take a turn toward a better direction in mydivorce fell flat, and instead we have crashed full-speed through the guardrailand are plunging toward the ocean. Mediation blew up, and attorneys werecalled in try to resolve our differences…or so I thought. I chose an attorneywho is a wise, experienced, collaborative family law specialist. She chargestop dollar but is focused on resolution not inflammation. The other party foundan attorney who is not a family law specialist but skilled in working with CPScases, works on a sliding scale, and they are both in it to win it. RandyJackson would be proud of the attitude but I’m sure he would say, “Dawg, thereare no winners in divorce. Give it up.”

My story is the classic divorce story with a few plottwists, and I share not out of retribution but as a place for others to learnand perhaps avoid the same mistakes. The basic issues in our almost 11-year marriageare not unlike the issues I hear from other divorcing women. It’s always seemsto be the same story: money, sex, kids, communication, emotion…oh, and did Isay money? Throw in some deceit and you’ve got a classic divorce scenario.

(insert plot turn)

The financial world imploded seemingly overnight. Myhusband’s salary went from $600K to $40K, and he didn’t tell me. He told me weneeded to cut back, but I was never let in on the severity of our financialsituation. I had long turned over the financial reigns to him and he solelycontrolled our family’s finances much like I solely controlled what we ate fordinner each night. Smart? Not at all, but I think we fell into the 1940’s modelof marriage with one key difference: it was the 2000’s and we should have beenpartners. I feel like The Biggest Loser in that if I had paid even a little bitof attention to our finances, I would have been asking a few key questions likeis it really wise to use all of our savings and investments to cover theshortfall in salary? Or what if the markets don’t recover?

(insert another plot turn)

The stress of covering up the reality of our financialsituation consumed my husband and he started to vent his frustrations towardthe kids. After an incident in which he went after my son, we separated.

(insert an unexpected plot turn)

When the kids went to their first therapy visit, the doctorcame out of the office after 30 minutes to let me know she needed to file areport with CPS.

With the additional plot twists, the divorce got ugly andinsults and accusations began to fly. It became clear that mediation and civilitywas not going to be our destination. So with the kids strapped in the backseat,he and I hired our divorce attorneys and set off on our journey toward divorcehell. We are now plunging toward the ground. I’ve noticed that we are still allin the car, one family. I keep looking over at him to see if he notices. Hedoesn’t seem to be aware. He is on the cell phone with his attorney.

I’m convinced after this go-round that the way couplesdivorce has to change. It should be illegal to spend family resources onfighting. It is criminal. My first divorce was caustic and riddled with thesame issues, and we spent way too much money on attorneys. The “I’m right,she’s/he’s wrong” exit is one not worth taking. I’ll give you a hint…it’s arotary, a traffic circle. And you’ll pay to enter. You will go around andaround and around and get lost in the dizzying pace. After the long and tedious hours my first husband and I circled that rotary, we are in full agreement that paying attorneys fordivorce is ridiculous and that the smarter, more financially savvy couples willunderstand the consequences of conflict and value the path of resolution. Giventhat my current husband is a financial advisor, I figured that we’d be on the financiallysavvy divorce road. In fact, I even trusted that we'd be able to work out our issues in a mature, level-headed manner with an eye on our children's financial and emotional security. However, in a tragic turn of events, we veered off course. You can still see the tiremarks where we went off the road.

The Fork In The Divorce Road

2011-07-10T11:15:00.000-07:00

I was 30 during my first divorce. Now, at 45, I’m headingdown the divorce road for a second time. Older? Yes. Wiser? Perhaps.

Divorce #1 was textbook and straight out of the Divorcechapter from The Guide On How To Make Your Life Hell. We filledour opposing teams with high-power attorneys, accountants, mediators,therapists, and even a restraining order to really add interest. The irony?After all the bills were paid, the papers were signed, and the dust settled, itwas just the two of us with our daughter left standing to figure out what to donext. I remember being somewhat dumbfounded that I hadn’t thought far enoughahead to understand that at the end of the process, we were still parentstogether and needed to partner to raise our daughter.

Shortly after our divorce was finalized, my ex-husband and Ihad dinner and acknowledged our two choices: 1) move forward amicably or 2)move forward with a pledge to torture each other for as long as possible. Knowing that the latter choice wouldonly harm our daughter, we put down our weapons and became friends. Admittedly, it took a few years tobuild a friendship as it’s hard to trust someone who you knew at one point inyour life would have been happy to destroy you, but we made the effort. It tookpatience to let comments go without sarcastic remarks in return. It tookunderstanding to rework visitation days so each of us could date. It took humorto stand side-by-side at events and be met with the “I thought they weredivorced” stares. In the end, it was the deep love of our daughter that allowedus to find a way to move our fractured family forward.

Thirteen years later, he and I are still divorced but remaintogether for our daughter. We’ve shared numerous plays and dance recitals,gymnastics meets, vacations, middle school and high school graduations, andeven dinners where it is just the three of us. The smile on our daughter’s faceat seeing the two of us together has often been the reassurance that the hardwork of forgiveness is worth it.

As I move down the divorce path with my second husband, I anticipatethe same looming fork in the road ahead: friendship or torture. I’m sensing I’mheaded for the torture path this time around, though, as the days are currentlyfilled with nastiness, bitterness, and ridiculous legal fees. I’ve often saidthat you don’t ever really know a person until you divorce him, but I do holdout hope that I will be able to move the journey to the friendship path forthe sake of our children.

I’ve also begun to wonder if perhaps there is an inevitablepart of the divorce process that requires us to figure out who is to blame,who’s the victim, who didn’t want to have sex, or who spent too much moneybefore the couple can move past all of the issues and go back to being parents. I wish there were a way tofast-forward to the place where the dust is settled and the children can be atthe center of creating a new model for being a separate parenting unit thatfunctions together without all of the animosity. But until I find that easybutton for divorce, I continue down my divorce road holding out hope for ahappier ending and a right-turn toward friendship at the fork in the road.

Raising Modern Cavemen (Revised)

2011-05-15T17:38:00.000-07:00

The Talk

2011-01-30T07:57:00.000-08:00

Sign at school. PTA Talk.

It’s a hot topic…at what age do you give “The Talk” to your kids? I’m asked the question quite a bit as I’ve become some sort of expert. After all, with 5 kids ranging from terrible two to teen, my friends know that I’ve had to deliver the miracle of the human body presentation a couple of times already.

My greatest insight about the sex talk is that you don’t just have it once with your kids. It starts with the body part discussion as toddlers and continues until you drop them off at the college dorm. After that, I figure they’re on their own.

My first talk was with my now 18-year old and it didn’t go at all as I had planned.

She was in kindergarten and came home one day asking me if it was true that gay men had sex in their butts. When I got up off the floor, I stared at her innocent face and realized the depth of what she just asked me. In one casual question, she ruined my whole plan. I was going to wait until the menstruation talk to introduce sexuality, and I foolishly thought I had a couple more years to plan my tack. As I nervously smiled, I quickly tried to figure out how to rework her question into the 'Where do babies come from question for which I was loosely prepared to answer.

“Um. Well. Sweetheart. Why do you ask?”

“Emily told me that her dad is gay and that he has a boyfriend and that they have sex in their butts.”

I could hear myself gasping for air and yet trying to choke out a calm response. I was certain the cute, illustrated How to Talk to Your Kids About Sex book I had recently seen in the bookstore didn’t have this chapter. I’m totally on my own with this one. What do I say?

“Um. Well. Sweetheart.”

“What’s gay, anyway?”

”Um…gay is when you love someone of the same sex.”

“What’s sex?”

“Oh, right. Well, one definition of sex is whether you are a girl or boy…a male or a female…that’s your sex. Like you are a girl and daddy is a boy.”

“Do you have to be a boy to have sex in your butt?”

I quickly glanced around the room to see if there was a phone in the charging unit so she could call 911 if I coded since I could feel the blood starting to drain from my head. I had to get the conversation back into control or I’d die and she’d never know where babies come from.

“Honey, let’s go sit down and talk about some of what you just said, ok?”

As we walked to the couch, I prayed for divine inspiration. What do I say? How do I know if she’s ready? What if I say the wrong thing? Will I scar her for life? What if she becomes a nun? Or a stripper?

What I remember most about the conversation is that she really didn’t want to know the details of sex any more than she wanted to know how petroleum becomes gasoline. She heard just heard some words and wanted to know what they meant. Thankfully, I was able to stumble through our first talk.

“When a man and woman…”

“What about a man and man?”

“Right…when a man and a woman, or a man and a man…”

“Or a girl and girl?”

“OK, yeah, fine...when a man and woman, or a man and man, or a woman and woman…when PEOPLE love each other, they show affection toward each other by hugging and kissing. Right now, you hug and kiss your friends and your family. As you get older, you will feel a different kind of love toward someone you care about. “

“Like you?”

“No. Not like me. Like a boyfriend.”

“Like dad?”

“No. Not like dad. Like a boy who you think is cute. Or if you were a boy, a girl who you think is cute. Or, if you were gay, it would be a girl who you think is cute...”

“Like the Spice Girls?”

“Spice Girls?” Pause.

“You know what. Sex is something grownups do and is something we will talk about when you are older. You don’t need to worry about it right now, ok?”

“Ok. I just wondered if it were true about Emily’s dad.”

“Oh, right. That. Yeah. Well, Emily’s dad and his friend are grown-ups and they probably have special feelings toward each other. As for their butts, I don’t know. Want to go Round Table for pizza?”

“Yeah!!”

I remember sitting on the couch for a moment as she went to get her quarters for the lead toys in the vending machines thinking I had failed. I was a huge failure. I thought I’d be so open, so reassuring during our first talk. My scientist father rented biology movies from the library and my talk was like a health class. I wanted to do it differently and have a gentle, supportive conversation with her and have the chance to talk about love and finding the right person. I vowed to read up on the alternative sex talks and be prepared for the next time she asks. Little did I know that the next time the topic arose, I’d be even more unprepared.

“Mom, what’s a blowjob?”

Thud.

The Tree Is Out Of The House

2011-01-18T11:28:00.000-08:00

Gram and Me, Thanksgiving Dinner 1973

I woke up this morning and decided that today is the day. I know it is January 18 and admitting that my Christmas tree is still fully decorated and in my house is cause for concern, but I look at the one lonely present still underneath the tree and wonder if I should wait. Tomorrow? Next week? Or, I guess if I wait long enough, the needles will all slowly fall off and I can keep the present there and sweep away the needles as they fall. In a couple of years, the tree will be sticks with ornaments, hardly any work, and quite a conversation piece.

My grandma is a solid part of the foundation that makes up my life. She was always there, for every birthday, holiday, marriage, divorce, and every accomplishment of mine. She used to tape my commercials and watch them over and over again. Same 30 seconds, hours at a time. She'd call to let me know when my Nash Bridges episode was airing and tell me she was taping it again. I'd try to tell her it is the same show that she's already taped 50 times before, but it didn't matter. Her VCR was programmed and ready to go.

Grandma Violet was a big part of my children's lives as well even though only a few had met her. Every birthday, holiday, or special event was met with a card from Great-Grandma with a dollar bill and a stick of gum. For 18 years, she never missed a single one of my children's special days.

