working mom ravings

I tumble, therefore I am

2007-03-04T21:54:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I signed my girls up for a gymnastics class.

It's the first organized activity I've created for them - ever. Up until now, I didn't think they had the maturity, or the attention span, to really get something out it.

Interestingly, I'm the only parent of the 9 girls in the class who sticks around to watch them go through their paces. I probably could convince the girls to let me leave for the 90-minute class, but I confess - I enjoy it it too much to want to go away.

They still act a bit goofy and immature (they're the youngest girls in the class), but I also see the concentration on their little faces when they gingerly push beyond their known limits to try a dip on the balance beam, or a new sequence on the trampoline. They're discovering a new and powerful relationship with their body, and it's wonderful to watch.

And it takes me back to my own brief gymnastics career.

My 15 minutes of athletic fame came in sixth grade, when I somehow blossomed into a pretty good gymnast. My piece of equipment was the low parallel bars, although I also loved sailing over the horse and swinging on the unevens. I remember truly enjoying the effort it took to perfect my routines. And how proud I was during an exhibition that my father was able to come see me.

My mother, a working mother, couldn't make it that day. And I do remember feeling angry that she couldn't be there instead of him. But think of it - how wonderful is it that my father, who was self-employed, could take time from his busy day to be there for me?

Gymnastics was a big focus for me that year, and it culminated in one of the biggest surprises of my life.

I was a member of the orchestra and was playing the violin on stage during our sixth grade graduation ceremonies.

As they began awarding the prizes for different academic and athletic achievements, I remember thinking how wonderful it would be if I could win an award, but I didn't think there was anything I truly excelled at that would make me worthy of such an honor.

When they got to the gymnastics award, my gym teacher went to the podium and started talking about a young girl out in the audience who had put her all into excelling that year. Instantly, my heart sank. She couldn't be talking about me, because I was up on the stage.

Nevertheless, a few moments later, she called out my name, and I rose from my chair, put down my violin, and went up to accept the award. She had purposely thrown me off, to make the surprise that I had won all the more thrilling.

That silver statue of a young girl doing a perfect handstand has traveled with me throughout a life where I've accumulated and lost too many material possessions to even count. But I always kept her, a symbol of something for which I've always been unabashedly proud. For a brief, sweet, wonderful moment in time, I was a gymnast.

I have no idea how well my daughters will do in gymnastics, or whether it's something one or the other will want to pursue as they get older.

But it's been eye-opening to me to see them fall, get up, and keep trying. Brushing each failure off with a laugh or a grin, and practicing each move til they get it - well maybe not quite right yet, but pretty darn close.

And I realize that each little victory they make in forming a letter correctly, understanding a math pattern, or perfecting a forward roll brings them one step closer to the self-assured adults I hope they'll one day become.

And if one or both of them happen to fall in love with the sport, you can be sure that either my husband or I will be there when they get their chance to shine. And I might just bring my father along, too. Just for the history.

About hair

2007-01-02T21:24:00.000-05:00

When I was a little girl, I never cared for stuffed animals, and was bored by Barbie doll wardrobes. But I did somehow develop a passionate, all consuming obsession with hair.

My obsession can probably be traced to one of my older sisters, who developed a bizarre and fascinating process to straighten her kinky Jewish hair. The ritual alone enthralled me. She started by brushing her long head of freshly shampooed hair and squeezing it into a large ponytail on the top of her head. Then she carefully divided the ponytail into two large wedges and wrapped the hair around frozen orange juice containers used as large curlers. Then (this was in the days before blow-dryers), she would lay under a hair dryer for four hours until it dried.

When she took the ponytail out, the top of her scalp was always a bit bumpy, but oh - how the rest of her beautiful chestnut hair gleamed! It was a stunning transformation and a ritual that I later copied step by step.

So it's no surprise that before I could play with my own, I reached for the most reasonable substitute for my hair-dressing fantasies, dolls. Preferably ones with large heads of hair. When I was 7 and needed to get my tonsils removed, I begged my mother to get me a Chrissy doll, ll whose hair grew when you pushed her belly button, and could then be wound back up by turning a knob on her back.

And then there was the day that my entire family accidentally left me home alone, unaware that I was upstairs - dutifully washing my doll's hair in the sink.

As an adult, I went through stages (like my hippy days in college) where I left my thick hair curly, and enjoyed the freedom of going au naturel. But, for better or for worse - those early straight hair experiences marked me for life.