Two years ago, my dad got her a computer and a whole new world was now at her fingertips. On a daily basis, she'd send to all of us...and I do mean all of us plus anyone else she'd ever met...cartoons, jokes, news tidbits, inspirational quotes, or anything she thought would make us smile. She joined Facebook, and I knew that anytime I posted anything, Grandma Violet would be there liking it or making a snarky comment. Some days, I cringed when I read what she'd post, but I knew it was my feisty, strong-willed, 88-year old Grandma making her statement.

Gram lived on her own in a tiny cottage on a lake in Northern Michigan. She was adamant that she never wanted to be shipped off to a home or have anyone involved in her personal business. The neighbors looked in on her, the pastor would come by on a weekly basis, and her community made sure she was ok, but she liked her independence. Even though she didn't leave the house much, she was very content as the world came to her through her email, favorite television shows, computer games, and thanks to Mark Zuckerberg...Facebook.

Mid-December, the box arrived. I laughed, as it was the same box I get every year. On the outside of the box, it says "With love, Grand-Ma Vi" and on the inside is the "Year of Jams" sampler. I put the box under the tree for Christmas morning. The next day, I got the call from my mom that my Grandma had fallen in the middle of the night. She had a cold and was put on cough medicine. The codeine made her dizzy. She fell and hit her head. My mind was spinning. I heard brain bleed. Emergency transport. Dad is leaving for Detroit. I burst into tears. The next two weeks felt like a few years to me as time stretched between the seconds of the day. I went about each day trying to muster up some holiday cheer for my kids, but I felt pre-occupied anxiously awaiting news about my beloved Gram. She'd get better. She'd get worse. She would eat. She wouldn't respond. And then, she woke up. My dad had stood vigil at her bed for 10 days, and she finally woke up. She was eating and responding and ready to be moved out of ICU. The following day, my dad told her he needed to come back to California for a few days but he'd be back for the weekend. She held his hand and told him goodbye. My mom and dad drove the 2 hours to Detroit. While checking into the hotel room readying for their 6am flight, Dad's cell phone rang. Gram had gone to sleep after my parents left and died in her sleep.

The phone call to me. The trip back to Michigan with my twins. The funeral. The family members I haven't seen in awhile. Sitting in her chair in her house. All a sad blur. The past 2 weeks being home and trying to settle into the New Year have been met with waves of tears. I really miss my Gram. I miss her tough love advice. I miss her sticks of gum. I miss knowing that someone loved me so much that everything I did made her proud.

So the box still sits. I'm afraid that by opening it and taking down the tree, I'm truly bringing an end to her. But, the needles on the tree feel like hundreds of cat claws and I do recognize that I'm housing a giant 6-foot fire hazard, so I'm going to do what I know she'd want me to do. Take down the damn tree, unpack the jam, and do a little dance that Christmas is finally over because we need to move on to Valentine's Day.

Violet Elizabeth Albrecht

1922-2010

Life Lessons From My Dad: Let's Go Red Wings

2010-11-30T12:44:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a sports-dominated household. It wasn't a sit-on-the-couch-and-watch-football kind of household, but more of the get-out-there-and-participate type of environment. As a young girl, I cheered on my dad while he played hockey and softball. He cheered me on in gymnastics, basketball, softball, volleyball, track, and even powder-puff football. My younger brother was always in action as well, and as we grew up, we would run, play golf, skate, and even ski together. Sport was our connection.

My dad also taught us about good sportsmanship by being an active fan. To this day, our family still gears up in blue and gold for Michigan games or dresses in red from head-to-toe for Detroit Red Wings hockey, but the rules are clear:

1. We don't boo.

2. We applaud other great plays.

3. We bite our tongues when refs make ridiculously bad calls or miss an obvious one...for the most part.

What I didn't realize while growing up and watching my dad pace as we cheered on our teams is that my brother and I were learning about life. It's only recently I've come to understand how these early sports lessons have defined the grit and determination that underlie my personality.

My dad always cared most about our effort. In his eyes, if you could walk off the field, skate off the ice, or leave the gym feeling like you nailed what you were supposed to do, you had won...even if the score reflected otherwise. And, if you had an off day, he'd expect you to support and congratulate the accomplishments of your teammates without offering up your own excuses. If you sucked, say it. If you missed a play, admit it. Accountability was key. He taught us how to play with both intensity and integrity. "Cheaters never win and winners never cheat" defines his sports karma.

My mother wasn't an athlete, but she was tough in her mental game and she expected us to push through physical challenges. She was a nurse and wasn't very sympathetic to the aches and pains due to our sporting endeavors. I remember coming home for a gymnastics practice with ripped hands. My calluses had opened due to a grueling workout on the uneven bars. As I complained about how much it hurt, my mom told me to quit if I couldn't take it. She used to tell my brother the same thing as he crawled home from football practice, unable to walk. She felt that if you couldn't push through the physical challenges of a sport...quit. She didn't want to hear the complaining especially coming off a shift at the hospital.

With the combination of parenting, my brother and I had no choice but to be tough. We are two different peas in a pod, but we share the same drive. We often talk about the flip side of our grit since both of us are driven beyond normal standards. We have a very low tolerance for excuses and don't understand people who complain. We volunteer as coaches and have had to share tips on how to motivate others to succeed rather than to just push them. And, we talk about how we expect our kids to share our same zest for competition. However, I have a son and he has a daughter who doesn't like sports, so we commiserate on how we are going to get them to find their competitive edge. But, at the end of our phone calls, we come full circle. "Go Wings," he'll say. "Love you," I'll say. In my family, it means the same thing.

This year has been a particularly challenging year for me. My marriage fell apart and I'm on my own with 5 kids to support. However, through it all, it hasn't occurred to me that I might fail or that I'm up against ridiculous odds. I have been doing what I have been taught to do: put your head down, give it your personal best, and don't give up.

During a run this week, I finally made the connection between what my dad has taught me through sports and the hill I was facing. Give up or put your head down. I felt bloated and tired from the Thanksgiving holiday, but I chose to put my head down. As I gasped for air and every cell in body begged me to stop, I fought my inner voice to quit. I made it to the top of the hill wondering if I'd throw up. But in that moment, I realized that once again, my dad was right. Gut it out. Face your fears. Tell that inner voice to shut up. And, you'll be fine.

Thanks, Dad. See you at the game tonight. Go Wings!

My Dancing Shoes

2010-10-25T06:18:00.000-07:00

I haven’t written a blog post since taking my daughter to college. Much has been going on in my life and I knew when I had some clarity around what to say, I’d say it.

I figured when I finally sat down to write, I’d be writing about how my husband and I after 10 years of marriage and 4 children had decided to separate over the summer. I thought I’d be writing about how we both want to see our marriage work but after two years of unproductive therapist’s couches, I reached my limit. I decided that the only way I could even begin to see a new path for us was to separate and take a little marriage sabbatical. We both needed some space, and I knew it. My husband wasn’t so eager. I forced it.

When I returned to my blog, I wanted to write about what it has been like to live in marriage limbo, to not be sure of what the outcome may be. To share about how hard it is to stay strong in the face of transition for your children’s sake when all you really want to do is stay in bed all day. To create a conversation that perhaps if more marriages took a break before rushing to divorce court, there might be more of a chance of keeping families together.

But, just as I thought I was finding some clarity with my separation, a bigger battle was dropped on me...a battle on behalf of my children, and I have so much I want to say but am compromised in my ability to speak freely.

Suffice it to say, a school district and attorneys are involved, accusations have been made, and I'm learning the hard way that not always are you innocent until proven guilty. Sometimes, the parties in charge may make you dance in many unfair and unjust ways just to prove your innocence. So perhaps I'm being honed for "Dancing With The Stars: The Power Trip Episode", but I will most certainly tell my story when I can. Until then, it's time to strap on the dancing shoes and get to work. I'm hoping I get to work with Tony. With his coaching, I may just win the Mirror Ball.

Bye Bye Birdie

2010-08-17T10:27:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning with a lump in my throat and a strange mix of emotions...dread, excitement, sadness, optimism, trust, and overwhelming fear. Our flight leaves in 5 hours and nothing is packed. Somehow the putting in of the clothing into the suitcases finalizes the trip, so we've both procrastinated. But today is the day, and I am in need of a strong cup of coffee and an even stronger prayer.

My oldest leaves for college today and I am profoundly sad. She and I have had a unique journey together as I was divorced when she was 4 year old. I was a happy single mom and we spent 4 years together, just the two of us...a young mom with her young sidekick traveling the world and watching endless Brady Bunch reruns. When I remarried, she never bonded with my husband. He mistakenly took on the "I'm the dad, now" role which was firmly met with a "you're not my dad, you're not my mom, and you can go to hell" attitude, so they've tolerated each other for the last 10 years with me in the middle. Her dad moved to the East Coast 8 years ago, so I have continued on as a single mom to her over these years. I was the one sitting at home, waiting for her at night, ready to make tea and listen to the stories of the evening. I was there for her during all the broken hearts, drug problems, alcohol issues, missed curfews, celebrations, accomplishments, and endless bouts of strep throat. She is my oldest. My baby. And she has taught me so much about life.

As I put her on the edge of my nest, I know to my core that she is more than ready to fly. She is an amazing young woman and is going to soar. The hardest part of all of this is that no one prepared me for this moment...the moment that you watch your child fly off on her solo journey. Seeing her wings take flight makes me proud and exhilarated, but at the same time, I realize she is gone. She will not be coming home every night to tell me about her day. She won't be in her room with the music on too loud and the television on too late. She won't be the center of attention making us all laugh with her silly voices and dance routines. Her absence will leave an empty spot in our family.

I know the separating process is as important and the birthing process, and as much as a child can't stay in the womb forever, she needs to leave the family nest as well. My head knows this and trust me, I want to get to the other side where she has a happy life and an apartment and a cute husband and the prospect of grandchildren will be a reality for me. I trust that the empty spot in my nest will be filled with even more joy over time, but it is this initial flight that seems so difficult and my heart is sad.

As I look at the piles of clothes and clever hanger contraptions, I realize it's time to get moving. So much of my parenting has been about putting my emotions and needs on the backburner, and I know this is one of those times that my tears need to be saved for the shower. My daughter needs to look back at me from her perch and see me taking pictures and smiling and know that I believe in her and her ability to fly.

Bye bye my little birdie. I know you are going to have an incredible adventure.

45 Years Together.

2010-06-24T17:50:00.000-07:00

My Dad and Mom

Today marks the 45th wedding anniversary of my parents.

45 years together is a remarkable accomplishment. But considering my parents got married as 17-year old high school seniors because my mom was pregnant with me, their accomplishment is beyond remarkable...perhaps more astounding...or even unfathomable to me. After all, I'm ten years into my 2nd marriage and being mostly happily married to someone for 45 years, in a row, without much time apart, seems like an impossible feat.

I have a 17-year old daughter who is leaving for college this fall with big dreams to tackle the world. My daughter is on the same path as my mother was until my mom's life was derailed with her pregnancy. As I look at my daughter, I can't even begin to comprehend how my mother must have felt watching her dreams go done the drain. When I look at my parents today, I can't help but think...You guys are still married? How?

My parents have never had a time in their marriage without me. I'm a part of their union unlike most marriages. I was at college with my dad. I made my mom her lunches through her nursing school days. I took care of my younger brother to fill in the gaps while my parents worked 2 jobs to keep food on the table. I switched roles with my mom as she turned 30 and rebelled and I turned 13 and became responsible. I convinced her at 43 when she became a grandmother that cutting her hair and letting it go gray in order to be "grandmotherly" wasn't a good look for her. I gave my dad pep talks as yet another biotech company was merged and his job was eliminated. We all took turns giving my brother guidance and money while he earned his PhD in neuroscience. Yep...Mom, Dad, and me. We grew up together.

In turn, they have been an integral part of my life experiencing things with me - both good and bad. They came to my high school Prom with me. They took me to college when I was 16. My dad made the road trip with me across the country when I decided to forego law school and move West. My mom spent single-girl weekends with me in my apartment in San Francisco and we went out for sushi, we went to the movies, we got our nails done, and we even walked home from my neighborhood pub at 2am. We learned together the protocol and formality of planning a wedding "New York City-style" since I married a New Yorker whose family was concerned with salad fork placement and engraved thank you notes. We also learned together the rough road of divorcing said New Yorker. My parents were there to help me sort through the pieces and create a happy single mom life. Yep...Mom, Dad, and me. We continued to grow up together.

My parents were 39 when my younger brother left home for college making them empty nesters. But because of their need to continue to work to pay tuition, they held it together and made it a goal to get my brother through college...through graduate school...through his post-doctoral studies. They put off their own travel plans to exotic locations and continued to drive their 10-year old cars. Today, my mom is retired but my dad still works as a scientist. They have 9 grandchildren and take road trips every chance they get. My mom makes my dad his lunch every morning and encourages him to eat his vegetables. My dad leaves my mom little good morning notes and buys her silly cards. They also still kiss and hug, and it continues to gross me out just like it did when I was 8-years old.

I recently asked my mom what she thought was the secret to her and dad's marriage. She thought about it for a minute and then in her wise, profound way said...

"The secret to a long-lasting marriage? Don't get a divorce." I chuckled at what seemed obvious.

I've thought about that comment today. "Don't get a divorce." My parents never once let the "D" word enter their vocabulary. From the beginning, they committed themselves to each other and to their family and never looked back. Even when they fought, they knew in their hearts that they were in it for the long haul. I finally understand why my parents are still happily married. They didn't get a divorce. Through thick, thin, better, worse, poorer (they're still waiting on the 'richer'), sickness, health and happiness, they stuck together. And their sticking together is my inspiration to continue to work hard, to stay committed to my marriage, and to give my kids the same gift of family that my parents gave to me.

Thanks, Mom and Dad. Happy Anniversary.
Your exotic trip awaits. Check your email.

Forgive And Move On From Your Enemies

2010-06-04T13:50:00.000-07:00

I'm questioning the lessons I've been teaching my kids about forgiveness and loving your enemies.Throughout my life, I've been challenged to uphold the values I was taught with regard to my enemies...forgive them, be nice to them, and then more than likely, get kicked again in the teeth by them.

I recently had an experience with a friend that left me reeling. You know, the friend-to-foe overnight kind of stuff.

“Mom, are you ok?” I had taken my kids after school to Nordstorm to try and replace the loafers and blue blazer that my overly helpful husband had mistakenly donated to Goodwill over the weekend. As I stood in the shoe department, reading a nasty email and unable to breathe, I recalled my mother’s words about holding your tongue in anger, being careful not to lash out when hurt, and, yes, learning to love your enemies. “Um, actually, honey, I just got an email and I’m kind of sick about it. I need to sit here a minute. Pick out whatever you want.”

As I crafted my response among the screaming toddlers being sized and bribed with balloons, I decided to take the high road and to be kind in my reply. I basically apologized for whatever she thought is was I did and told her I was enormously hurt and shocked by what she said.

In the car on the way home, I still felt rattled and disoriented. My kids knew I was upset, so we started to talk about how some of the deepest hurts in life come from those to whom we are closest. The very people that we let into our hearts and families are the same ones who are capable of causing us the greatest pain.

"Mom, do you believe in forgiving your enemies?” The question hung in the air.

For the first time in my life, the knee-jerk answer didn’t come out of my mouth. I was still fresh from the emotional bruising I’d just received and I really wondered about what to say. My head raced with all of the quotes...keep your friends close and your enemies closer; always forgive your enemies – nothing annoys them as much; he who seeks vengeance must dig two graves: one for his enemy and one for himself; love your enemies…I finally said, ”I think the best way to handle being hurt by those close to you or even by those people whom you consider to be an enemy is to forgive them and to then move on with your life.”

“Is that what you’re going to do?” asked my son. “Yep, I’m going to try.”

Forgiving and moving on seems like such a healthier way to manage personal conflict than the whole “forgive and forget” approach. For me, it’s always been a difficult task especially since I’ve never mastered the forgetting part. I can be someone’s friend again, but, oh, I remember. It’s not so much a grudge that I carry; it’s more like a massive scar. As I’ve aged, I have found more worth in celebrating and nurturing the relationships that support me rather than to continue to put energy into those that don’t. Keeping enemies closer to me than my friends isn’t worth it anymore.

So I’m now teaching my children two basic lessons about conflict and enemies:

1) There is wisdom and value in figuring out what to let go of and what to keep in your life whether it is a relationship or a bag of clothing meant for the dry cleaners, and

2) The pen is mightier than the sword so always skillfully and carefully choose your words in time of conflict, especially when sending an email.

Bloggers and Writers Unite

2010-05-03T08:06:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting 38,000 feet above the ground reflecting on the last 42 hours of my life. It always at these moments, held captive between 2 seats, that I am forced into introspection. No phone, no internet connection on Southwest…nothing to do but sit and think or read People magazine hoping my Diet Coke comes soon.

The SITS Girls/Bloggy Boot Camp conference from which I’m returning was a day for women in social media and highlighted why I love writing and meeting other women: our individual voices are strong and passionate and our collective need to connect with others is astounding. As I sat in the conference, looking around at the 100+ attendees, it hit me that we’re all here for one driving reason: we have something to say. Some of us say it in craft blogs, some of us say it in mom blogs, some of us say it in home décor blogs, but the remarkable piece is that we all have a need to say something.

I’ve been a writer since I first could string a sentence together. Stories and poems fill my childhood journals. I won various writing awards in high school and studied English at Boston College while planning to continue on to law school. I fell in love with lexicon and the way that words can craft thoughts into action.

In my post-college, non-law school career, I’ve managed to use my skills as a writer and have morphed my craft from public relations to corporate communications to actor. However, writing for products, writing for the press, or expressing the words of others didn’t count for me as being a true writer. No, my truest writing is in hundreds of notebooks, journals, word documents, and on the backs of receipts filled with scribbles of thought…stings of ideas and insights that go nowhere. If my head gets too cluttered with thoughts, I have to write them down, just to clear space. Once in awhile I worry that if I die unexpectedly, my family will find these scraps of thought and wonder what kind of nut I truly was. No, I was always pretty certain these thoughts were destined for shelves and bottoms of purses – until I started blogging.

I was insulted once by a noted female writer. She didn’t like my opinion and fired off a note to my editor saying that she knows that “the world is full of mommy bloggers desperate to be writers” and she wanted my opinion retracted. In spite of the conflict, I was most shocked that someone would call me a mommy blogger desperate to be a writer since I’m not wired with that kind of superiority.

Maybe it’s the English teacher in me but my thought is that if you put words to paper, you’re a writer...perhaps not a Pulitzer prize winning one, but a writer nonetheless. Feeling superior to other writers because your book is published or you’ve got multiple book deals needs to be cautioned. I also think that bloggers need to be careful of feeling superior to other bloggers because of a high number of subscribers or followers since numbers will never make up for what’s lacking in content. I only have about 2 subscribers at the moment, but when I get over 10, I’ll never feel qualitatively better than any of the bloggers I met this weekend. This is a lesson I learned from my time in Hollywood. There are a lot of unemployed amazingly talented actors losing jobs to amazingly untalented actors with boob jobs. Just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you’re any good. Remember that the next time you feel superior to the person sitting next to you.

I’m proud to have my blog, my online diary of scribbled thoughts. I don’t have any great crafting ideas and I don’t have any leads on grocery coupons so why anyone would care to read what I have to say is beyond me. But, when someone does contact me to say that I’ve made them laugh or cry or get pissed off, I remember why I write...to make a connection between human thought and physical experience…and that’s my ultimate paycheck.

The women at Bloggy Boot Camp reaffirmed to me that when we collectively and positively put our minds together, we can create opportunities and advancement for all of us in this writing/blogging world. The SITS Girls affirmation of “The Secret To Success Is Support” is very powerful and I call for bloggers and writers to unite.

Cirque de Mom

2010-04-08T09:29:00.000-07:00

I was up early this morning. Well, if you add in the hours I spent in bed staring at the ceiling thinking of all that I have to do today, I have been up since last night. I've been having a few of these night lately. Can't tell if it's the peri-menopause joy that is beginning in my life or if it is simply that I'm overwhelmed. (I'm going to go with overwhelmed since even talking about menopause makes me want to cry...I can't be that old.)

Admitting that I'm operating a bit beyond capacity is a new concept for me. I have always been able to keep all the balls in the air with great ease. However, every ball needs to be juggled right now and I'm out of hands. I need to put some things down.

I'm in the throws of dealing with the emotionality of my amazing teenage daughter and her college admission/rejection ups and downs. One day, she is offered admission to a school and is even awarded a scholarship for her leadership. Next day, she is flat-out rejected from another school. She is writing an appeal to a school that will let her beg for admission which seems like a merciless task..."please tell us again why you think we should consider you, pour your heart and soul into it, and then we can reject you again confirming what we thought at first". As she moves through all of letters, she is beginning to realize that her days at home are coming to an end and she is thinking she doesn't want to move away from me. I don't want her to go either. It's a huge emotional ball to juggle every day.

My other 4 children are going through some tough times as well. My mother says it is because it is the Year Of The Tiger and that this is a wildly dramatic year for all of us. The 9 year old twins are starting to experience bullying and cliques and school stress this year for the first time. It requires a lot of extra bedtime hugs and holding. My 5 year old is my strong-willed and deep child. Lately, he has been quiet and in his own head, and I'm finding I need to spend much more low-key, one-on-one time with him. And, the baby (who is almost 2) seems to prefer the babysitter or his dad to me. It makes me sad but I know he is loved. He will let me cuddle him when we are alone, so I've rescheduled my work hours in order to spend the mornings with him, one-on-one, and it makes me feel better. Adds to my work stress, but it alleviates a tiny bit of mom guilt.

These "kid balls" are incredibly important to skillfully keep in the air every day, without pause. So I juggle all 5.

My work has taken off in the past 2 months and it's all heading in an exciting and positive direction. Problem is, it's a full-time job and I'm only available part-time. I have worked so hard to even get the career ball in the air...I can't drop it now, so I write at 4am and I try to stretch my day a bit at both ends to find some more hours. As tiring as it is, the career piece for me is exhiliarating. It makes me feel like me. So ball #6 stays in the air.

The marriage ball was hard to put down. With all I do in a day, my husband still managed to ask "what about me" to which I would say "well, what about me" and we'd end up going nowhere with the fight discussion. We tried therapy, we tried date nights, and he always wanted more. I finally reached my limit, put the marriage ball down and gave up. A funny thing has started to happen these past few weeks. Instead of him focusing on himself, he has started to offer his support to me in quiet ways. He brings me a salad while I'm buried in the office. He picks up milk from the grocery store without me even asking. He takes the kids outside to play so I can finish a phone interview. He folds laundry while watching the Final Four playoffs. After 10+ years, I'm seeing a new side of him that makes me feel loved in a different way and I am anxious to get ball #7 back in the air.