Although the invention of the blow dryer turned me on to a less cumbersome way to tame my curls, it was a perilous Cinderella lifestyle. I remember going to my high school prom with perfect Farrah Fawcett waves, but after a night of dancing and a trip to the beach, I returned home with my hair more suited for the role of wicked stepsister.

Still I resisted chemically straightening my hair abecause I remembered how awful that dry, ironed look came across on the girls in high school who had the misfortune of being born with nothing-you-can-do-about-it kinky afros, but desperately wanted straight hair.

But just before my wedding 10 years ago, a friend turned me on toa new breed of professional relaxers, and there I was, a blushing June bride on a humid day at my outdoor wedding, with gloriously straight, gleaming hair. I was hooked for life.

Which brings me to my two beautiful daughters, who were blessed with wavy, shiny, beautiful hair - one dark brown like mine, the other a golden chestnut brown. Their shiny tresses may turn into kinky messes when they hit puberty, but at least for now, they have the kind of soft, pliable hair I yearned for in childhood and loved to caress and play with as a child.

You know where this is leading. That's right - in his infinite wisdom, God gave me daughters who hate, and often outright refuse, to let me do anything with their hair.

Jessica will barely let me put a brush through it, and hasn't allowed a barrette or other hair ornament to stay on her scalp since she was about 3. Even then, she was never the type to keep any hair clips in for more than 5 minutes, while I scrambled for a camera to capture the fleeting moment.

Lily's a little more open to hair adornments, but it has to be on her terms. One ponytail, exactly equidistant from the top of her scalp to the nape of her neck, and tight enough to give her an early face lift. Occasionally she'll let me put in tiny braids in the front (and oh, how I thrill at this simple pleasure), but she will never sit lazily in my lap while I try this hairdo or that, experiment with different parts...in short, neither of my girls will let me PLAY with her hair!!!

I keep hoping that maybe next year it will be different, and that one day they'll turn into those child models with ribbons woven through their hair, or exquisitely adorable barrettes holding stray hairs in place while their perfect banana curls swing in the breeze.

Alas, my fantasy may never be realized, but at least I do have one or two photos - the one above is a special favorite - that show I tried to live the dream.

Losing $532,000 and giving thanks

2006-11-26T22:44:00.000-05:00

I was in Las Vegas recently for a work-related convention, and got stuck at the airport for three hours because a sick passenger heading from NY to Vegas had to get off the plane in Texas. Why the flight detoured to Texas remains a mystery, but the delay gave me some time to get needed work done and also produced a $12 voucher for dinner, so I wasn't too upset.

After finishing my dinner and my work, I was tempted, once again, to sit down at the progressive slots. I am a confirmed Wheel-of-Fortune-aholic, and for the first time during my trip, I was actually being allowed to sit and play for a while, which felt good for a change.

Then, about 10 minutes after I sat down, a young guy sat down four seats away from me. Within 5 minutes, I hear someone shouting, "Congratulations - you won the jackpot!" That's right - he won the jackpot - $532,000.

I always expected to hear a deafening cacophony of ringing buzzers and bells if someone wins a slot jackpot, but it was eerily quiet and the poor guy didn't even realize he had won. He just thought he got to spin the wheel. Definitely a Wheel-of-Fortune neophyte.

I'll be honest - I felt robbed. That was my jackpot he won. Why this guy was only 28 years old - he couldn't possibly be mature enough to invest and spend that money wisely. He'd probably end up buying a million-dollar home he couldn't afford.

It definitely clouded my mood on the flight home and I've related the story to just about everyone I know (and they all incidentally agree that he won my jackpot).

But in reality, I'm not sure how level-headed I'd be if I won that kind of money in one fell swoop. You read all these stories about people who win the lottery and then end up broke or lose their families or worse. Easy money can be dangerous.

Still, I find it hard to shake the notion that if only I had $20,000 or $500,000 or a million dollars, my life would be perfect. It's foolish, I know, and the trick in life is wanting what you already have - but the lure of easy riches still beckons.

I won a pair of steak knives at a temple bazaar when I was about 10, and felt as if I'd won a trip around the world. I proudly presented them to my parents, and ever since then, I just can't shake that thrillof winning.

So on the rare trips I make to Vegas, I have a feeling that those slots will continue to beckon.

Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Thrills help us reverberate with life with every fiber of our being. I may never win a Vegas jackpot, but then again, I might.

As long as I keep in mind that my family and my health are greater riches than the numbe r of digits in my bank account, I think I'll be OK.