The friendship ball is on standby. I miss the time to I used to have to go have lunch with girlfriends or catch up over a moms night out. My girlfriends are incredibly important to me but I now need to turn down invitations more aften than accept them. It's interesting to see that some of my friends understand, and some don't. It becomes easy to separate the two categories when I get a voicemail with a guilt-laced query... "Hey, I called you this morning and didn't hear back. It's not like you. Call me." Um, yeah. I'll put it on my list, so ball #8 sits on standby.

The other balls: housework, grocery shopping, meal preparation, vacation planning, summer camp planning, closet organization, home repair, car repair, office filing and paperwork.... all sit on the sidelines for now. My closets are a mess and I don't have a master summer calendar yet, but oh well. As I continue my Cirque de Mom routine, I realize that as the years go on, the routine gets more difficult and my skills need to continue to improve. Not so much the juggling skills, but the un-juggling skills. Knowing what to take out of the rotation is the real secret to success. See you in Vegas!

Field of Dreams

2010-04-01T16:59:00.000-07:00

I love Little League - watching all the boys out in the field, half paying attention and dropping fly balls...all with the same big dream of playing in the majors someday. Reminds me of how great it is to be a kid and to have big dreams.

My son came home from his game this week and was a puddle of emotion. He was the last at bat and he struck out. The team lost and he carried the burden of the loss on his shoulders. Through the streaked tears on his face, I could see how upset he was that he couldn't come up with a game-winning hit and save the team from the brink of defeat. I knew in his field-of-dreams vision, he completely saw himself doing that.

"You know, you didn't make the team lose," I said as gently as I could. "YES I DID!" and heavier sobbing drowned out whatever he said afterwards. I was at a loss for words since all of the traditional pep talks about teamwork, no "I" in "team", or how a team wins together and loses together didn't seem to be working. I really think he wanted me to say that he was right: he sucks at baseball and made the team lose and he should probably just quit baseball and plan to go to med school instead.

This is new for me. My son isn't the kind of kid who takes things so seriously. I've often said he is like a golden retriever puppy. He loves life and people and is happy to go anywhere and do most anything. He is a positive ball of energy and is always making people around him laugh. Seeing him so upset with the weight of the world on his shoulders makes my heart hurt. And, over baseball? Jeez. What will I do when a girl breaks his heart? I guess I'll do what I did this week. Have him take a shower, make him some chicken noodle soup, and sit with him while he watches Spongebob.

I want him to dream big despite his first losses in his young life. I want him to believe he can play 1st base in the majors. Or go to the moon. Or find a cure for cancer. I'm just not sure at what point as a parent you start to bring those big dreams down a couple of notches to the top point of reality. Or, maybe I don't have to and that's the world's job to beat it out of the kids, and I can continue to tell my kids that they can be the biggest and the best at whatever they choose to do.

My parents always encouraged me to dream as big as I could. They always told me to ask myself what is the worse thing that could happen and to go for it and go for it big...and to never fear of defeat.

Same rules apply to baseball. Now I have to convince my future All-Star.

Daylight is Over-Rated: This Time Change is Killing Me!

2010-04-01T07:17:00.000-07:00

(I'm reposting this from last year since it's the same story at my house this year now 3 weeks into Daylight Savings Time!!)

For the third morning in a row, my day started like this...."OH, *@&#^$*@!! It's 7:30!" My husband jumped out of bed as I stared at the clock thinking there must be a mistake. Daylight Saving Time is killing me. Now I face the game show-like effort to make coffee, get dressed, get the kids up, make the snacks and lunches that I was too tired to make last night, and get everyone to school in 30 minutes. Snap decision: Juicy Pants and sweatshirt over pjs are fine, no need for a bra.

As I race through the house barking orders, I remind myself that there is no washer and dryer or trip to Cancun awaiting my frantic attempt to make the 30 minute deadline. I need to calm down...so what if the kids are 2 minutes late...I hate being late, though, so I'm back to barking. I'm pleased to say that I rolled into the parking lot with exactly 1 minute to spare. As we were nearing the drop-off line, I felt my adrenaline kick in. "UNBUCKLE, BACKPACKS ON LAPS, GET READY TO GO, GO, GO. HUSTLE PEOPLE." We did it!! I think I forgot to tell them to have a good day, though.

I've got to get a handle on this. How do I get a 4 year-old into bed when it is still light outside? How do I rationalize with 8 year-old twins that if they go to bed, the morning will be a lot easier? How do I tell my 16 year-old to wrap-up the homework that she just started at 11pm? And then there is the baby. He's not interested at all in adjusting his schedule. I think I went to bed around midnight after I finished my quest to match all the socks in the laundry. I was only up twice with the baby, and it seems like 6 1/2 hours of interrupted sleep should be enough. No, I realized on the drive home after drop-off that I need a new bedtime strategy for everyone in the house or these game show mornings will end with me slumped over the wheel.

What do I do?
1. Blindfolds at bed.

Simply blindfold all of the kids at 8pm and tell them it's night. If the blindfolds seem too dramatic for them, I guess I could try those airline sleep masks. Oh, and ear plugs. Masks and ear plugs might do it. Add a sound machine with crickets and I'm done.
2. Black-out all the windows in the house.

I'm thinking that if we just live in the dark, I can just turn off the lights when I need them all to go to bed. Sunlight during the day would be nice, though.
3. Set the clocks TWO hours ahead.

Could be kind of tricky with the teen-ager since she can tell time unless it relates to her curfew.
4. Take everyone for a 5-7 mile run after dinner.

Maybe if I exhaust them, they'll just fall into bed. Oh, forgot, baby isn't walking yet. Running might be a challenge.
5. Try to make going to bed an exciting activity.

If I remove every toy and book in the house and going to bed is the only activity left, maybe the kids will think it's fun?

I'm out of ideas. I think I'm just going to have to ride it out and continue the game show mornings. If however, you see a silver Sequoia on the side of the road with a woman slumped at the wheel, call 911 for me and explain.

I know that the time change will smooth itself. And, before I know it, I'll be enjoying the last, long days of summer before I once again have to screw up the schedules with the non-Daylight Savings Time change.

Remind me why these time changes continue to be a good idea? Personally, I think for anyone with kids, daylight is over-rated!

A True BFF

2010-03-25T12:43:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this today for one of the truest BFF's I've got in my life. I met Beth when she and I were young and in our 20-somethings, both freshly out of college, and at the end of the line looking for roommates. She needed someone to share her apartment and I needed a place into which to move. But neither of us could find a connection through any of our friends, so we had to resort to the dreaded classifieds in the SF Chronicle. Both of us were pretty sure we'd find a complete psycho Single White Female-type of roommate, but we were out of options.

I'll never forget walking up to the cute apartment building and slowly, dreadfully knocking on the door. To my surprise, when the door opened, someone looking very much like me was staring back at me. Cute bob, pearls, polo shirt...preppy but not too prissy. Needless to say, we became roommates, friends, and life-long friends. Our friendship was cemented the year we couldn't afford a Christmas tree so we borrowed one from the lot that did fundraising from the profit of the tree sales. The lot's motto was "Send a kid to camp with every tree!" and we would burst into laughter saying "well, almost every tree!!" Both of us have since repaid the lot over and over and over again throughout the years, so the guilt is gone and only the hilarious memory remains.

We have continued on in our friendship though marriages, divorce (mine), remarriage (mine), births, other friendship woes, and job changes. The ups and downs of life. As it is now, Beth and I don't talk everyday. We barely talk once a month. She is a high-powered executive with a major corporation and she has 2 girls, a husband, and a house remodel that take up the rest of her time. Meshing her life with my organized chaos of 5 kids and a couple of jobs is next to impossible, so we Facebook and email each other. I know what she is doing; she knows what I'm doing. And both of us know that in the middle of the night, if we ever needed someone, we'd be there for each other. No questions asked.

We've always promised each other that at the end of this long road together, when the kids are grown and the husbands are either dead, suffering from dementia, or living with their 20-year old secretaries, we will be there for each other. We'll be playing shuffle board on the Lido deck somewhere, drinking tropical drinks, and still secretly listening to Tom Petty.

Beth's birthday was this week. I wanted to send flowers and call and catch up. Instead, I only managed to send her a Facebook greeting with a Tom Petty song attached. She sent me a note back thanking me, and we both went back to our lives. It's a treasure to have a friend who takes whatever part of yourself you can give at that moment and appreciates you and your effort. No guilt. No judgment. A true BFF. We both know we will have plenty of time to catch up on the cruise.

Happy Birthday, Beth! As always, thinking of you!!

Count To Ten: Tips to Keep Your Family Calm

2010-03-21T14:18:00.000-07:00

“Anybody can become angry - that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.” - Aristotle

My husband has no patience. None at all. I don't even think he has a fuse, he's always ignited with any little thing setting off his temper. I, on the other had, have patience to spare. Things don't bug me like they bug him. I pick my battles rather than see everything as a potential issue. I laugh when I'm frustrated. He yells.

He hasn't always been like this. He used to be much more in control of his anger. And, in front of an audience, he never shows his anger. A friend asked if I'd ever consider sending him to anger management classes. I thought that was kind of funny since I wasn't sure how to suggest that to him without him getting enraged. Well, after one recent blow-up over toys being on the floor, I brought up the anger management issue. He didn't get mad. He didn't ever really respond. All he said was, "well, maybe I do." Then he said, "so what do I do?"

I've been doing a lot of research on what anger management really is since to me it sounds like a lot of immaturity wrapped up in the need to be a responsible adult. The past two years have been hard on us financially. Financial markets crashed, his job and salary were down-sized, we sold our family house to stay afloat, and we relocated with me taking charge of the whole process. Through all of it, he became more and more angry and I only became angry at him for being angry. The more I read, the more I understand that his temper is more a frustration for his inability to control a situation or for his shortcomings. We've been talking more about how to redirect his anger since he has 3 sons who are learning and watching from his behavior and his daughters are also watching and perhaps learning incorrectly that all men yell when angry.

In my research, I found a book from Chronicle Books, Crouching Father, Hidden Toddler, that is very cute. It made me realize two things: 1) I am not alone in the "my husband had no patience" category, and 2) all dads can use a little bit of deep breathing.

I also compiled a list with the following tips. They are useful in beginning a dialogue about how to de-escalate in a situation.

*Breath Deeply. Anger begins when we feel weaker than we really are in a situation. Molehills can seem like mountains. Taking a few deep breaths calms you, makes you feel stronger both mentally and physically, and can magically make the mountains much easier to conquer!

*Count to ten. Sounds simple, but counting to ten is an anger management tip that has worked for centuries! The Roman poet Horace (65 – 8 BCE) said, “When angry, count to ten before you speak; if very angry, count to one hundred.” Counting helps you to step back from the situation, gives you time to examine the problem and to decide on an effective, rational way to express your anger.

*Give yourself a break. It’s easier to think when you’re calm than when you’re angry. Leave the room, take a walk, get a drink of water. After a little time, come back to the problem, re-examine it, and solve it.

*Learn to act and not react. When things don't go as you hope, find a way to channel your frustration into a positive action. Remember, when given lemons, make lemonade!

Finding ways to help each other will help the entire family!

On Board With The View

2010-02-24T19:24:00.000-08:00

Guess who was picked to be a "brand ambassador" for ABC's daytime talk show, The View? Yep, me. I guess word got out that I'm one of their biggest fans. With my schedule, it's hard for me to watch everyday, so I have www.theview.abc.go.com bookmarked. I check in every week to see what's going on for the week so I can make sure to watch or record. The website is great and you can pull it up anytime and find out what you missed with their great videos and Hot Topics section. I also like the What I'm Wearing - fun and kind of mindless.

My internet routine is usually check email, check out Huff Post for news, and click on The View for pop culture headlines. Try it. You might like it.

My Life in Paragraphs

2010-02-24T17:15:00.000-08:00

Somewhere between writing a column, trying to get a book published, and racing around in my life as a mom of 5 kids...I've let my blog posts fall by the wayside. I know a lot of writers who have stopped their personal blogs all together since it is time consuming and doesn't yield a paycheck. Unless, of course, you develop your blog to become less of a writing-driven site and more of a social media outlet whereby you promote products and coupons. I personally would prefer to use the outlet to write about my top-of-mind issues, but I am beginning to wonder about the possibility of whoring myself out for some revenue.

When I started writing, I wanted everything I put out there to be polished and well-thought out. I wanted everyone who read what I wrote to be touched, motivated, or at least humored. I wanted to craft essays that had great meaning and insight and present those thoughts in a higher literary form. It hit me last week that my philosphy of blogging runs parallel to the image that I used to put out there about my life as a wife and mother: always be perfect. I used to pride myself on having it completely together on the home front. I hosted over-the-top birthday parties with hand-crafted cupcakes. My daughter's lunch box sandwiches were cut in themed shapes to match the season. I even joined Junior League. And then my marriage fell apart and it became harder and harder to keep up the image of a happy family. As my self-esteem and confidence went down the drain, I still showed up to my day with a bright smile. Yes, I'm going through a horrible divorce but I'M GREAT! Really.

The greatest lesson I learned from my divorce is that being emotionally honest is crucial to my survival. My smile-though-your-heart-is-aching attitude about killed me and my efforts to keep everything in a perfect balance was a ridiculous task. I needed to acknowledge the insanity to myself, to my circle of friends and family, and really, to anyone else that would listen. "Give Up The Cape" became my mantra and I sent mine to the cleaners. Another marriage and 4 children later, my cape is still missing, and I really don't want it back. Funny thing is, I still get called "Supermom" about 3-4 times a week by people who see me out in the world with my 5 kids. "You must be a Supermom." Yeah, I must be.

I ignore it and I write. I write about my frustrations of being in a crappy second marriage in an unstable financial situation, of trying to find my higher purpose in life (or a paying job), of the hilarious media stories trying to convince me I need a stripper pole and botox to feel sexy after 40, and of continually wanting to be the very best mom I can be for my kids. Until this moment, all of the writing has been edited and censored and filtered through my own perfectionist tendencies. Starting now, however, I'm going to start writing my blog with the same honesty I live my life...raw, emotional, and not perfect.

In allowing myself this freedom, I'm hoping that other women will begin to share their stories. I've often thought it is much like childbirth. We all would like to think that by bringing human life into the world, we are experiencing something that is unto ourselves, but the truth is that we need to hurry and push those babies out because the hospital needs the beds for other deliveries. I believe that women collectively share all the joy and pain in the world. However, we have learned at an early age to mask our human experience and put on a happy face in spite of it all trying to convince other women that all is great.

So, much like the freedom I finally felt when I learned to say "Why yes, I'm having an incredibly shitty day. And you?", I'm going to continue my blog with the same emotional abandon. I'm going to start posting paragraphs about my life and my frustrations at the pressure I feel to keep it all together. Here goes.

Positive Amnesia

2010-01-04T12:16:00.001-08:00

I love the New Year and planning and imagining all of the possibilites over the next 365 days. As I stood in Walmart last night looking for just the right calendar, I couldn't help but get excited about all the things I hope to accomplish in 2010. It's cathartic to let go of the past year and all of what didn't work out, go right, get done and move it all onto a blank calendar with an adjoining "To Do" section. Reminds me of childbirth...you just keep looking forward and forget the pain and 60-pound weight gain. It's a positive amnesia of sorts.

This year is especially weighted with a new decade as well as a new year staring back at me. Biting off yearly plans is always a piece of cake for me. However, imagining myself in 10 years is something I'd rather not do just yet. When your teen years roll into your 20's and then into your 30's, life seems endless. However, the roll from the 40's to the 50's seems a bit more serious and sobering. Not so much that time is running out, but, well, time is running out. The friends that take more than they give, the marriage that is severely off course, the career that needs to get back on track are all up for scrutiny as time becomes more precious to me.

My mother always told me that life is not a dress rehearsal. Whatever you are doing right now, today, in this moment is your life. Seize it. Live it. And most of all appreciate it since there is no guarantee you'll have a tomorrow. Granted, my mom was a hospice nurse and faced death every day, but I know there is great truth in what she told me. This year, as I plot January's coodinates on my calendar, I am making certain that I build joy and appreciation into my schedule. And, as I undertake the planning for my next huge project...2 moms, 8 kids, 50 states...I pray the joy stays with me.

I can tell this is going to be a Happy New Year!!

How's That Working For You?

2009-10-04T09:28:00.000-07:00

Katie and I recently were invited to appear on The Dr. Phil show to do a segment about teen stress. Our segment covered "Applying To College", and we were to discuss how the entire college application process has left Katie not sure why she is expected to know what she is going to do with her life at age 17 and me not sure why this isn't as exciting as I thought it was going to be. Weren't we supposed to be going on mother-daughter weekends to footballs games while visiting college towns across the country?

As we sat in the front row, waiting for our turn with the good doctor, we listened to a story about a mom who pushed her 10-year old daughter to twirl her baton and compete in pageants even though the little girl didn't want to anymore and the family was near bankruptcy. Turns out, as Dr. Phil cleverly led us all to see, it was the mom who really wanted to be a baton twirler and never reached her own dream of drill team. As a result, the mom was pushing her daughter to achieve for her. (I made a note to myself that I didn't care if Katie twirled a baton or not, so I was safe.) The next story was about a dad who injected his 12-year old son with steroids in order for the son to win competitions and now Daddy Dearest is serving prison time. The son is now 20 years old and seems like he's had a rough time putting his life back together. (I made another note to myself that I was doing ok since I've never injected Katie with anything. Jeez, I can't even get her to take vitamins.) As the show neared our segment, I started to worry about what kind of deep horrible secret Dr. Phil was going to pull out about me. I could hear him say his famous "How's that working for you?" or "You've got to have a clear agenda in order to be an effective parent." I could feel my palms starting to sweat. I really wanted to throw up.

And then the cameras turned on us...Dr. Phil asked Katie what was going on with college and she said in her mature, poised, matter-of-fact way that she felt there is too much pressure on kids today to make decisions about their lives at age 17 and that too many parents aren't letting kids explore options. He asked Katie what other things she was thinking about doing instead of going right into college. Now I was confident that she wasn't going to say "make hemp bracelets and hang-out at the beach all day", but I was moderately curious about what was going to pop out of her mouth in that nano-second. I could feel the sigh of relief when she said she'd like to explore a gap year or return to Africa to do more community service (yes, see, no hemp bracelets). I smiled thinking that this kid is good. She's a natural on camera, in front of an audience. She should really have her own show. I was beaming until I realized the attention had turned to me. Oh, right. What's my problem? Katie seems like "an exemplary young teenager", according to Phil. As I yammered on about god only knows what, Dr. Phil looked me in the eyes and told me exactly what my problem was. He quoted leading educators and their studies that show how kids who take a gap year actaully do better in college than those who go right into college. He said that he bets I'm afraid that if she doesn't go right into school, she won't go at all. Sounded good to me, so I said "Yep. That's exactly what is wrong." I had seen how he brought the baton twirling mom to her own awakening and I wasn't ready for that kind of come-to-Jesus moment on national television, so I agreed. Why bring up family expectations or the lack of future jobs for these kids or, dare I say, foreign talent competition. Nope. I stuck to his story.

And then the worst thing of all happened. I kept talking. I couldn't shut up. I went on to say how sad I was that Katie was leaving home and how maybe my not wanting her to go is a problem and what is really holding her back AND THEN I STARTED TO CRY. Katie was horrified and I could sense the shock and disgust as she watched me choke up right then and there on Dr. Phil about her leaving home. After the show, we sat in stony silence as we were driven back to the hotel in our big, black studio car. I knew she hated me and I was still reeling from my big reveal. Dr. Phil is good. He found the hole in the dam and I didn't even know there was one. I finally told her I'd take her to Fred Segal or Robertson Ave for a little shopping before our flight and that seemed to finally break the ice.

Oh well. Now my secret is out: I'm a mom that is having trouble letting go and the real reason I'm stressing out about my daughter not going away to college is that I'll selfishly be thrilled to have her home and with me for another year or two. And truth be told, she is really talented at making jewelry and I bet she'd make one heck of a hemp bracelet!

Fish Guts and Africa

2009-08-18T15:29:00.000-07:00

This is one of those unbelievable mornings where clarity is settling my uneasy mind. We brought the kids up to Twain Harte Lake in California’s Gold Country, just north of Yosemite in search of a slower pace for a couple of days. The idea of fishing, swimming in the lake and eating soft-serve ice cream from the snack shack sounded like what we needed.

After a 3-hour, fairly uneventful drive up, we arrived at our cabin, “Mally’s Full House”. We hit the local grocery store and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows over a fire with wood the kids collected from around the cabin. As we tucked the kids in their beds and kissed their still sticky marshmallow faces goodnight, my husband and I collectively sighed a stress relief sigh…a sigh of, wow, we need to do this more.

I’ve been greatly unsettled these past few days as my oldest daughter is about to return from Rwanda where she spent time doing community service. She went to Africa last year and had a life-changing experience in Tanzania. She was gone for a month and dealt with many layers of herself: homesickness, physical discomfort, emotional discomfort, culture shock, empathy, and self-awareness. She came home and was sure she wanted to move her life in a different direction. She was more grateful, less self-absorbed, and seemed to be interested in the world around her not from a travel-seeker’s perspective but from a humanitarian perspective. It was remarkable and something for which I wasn’t prepared. Watching an amazing transformation occur in an already amazing child is humbling as a mother. I have always known that my children are completely separate, independent spirits and my job is to not make them into what I think they should be, but to guide them, love them, feed them, and let them develop into who they are. The true joy of parenting is that you get to share in these beginning life journeys and watch your children unfold. I’ve always loved the quote (and I don’t know who said it), “Children are not vessels to fill up, they are lamps to turn on.”

We knew that the trip she was going to take this summer would be different. She would be with older students and would be seeing a country that only 10 years ago experienced one of the worst genocides in history. 800,000 Tutsi were killed in a 3 month period. The trip was to include a visit to the genocide memorial museum, exploration in both the capital and university towns as well as rural villages, and a trek around a lake to reflect on what had been seen and witnessed. She was in Africa the summer before and upon her return, she stayed in her room and cried for 3 days. She didn't want to eat, shower, or change her clothes. The guilt that felt felt coming home consumed her and the reverse culture shock hit all of us very hard and as a family: who were we to be blessed to have so much? Thankfully, we navigated our way through conversations and tears and finally got her into a shower. As each day passed, the light and humor that normally pervades her soul was returning. Her experience It makes me appreciate the people who work day in and day out with poverty and hopelessness and has me wondering how they keep themselves afloat. My anxiety these past few days has been centered around the question of who exactly is coming back to me? How much has my daughter changed? Because of the poor communication technologies in rural Rwanda, I haven't had much communication with her.

So, coming back to my incredible morning. Katie flew home last night. She stopped in New York to spend some time with her dad in the Hamptons. I have been very concerned about her reverse culture shock this time...Rwanda to Southhampton. Patagonia to Prada. She may never shower again. As I felt the phone vibrate, I could feel the tension and nervous knot in my stomach dissipate when I read her text at 5:30am saying that she landed safely in DC. I got up and made coffee and waited for her phone call saying she cleared customs. When she finally called, I got to hear her tired voice tell me how glad she is to be back on American soiI and how she can't wait to take a shower. Whew! First hurdle cleared. I know in Katie’s heart she has learned from this journey and I can't wait to hear her tales. But for now, as I sit looking at the sun coming through the tall pine trees and I smell the smoky embers from last’s fire, I say a prayer of thanks and gratitude. Life is so simple is these moments. I am feeling back in my skin ready to play and laugh with my kids today.

My son just woke up and came bounding out to the deck with his bed-head and still groggy voice and asked when we are going fishing. I smile and secretly hope he doesn’t catch anything, I’m not good with fish guts.

Great link: http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2009-07-13/teenage-travel-trauma/

Whoops, I Did It Again! My Life of Hormonal Haircuts

2009-06-08T15:00:00.000-07:00

Seems like every couple of years, I have a moment where I can't take my hair anymore and I decide that I'm either going to cut it myself or I'm going to find someone to cut it for me...immediately...and I start calling salon numbers in the yellow pages to find the first available hair stylist within a 100-mile radius. Usually, as I settle into the newly-found stylist's chair, I find myself saying things like: "I don't care. Do whatever. I just want a change. I'd like to look more current." This impromtu makeover plan has resulted in some interesting looks.

My first spontaneous haircut was in middle school. I think I just started my period and I begged my mom to take me to get my hair cut. I had thick, slightly wavy, coarse red-hair that reached to the middle of my back. I felt ugly, dumpy, completely un-hip and without style. I remember finding a picture of Dorothy Hamill and deciding that the "wedge" would be the perfect look for me. At the salon, I remember pulling out the wrinked picture of Dorothy and handing to the stylist. After being spun around when the cut was finished, I was shocked when I saw myself in the mirror. The stylist didn't tell me that my thick, wavy hair wouldn't lay flat and shiny and sleek like Dot's. My hair looked like a perfectly formed helmet around my head and it didn't move at all when I shook my head. I burst into tears. My life as a pre-teen was ruined. I vowed then to never, ever get my hair cut without giving it considerable thought.

A couple of years later, when my hair finally grew below my shoulders, I was in high school and found myself feeling depressed one day. I'm certain it was my teenage hormones in full gear. All my friends were pretty and popular and had such cute haircuts. My hair was longish, thick, wavy and totally un-hip. It just needed a little updating, so I got out the scissors and cut bangs. When I called my mom at work crying hysterically, she came home early and took me to the mall for a correction cut. Let's just say that I should have moved to Nashville. Cutting layers on my hair before the age of round brushing and styling serums left me looking like Loretta Lynn on a humid day. I got to finish out my high school years with some of the biggest hair this side of Texas...and I have the cheerleading photos to prove it. I promised myself to never, ever cut my own hair again.

Years passed and I managed to settle on a boring, non-descript bob throughout college. I went to Boston College where all the girls had perfect bobs to match their perfect strands of pearls. I tried hard to keep up, but my hair in the Boston humidity always had me looking like I needed a good brushing. So, by my senior year, I gave up and started to let it grow. A pony tail was my new non-style and I felt free so I moved to California.

My early 20's and first marriage were my Nicole Kidman years. My hair in California found a new life. It was no longer frizzy and instead took on a curl that was actually cute. Figures. Everyone needs cute hair AFTER high school. I started working in commercials and doing print campaigns for hair care products. It was such sweet irony to me...the girl with the thick, unmanageable mane who was forever teased about her red hair was now being paid to do commercials. Directors booked me for products like Maxwell House, McDonalds, Ford, Crest, and Chevrolet because my hair said "All-American Girl Next Door", not "red-headed woodpecker, carrot-top, or red" as I was often called. I kept thinking it was about time. If I only knew where the 7th grade boys who mercilessly teased me lived today, I'd send them copies of my royalty checks!!

I have been free of hair issues for the last 15 years. Same basic look, but cute...for a 30-early 40-something mom. Yes, issue-free until this last pregnancy. I gained 60 pounds, let my hair grow, and didn't care about trying to be a super-cute preggers gal. I was too tired. Being 42 and with child left me crawling through the day. Blow-drying my hair wasn't even on my list of to-do's so out came my trusted, sporty ponytail. My baby turned one last month and I finally gave myself a good look-over in the mirror. I'm 10 pounds over my pre-pregancy weight, tired with monster bags under my eyes, and OMG...I look frumpy and un-hip. I knew just the thing to perk me up....

As I sat in my stylist's chair, I gave her the same "give me a new look, update my hair" speech. As she cut and razored and pieced my ends, I hoped for the best. I figured if I didn't like the cut, my hair would grow back as soon as it stopped falling out from the pregnancy/post-pregnancy/nursing hormones.

As I was spun around to look, I could feel a pit in my stomach. Hmm. Kind of less-severe Victoria Beckham look. Kind of cute. Kind of noticed that it took 2 stylists, a flat iron, 3 or 4 products, and a lot of work to get it flat and straight. Kind of a lot more stylish than I am. It's ok, I told myself. We're going to make it work (me and my inner-stylist).

I've spent the last couple of weeks adjusting to my new look. I was almost feeling marginally happy about the whole last-minute hair makeover when it happened. I realized that I missed my ponytail. Desperately. At the exact time, my youngest daughter who is 8 asked me to never cut my hair again. She told me that I look like a man and that she misses my old hair. I agree with her although I think I look more like Nancy Pelosi...yes, that maven of all things stylish. So much for conquering frumpy.

Needless to say, I'm growing out my almost stylish man-bob again. I'm praying that I only have one hormonal cut left in me to deal with...the menopause cut. Isn't that the mid-50's, go short, surrender-the-estrogen haircut? I'm scared.

The New SAHMs: STUCK-At-Home Moms

2009-05-22T10:48:00.000-07:00

I'm a SAHM. For me, this used to stand for "Stay-At-Home Mom". After my 4th child, I made the difficult decision to give up my Los Angeles agency and focus on my backyard here in Northern California. Yes, I made the choice to become a SAHM. Then the recession hit. Oh, I'm still a SAHM, but there is a new definition for me now..."Stuck-at-Home Mom".

I'd love a job. I'd love a paycheck. I'd love some semblance of a career. If I hear one more ground-breaking study on how much stay-at-home moms are really worth, I'll go postal. Anyone who has taken a basic logic course knows that if there is an "if" there is a "then", and if there is a "but", there is a "so". Therefore, applying this logic to the how-much-I'm worth argument sounds something like this...if as a stay-at-home mom, you were paid what you were worth then you'd be making $xxx,xxx in income. But since you're not being paid an actual salary, you're not making an income so YOU'RE NOT WORTH ANYTHING in real dollars.

Doesn't anyone but me want to slap these salary pundits? SAHMs already know this deep dark reality. We deal with it everyday when our husbands ask what we do all day. Further, what is the point anyway of telling someone that if they were being paid what they were truly worth, they'd be making a lot more? Tell your local school teachers this bit of useful information. Or your firefighter. Or doctors. Or anyone that adds value to society. I'm sure it will make their day. It made mine.

Pre-recession, I was like all of my other SAHM friends. My husband had a solid job at an investment bank and I juggled working as an actress and being a full-time mom to 4 children (with a surprise #5 on the way). My usual days were full of chaos and activity but to keep me from running away from home, I had a part-time babysitter and a housekeeper to help me keep it all together. Life was a careful balance, but, most days, it all seemed to work.

Now I find myself standing in front of the freezer section at the grocery store with 4 of my 5 children trying to figure out if the can of frozen lemonade is a better deal than the 2/$5 pre-made containers. God bless the store for calculating the price per ounce to help make the decision for me (it’s in the fine print on their signs that I have finally read). Everything changed a year ago when the financial markets blew up and it has been a relatively quick spiral downward. Like so many of my friends, my husband and I were doing well at an upper-middle class level. We lived in a big home, we sent our kids to private school, I volunteered at 3 schools during the week, I drove countless carpools to endless activities, and I brought home take-out dinners once in a while to make my life easier. As the financial world melted down, so did our bubble of financial comfort. We were not prepared, and this is something for which we did not have a plan. We had a plan for success and a plan for an emergency, but we did not have a plan for broad-scale economic collapse. My husband’s salary is now 40% of what it used to be and the bonuses that used to bridge any income gap are gone. We have had to drastically evaluate our lifestyle and come up with a new plan...overnight.

So we've been cutting back. And cutting back even more. It is uncharted territory and with 5 children, my husband and I are feeling the weight of responsibility to be diligent and responsible with every new move we make. Should we sell the house? Should we move out of the area? Do we take the kids out of their school? Do I go back to work full-time? When I’m overwhelmed with these big decisions, I return to my personal quest of finding a good bottle of Chardonnay under $10.

As I stood in the grocery store that day contemplating lemonade while trying to coax my 5 year old out of the freezer, I thought about my new life. Babysitter is gone. Housekeeper is gone. It's just me. Downsizing. I need a job. A job that pays in real dollars that I can take to Nordstrom. Small problem, though...what do I do with the kids? My babysitter will make more than I do if I can even find a job as an associate editor somewhere.

And then over Mother's Day, I found my answer. Salary.com came out with its 9th annual salary calculator to find out just how much us stay-at-home moms are worth. As much as I hate these surveys, this year I had to know what I could be earning. So against my better judgment, I entered my info and guess what? I'm worth $184,000!! Running this number against my potential earning power as a writer of $45,000 (pre-tax)/$22,500 (after tax) while deducting out what I will be paying for the under-the-table nanny income of $38,400 ($76,800 I need to make before taxes), I realize that in order to get a paying job and have childcare, I'll be in the hole $54,300. I can't afford to go back to work! What happened to my choice?

I look at the $184,000 number again and realize my situation....I'm a Stuck at Home Mom. I'm a Stuck at Home Mom making a great potential salary. After giving it some thought, I've decided to keep the mom job. At $184,000, I'm making more than my husband now. Hmm. I wonder about the 2 week vacation...is that with or without kids?

Finding Your Inner Porn Star

2009-05-03T20:20:00.001-07:00

Married sex after 40 is kind of funny. Married sex after 40 and 5 kids is hilarious.

Last week, while waiting to get my manicure for the kids' school's auction, I was flipping through a magazine and stumbled across an article on how to use dirty language to enhance your sex life. This ought to be good, I thought. You see, when you are over 40 and have 5 kids, porn-like sex seems so 10 years ago. I can't tell if it is the over-40 part or the kids that make it funny, but here's my take on "Finding Your Inner Porn Star"...

1. Use Graphic Words During Sex

Because I have young children, I've gotten used to saying things like "wiener, penis, wenis (the combination), boobies, tee-tee, vagina, privates...". I imagine telling my husband how much his wiener turns me on. I can hear our conversation...oh, honey, your boobies look so great in those flannel pjs...yes, and your ding dong is standing up...wanna do it?

2. Choose Provocative Clothing to Excite Your Partner

Examining my current bedtime wardrobe, I seem to have a lot of flannel, slipper socks, and t-shirts. I can't imagine not sleeping in my socks. What looks sexy with slipper socks? I surfed the Victoria's Secret website for ideas. G-strings with feathers? Thongs with zippers? I know I'm getting old because my first thought is that the feathers will make my husband sneeze and the zipper may do permanent damage to sensitive tissue. Ok. So where do I go for mom-porn pjs? I ended up at Nordstorm thinking I can find a tasteful mom-porn outfit. They had some strappy nighties but I couldn't find any sexy sweatshirts to use as a cover-up. Seriously, am I the only one that gets cold at night? I give up on me and try to figure out what my husband could wear that would be described as provocative. Silk boxers are too Hugh Hefner for me and there doesn't seem to be anything made out of feathers for men. I think I'm going to have better luck finding something to match my slipper socks.

3. Watch Porn Together to Get In the Mood

The last movie we watched together was Madagascar 2, so this will be a real stretch. Come to think of it, I've never had the "Have you ever seen a porn movie before?" conversation with my husband. I assume he has...college, bachelor parties, business trips, but I've never directly asked him. I've seen a couple minutes here and there throughout my life but never an entire film and it always looks like it hurts. Either I've seen the wrong stuff or I'm missing the point. Anyway, I don't have the courage to go behind the curtain in my neighborhood video store while the kids choose a new Spongebob to watch, so I decide to go online. I've seen ads for a store in San Francisco called Good Vibrations. It's owned by a woman and the ads always look tasteful, so I visit the website.

Wow. I found it all. Harnesses, holders, crotch-less, butt-less, double, triple, battery-operated...the glass dildos are perplexing because they seem dangerous and a tough story to come up with at the emergency room. I found movies to teach everything you ever wanted to know and more. Women, men, both, all. Wow. Not really the over-40, married for 10 years with 5 kids kind of spice up your sex life stuff I was looking for. And, by the way, not one thing to match my slipper socks.

4. Dirty Dancing

The stripper pole in the bedroom is not even an option.

5. Verbalize Your Fantasies to Your Partner

See, here we go again. Over-40, kids...my fantasies sound something like this...Sleep for 8 hours straight without anyone touching me, waking me up for water/monsters under the bed/need to pee/vomiting/heard a noise/etc, or snoring next to me. Enjoy one cup of hot coffee until it is gone. Read People magazine from cover to cover. Take a shower, shave my legs, blow dry my hair, put on makeup, and get dressed in that order without interruption. Spend a weekend alone in my house so I can clean out closets and reorganize the pantry...in slipper socks, of course. I think my husband's fantasies are a little more straight-forward...have me stop spending money. Make more money. Have more sex.

It seems like a lot of pressure to keep sex so hot and dirty and passionate. At my age, I value the comfortable connection, the take-what-you-get moments, the ease of being able to wear socks, and the occasional out-of-nowhere lust that come from inconsistent hormones and lack of a routine. No, I don't want to be 20 or 30 again dealing the pressures of keeping my sex life spicy. I'm happy dealing with the pressure of keeping one at all.

Heaven is Forever, You Dummy!

2009-04-30T08:12:00.000-07:00

Both our family pets died yesterday. Of course if you've read my earlier blog about why I hate family pets, you'd think I'd be happy...relieved. But I'm not.

The fish news was a tough message to deliver, but telling the kids about the cat was devastating. The day before, Lily the cat was playing in the yard with the kids. The next morning, she was on the garage floor as we walked passed to get in the car for the frantic rush to school. There was a certain stiffness, stillness to her that I picked up on with my mom vibe and I felt my stomach drop. As I rushed the kids in the car, my daughter began to wring her hands.

Daughter: "Is Lily ok, mom?"

"She looked a little sick, honey. I'll come home and take her to the vet."

Son: "She had her mouth open and her eyes open. She's dead."

Daughter: "DEAD???!!!!" Crying starts.

"Thanks, Mike. I don't think she's dead. I'll take care of her."

Son: "She's dead. She looked dead to me. She wasn't moving or breathing and her eyes and..."

"I got it, Mike. She's fine, ok?"

Sure enough. When I got home, I looked a bit closer. Yep. Dead. Still. Stiff. I felt so sad knowing I had to tell the kids. I felt kind of sick knowing I had to figure out what to do with a dead cat body. I looked a little closer. I then felt faint and grossed out knowing I had to figure out what to do with a dead cat body. So I emailed my husband.

Cat's dead. Call me.

No response.

4 cell phone calls. Follow-up email...Call me ASAP. Lily is DEAD.

No response.

Called my mom. She's a nurse and doesn't have much tolerance for pain and suffering if you are not dying, so I knew it was a risky call. I remember growing up in our house - if you complained about feeling sick or any kind of sports injury, she'd just look at you. Her medical advice was always the same: quit your sport if you are that sore or go to bed and let me know if you start vomiting.

As I poured out the details to my mom, I could sense her putting on her medical hat...

"Where's the cat now."

"Still in the garage."

"Kristy, the cat is already decomposing. You've got to wrap her in a towel and put her in a box and get her out of there."

"Yeah, I know, but I can't. It grosses me out to think about touching her."

"Kristy, get a grip. I've dealt with dead human bodies and vomit and all kinds of human sickness. This is a cat. And you've got to wrap her body and get it out of the garage."

"I know. But I can't."

"Stop it. Go out there and get the cat out of the garage NOW."

"OK. I'll try. Thanks, mom."

"I'll be over in an hour with bleach."

Checked Blackberry. No message or return call from husband. Where is he when I need him? Probably on a conference call or talking to his boss or trying to appear professional in his new job at his new bank with his new peer group. Doesn't he realize I have a DEAD CAT BODY in the garage?

Checked clock. 8:45am. Too early for tequila shot.

Realize it is all up to me now. Get towel and debate about laundry basket vs. empty diaper box. Go to garage. Mental pep talk that I can do this. Think about pictures I've seen of people in the streets of third world countries carrying dead bodies through the streets. Think about every sad movie I've seen where people die in each other's arms. OK. I'm ready. It's a cat.

I'm sorry, I circled the cat. Looked at her. Waited for her to leap up at me and scratch my face or hiss or something hellish. Reassure myself that she's dead and not moving. Throw the towel over her and run out of the garage.

Check Blackberry. Still no message from my husband. Check clock. 8:49am. Still too early for a tequila shot. Make more coffee and try to calm down. I can't believe myself. I manage all kinds of gross stuff with my kids. I've caught barf in my hands, I've been pooped on, I've washed all kinds of stains out of underwear, I made my teenage daughter pee in a cup in front of me for her drug test, but I can't touch a dead cat. Lame.

Phone rings. It's him. God I love my husband. He's taking the first bus home and will handle everything!! Now to figure out how to tell the kids. As I craft the story about the cat being poisoned, my husband wraps up up the cat and takes her to the vet. I make some chicken soup for dinner since that is what I do whenever anyone is sick or emotionally troubled. My husband and I went up to school together to get the kids and deliver that bad news. It was a hard night. The kids sobbed. I cried because they were crying. We sat up with candles honoring our sweet cat and fish. Just when we thought everyone was calm, my four-year old announced that he wasn't sad because Lily would be back tomorrow.

Young son: "Lily went to heaven. She'll be back tomorrow."

Older son: "Heaven is forever, you dummy. Lily is dead and never coming back!!" More sobbing.

Young son slumps shoulders and doesn't say anything the rest of the night.

As my mom finished washing the house with Clorox, we put the kids to bed. Then mom went to bed. Got ourselves into bed. As I could feel the stress and emotional anxiety melting away, I heard the baby crying. Brought the baby back into our bed and held my husband's hand.

"Thanks for being here today and taking care of all us. Watching you hold the kids tonight and comfort them reminded me of the moments I had with my dad when I was little and the world seemed so awful. My dad could always make things seem less scary! I love you."

As I drifted off to sleep with the baby kicking me in the head, I thought about how precious life is and how I need to slow our lives down and to teach the kids how to appreciate every moment. And, get another cat.

To Pierce or Not To Pierce, That is The Question

2009-03-26T10:19:00.000-07:00

I heard the dreaded question last week. Actually, I heard the dreaded question a couple of months ago and thought we had put the issue to rest. I found some horrifying youtube videos and forwarded them to my teenage daughter in hopes of convincing her that a belly button piercing is nothing she needs to complete her teenage experience. After viewing the videos, she agreed that she didn't want one.

Until last week. She's back on the piercing discussion. Here's the thing about my daughter, though. She's smart and very adept at negotiating. She was the toddler who would ask for 2 pieces of candy when I offered one, then ask for five, so I'd turn down the five and give her 2...before I even knew what was happening. So when she started the piercing discussion with what she's already ruled out: an ankle tatoo or a nose piercing, I knew I was in trouble. When she furthered her argument by addressing all of my valid concerns, I knew there was no turning back.

1. Why?

I say:

All along, I've said that my over-riding issue with any kind of body piercing is the what's-the-point-of-it-all. Simple ear piercings I get. For boys, it is a stretch, but I get it. However, when I see teenagers with nails through their eyebrows, nose rings, earlobe extenders, a thousand ear cartilage piercings, or lip jewelry, I wonder if they own a mirror. It really isn't a good look.

I think of things like: would I hire this person to take care of my child, would I give this person a job that involves the general public, or do I want my son/daughter to date this pierced, mutilated person that obviously has issues?

She says:

It is hard to talk to someone who is so judgmental. Just because a person has piercings or tatoos doesn't mean he or she belongs in juvenile hall. Other cultures use piercings and tatoos as decorations or marks of beauty or heroism and just because our current, mainstream culture doesn't accept it doesn't make it wrong. It is sad to think your perspective is so narrow.

2. Longevitiy

I say:

Fine, I'm judgmental. But when you are my age, trust me, you aren't going to want a skull and rose tatoo on your ankle or a big hole in your nose. It may seem beautiful and counter-culture now, but when you are running for President of the United States, I bet you'll regret those earlobe extenders.

She says:

Ha Ha. That is why a belly button piercing is perfect. You don't see it and you can take it out if you want to. And, if I am interviewing for a job that needs to see my belly button, you probably wouldn't want me working there anyway.

3. Back to Why?

I say:

Good point. But, if you can't see it, why do it?

She says:

Mom. Now you're being argumentative. It is cute in the summer with a bathing suit and I really like the way it looks. Think of all the celebs that have one...Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Vanessa Hudgens. It is a my-generation thing. Besides, you wear one-pieces now.

4. Me versus You

I say:

Easy on the one-piece. I've had 5 kids and don't want to scare the young kids at the pool. Wow. Britney Spears, Paris Hilton -- the iconic role models for your generation. My generation didn't do this kind of stuff. If we wanted to push the envelope, we'd get a second ear piercing. That was really living on the edge. I'm know I'm older but I still don't want you doing anything to yourself that I have to look at everyday and wonder why.

She says:

Fine. I promise I won't get any visible, face-altering tatoos or piercings. I may want to get a small tatoo when I turn 18, though. On my hip...where no one will see it. OK?

5. Where Do We Go?

I say:

A tatoo? You're killing me, kid. OK. A belly button piercing is fine. Where do we go?

She says:

You're the best. Thanks, mom.

We went this week. I have to admit, set against all of the other possibilities, a belly button piercing seemed pretty innocuous. I just had to get past the boa constrictor in the waiting room and the earlobes that would make Buddha jealous. I wished the guy would have tied them in a bow and out of the way when he talked so they wouldn't have wobbled to and fro when he tried to explain the process of the piercing. Judgmental? No, just disgusting. At least my daughter got my point about doing something to yourself without a point of return. She and her friend went back into the room while I waited outside with the snake. I flipped through Glamour magazine reading about hot sex tips to turn your guy on since the current issue of Piercing Today held no interest.

As I waited for her screaming, I realized that I was glad I was here with her. I still don't know that I get it, but I'm sure that's not the point. Being able to support her in doing something that she wants to do even if I'm not in favor is an important step in parenting a teen. Understanding the difference in setting very firm boundaries with her relating to her safety or our family values and allowing room for her to make choices that run contrary to my point of view is what will help her guide her into adulthood. After all, she leaves for college soon and I have to start letting go.

She came out of the room with a big smile and as much as I hate to admit it, her piercing is kind of cute. Maybe after my tummy tuck....

3/26 Update: Just saw the cover of People magazine. Valerie Bertinelli is on the cover showing off her bikini and HER BELLY BUTTON PIERCING! She's 48. That's it. I'm not going to be outdone by someone older than me. I'm going to figure out what to do with the tire around my middle and then go back to Mr. Ears Hang Low!

Marley and Not Me

2009-03-20T08:59:00.000-07:00

Our cat is missing. She has been gone for two days and the kids are absolutely sick about it. I try to reassure them that she is probably taking a little vacation from the chaos of our house and not to worry about her. But last night, we had to make signs for the neighborhood and went out after dinner posting the desperate pleas for the cat's safe return. I ended up pouring two sobbing 8 year olds in bed. Truth is, I hope the cat stays in Hawaii. I hate pets. Really, I do.

I started my first marriage with an incredible birthday surprise from my then-husband. It was so tiny and fluffy and weird-looking, I asked my husband what it was through my tears. When he said it was a golden retriever puppy, I cried even harder. I was thrilled to have a little life to care for, to nurture, to keep me company. I knew my life with a dog was going to be great and I cherished my new life as a mother of a dog. I took Jack to private behavior classes. I hired a babysitter to stay with him when we went away for a weekend. I proudly marched in dog parades with him. I spend my afternoons after work at the dog park allaying the guilt I felt for leaving him home all day. I even owned a denim shirt with a golden retriever embroidered on it and wore it to Jack's first birthday party. (I don't think I had it catered, but I know there was cake.) For Jack's first birthday present, we got him a dog. Another golden retriever. My dog joy was doubled although I never sensed Jack enjoyed having a sibling. When my mother received the photo album of the dogs that I sent her for Grandmother's Day, she immediately called me to say that I better get professional help...or have a baby.

Hmmm. A baby. Hadn't thought about it. Sure enough, three months later, I was pregnant. While battling morning sickness, I began to notice the dog hair. And a certain wet dog smell that seemed to permeate the family room. I watched the dogs lick other dogs' butts and stopped kissing them on the lips. I kicked them out of our bed and I started to distance myself from the pack. With the arrival of the new baby, the dogs settled into #2 and #3 quite well, and I stopped taking them to etiquette classes and began to take the baby to music class. I didn't mind if the dogs stayed outside all day because then I could let the baby crawl on the floor without ingesting massive amount of hair or being trampled upon. My love for my pets was waning, and I was sure I'd be going to hell because of it.

I lost custody of the dogs in the divorce because my new cottage didn't allow large animals. My daughter was upset that she didn't have a pet at my house, so she guilted me into a small animal...a cute white mouse she named Marina. The first night with a new mouse in our house, I awoke to noises in the laundry room. As I crept toward the door, my heart pounding in my throat, I prepared myself for a fight. Instead, as I peered in, I saw the mouse running furiously on the squeaky metal exercise wheel, wide awake, ready for her run. No one told me mice are nocturnal. I spent many sleepless nights listening to Marina's workouts. My daughter used to love to play with the mouse in the bathtub. Something about cleaning up mouse poop after she left the tub really grossed me out. My love for pets was almost gone and I promised myself that if and when the mouse went to heaven, I would be done with pets. Sadly, I put Marina's cage outside one day while cleaning the house. It was a bright and sunny day and I think she suffered a heat stroke. While my daughter ran around the house shrieking and calling me a "mouse killer", I felt an enormous sense of relief. Ding Dong the mouse is dead!! I knew at that moment I was hell-bound for sure. Pet-haters don't have a place in heaven.

A new marriage and 4 children later, I've been worn down by the pet request and have had a few animals make their way into our home. We ended up giving away the pure-bred $2500 puppy to the dog walker who had no children and came twice a day to walk the puppy since I was 8 months pregnant, my husband worked out of town all week, and the kids had forgotten they had a dog. At her new house, I think the puppy got her own bedroom with cute, white Pottery Barn Kids furnishings. We've also had a few fish but after the great puppy giveaway, I've continued to say no to snakes, birds, guinea pigs, cats, dogs, and small farm animals (yes, a goat was on the Christmas list one year).

That is until we had a mouse in the garage...I decided I dislike mice more than cats, so we went to the SPCA and rescued a tiny kitten. I'm not a cat person, so this was a big step for me. The cat quickly figured this about me, though, and has always acted more like a dog. She scratches at the door when she needs to go outside, she follows us when we go for a walk, she lets the kids dress her up and carry her upside down, and she makes no demands of me. She's kind of grown on me, although I don't really want to admit that I like her.

I think the real reason I'm not a family pet advocate is because I've learned the universal truth that all moms know about getting a family pet: after one month, no matter how much the kids promise to care for the animal, the pet becomes the sole and complete property of the mom in the house. Another mouth to feed, another life to manage, more poop.

My 4 year old recently caught a moth and asked if he could please keep it as a pet. He named the moth "Wings" and kept it in a little bug house. We've had to replace the moth quite often since moths don't seem to do well in captivity. I do realize that a moth is a ridiculous family pet, and I'm hoping the cat shows up soon. Otherwise, I know that through the tears and trauma, I'm going to get hit up for a dog...a cute little puppy that all 5 kids and husband will promise to take care of, to feed, to walk, to bath, to brush, to train, to scoop up the poop, to take to the vet.

I'm scared. How am I going to look in their little faces, knowing how happy a dog will make the them, and say no? Is this what Michelle Obama is facing? Is she being pushed into supporting the dog decision? Surely she must know the mom's universal pet truth. Maybe I, too, can pull off the play structure swith-a-roo and the kids won't notice they didn't get a dog.

UPDATE: Guess who just showed up at the door? Relief. Cat home. Dog discussion delayed.

Daylight is Over-Rated: This Time Change is Killing Me!

2009-03-10T10:06:00.000-07:00

For the third morning in a row, my day started like this...."OH, *@&#^$*@!! It's 7:30!" My husband jumped out of bed as I stared at the clock thinking there must be a mistake. Daylight Saving Time is killing me. Now I face the game show-like effort to make coffee, get dressed, get the kids up, make the snacks and lunches that I was too tired to make last night, and get everyone to school in 30 minutes. Snap decision: Juicy Pants and sweatshirt over pjs are fine, no need for a bra.

As I race through the house barking orders, I remind myself that there is no washer and dryer or trip to Cancun awaiting my frantic attempt to make the 30 minute deadline. I need to calm down...so what if the kids are 2 minutes late...I hate being late, though, so I'm back to barking. I'm pleased to say that I rolled into the parking lot with exactly 1 minute to spare. As we were nearing the drop-off line, I felt my adrenaline kick in. "UNBUCKLE, BACKPACKS ON LAPS, GET READY TO GO, GO, GO. HUSTLE PEOPLE." We did it!! I think I forgot to tell them to have a good day, though.

I've got to get a handle on this. How do I get a 4 year-old into bed when it is still light outside? How do I rationalize with 8 year-old twins that if they go to bed, the morning will be a lot easier? How do I tell my 16 year-old to wrap-up the homework that she just started at 11pm? And then there is the baby. He's not interested at all in adjusting his schedule. I think I went to bed around midnight after I finished my quest to match all the socks in the laundry. I was only up twice with the baby, and it seems like 7 1/2 hours of interrupted sleep should be enough. No, I realized on the drive home after drop-off that I need a new bedtime strategy for everyone in the house or these game show mornings will end with me slumped over the wheel.

What do I do?
1. Blindfolds at bed.

I'm thinking that if we just live in the dark, I can just turn off the lights when I need them all to go to bed. Sunlight during the day would be nice, though.
3. Set the clocks TWO hours ahead.

Could be kind of tricky with the teen-ager since she can tell time unless it relates to her curfew.
4. Take everyone for a 5-7 mile run after dinner.

Maybe if I exhaust them, they'll just fall into bed. Oh, forgot, baby isn't walking yet. Running might be a challenge.
5. Try to make going to bed an exciting activity.

If I remove every toy and book in the house and going to bed is the only activity left, maybe the kids will think it's fun?

Remind me why these time changes continue to be a good idea? Personally, I think for anyone with kids, daylight is over-rated!

The Beginning

2009-03-03T10:38:00.001-08:00

I did it!! As I hear Lego Stars Wars blaring from the Wii in the next room, I have managed to set up my first blog. Is it too early for champagne?? I've rationalized the 3 hours of screen time for my 4 year old is ok because after I change out of my pjs, we are off to Little Gym for an hour of gymnastics. Can't wait. First-time moms are a blast.

I love the "Is he your youngest?" question...
"No. I have a 9 month old."
"Oh wow. You have your hands full."
"Yes, and thankfully the other 3 can feed themselves!!!"
"OMG. You have 5 kids? I only have 1, maybe 2 and I can't manage."

And then the silence and stares set in. Happens all the time. Not sure what a mom of 5 is supposed to look like. For the most part, I can string a sentence together, my clothes usually match and I've showered...well, within the week. Still, I've learned that having 5 kids puts me in a category all my own. In that moment of truth, I become super-sized. Right before their eyes, I grow into this 20 foot tall Supermom. I try to tell a couple of deep, dark secrets like my kids didn't brush their teeth last night. Or, I drove to carpool last week in my pj bottoms. Or, if I really need a zinger, I admit that I forgot to feed my kids breakfast on Saturday because I was cleaning the house (Recession tip #15). They raided the pantry and ate a box of Rice Krispie treats. That's right. The STORE-BOUGHT Rice Krispie treats. From Costco. Pathetic, huh.

"Wow. 5 kids. You're amazing."

I give up. I realize that I have just enough kids to be credible but not enough to be freakishly entertaining. I deny owning a cape, but it doesn't matter. So I smile and say, "You're right. My cape is at the cleaners. Don't tell anyone!".