So keep those Wheel-of-Fortune machines humming - one day, one day, they could be humming fjust for me.

Brimming and whirring

2006-10-11T23:09:00.000-04:00

Ever since my twins were born in 2000, there have been agonizing moments when I wondered if being a working mother was the right path for me to take.

Nevermind the fact that I really couldn't afford not to work.

When they clung to my legs at daycare and begged me not to leave, day after day - for months. When I guardedly, optimistically sent them to school with the sniffles, only to be called as soon as I got to work to take them home. When someone other than me saw them crawl for the first time, when I forgot to pack their snack, or their library book, when my boss told me that I'd missed so much work to care for sick children that he didn't feel he could count on me anymore.

On bad days, it seemed like I'd made a huge, insurmountable mistake.

But ever since I was a little girl, I had two notions in my head. That I was going to be a great mother one day, and that somehow, I was going to do something big with my life. Something important. Something beyond my immediate family that would make an impact on my life and the lives of others.

And the funny thing was that as a child of the 70s, and myself the fourth child of a working mother, I never thought that these twin dreams would ever, should ever, come into conflict.

So when they did, I did what any ambitious human - man or woman - would do. I I made a conscious, doggedly determined effort to change my work situation to fit my life. My mantra - If I was going to be away from my daughters for 11 hours each day, then I damn well was going to do something during that time that enriched my life.

And so I pulled myself out of my dead-end job and in two years had launched myself into a new career.

Which leads me to today.

I attended my first Executive Moms luncheon, and found myself in a kind of working mother wonderland - smack dab in the middle of hundreds of women who , or the most part, are a lot like me.

Not that we were a homogenous group. The panel discussion, led by Deborah Roberts of 20/20, revealed that even very successful women are still facing hostility in the workplace when they try to balance their work/family life. One top executive at a Fortune 500 company was clearly not benefitting from a work/life balance, and noted that her boss frankly admitted to her (a mother of three little tykes) that he didn't like children.

While one panelist wryly pointed out that if instead he had isaid that he didn't like women, the board of directors would have booted him immediately, - another questioned why the woman stayed in such a hostile evironment when she clearly had the skills to go somewhere else.

Roberts even admitted that it was 5 years before she felt she had "proved herself" enough at ABC to warrant bringing her children to work.

All the women I met today were at different stages in their emotional life as a working mother. But I think the one truth we all shared was that when God was handing out DNA, our particular strands were genetically programmed to make us procreate and have careers.

Forget for a moment the obstacles that crop up again and again. The glass ceiling, the fear of being "mommy tracked," the recalcitrant boss. As one panelist pointed out, women make up 51 percent of the world and by and large, we're the ones holding ourselves back.

"When will we be ready for a woman president?" she asked rhetorically. "When the women of this country are ready for one." And not a second before.

I'm too young to have participated in any bra-burnings, or to have ever had much interest in Ms. Magazine or Betty Friedan (although I did thoroughly enjoy "Our Bodies, Ourselves).

But I'm old enough to realize that my future as a woman, as a participant in this world, and as a mother, is in my own capable hands.

And just as a new mother I feared that I would fail my child, but instead rose to the occasion, so I put my faith in myself in every new challenge others hand me, or I choose for myself. ra

I haven't yet made that mark I'm planning to leave on this earth. But I'm only 44, and my life still brims and whirs with possibilities.. And it's nice to know that there are scores of other women out there brimming and whirring right along with me.

The teacher's note

2006-10-04T14:34:00.000-04:00

Is there anything that can shake a mother’s confidence in her ability to mother more seismically than a teacher’s note neatly tucked into her child’s homework folder?

In flawless handwriting (I’m convinced that most teachers were sit-upright-in-their-chairs, A+ in penmanship goody-goodies), the notes first convey what a joy it is to get to know my child, and then let the guillotine fall.

Lily is daydreaming half the day away and misses instruction. Jessica is turned around in her seat while the teacher is trying to teach, her penmanship is careless and sloppy and she can’t seem to remember where to put her homework each day.

Each time I get one of these notes, a cold, clammy fear takes hold of my body and I jump to the most negative conclusions possible. Lily has been having silent seizures for two years because we (I) never got her the sleep-deprived EEG the specialist gave us a prescription for (but said probably wasn’t necessary). Jessica is going to grow up to be an out-of-control, non-vegetable eating horrid pre-teen by the time she turns 7 because I’ve been too permissive and encouraged her budding gift for sarcasm, because it seemed so cute coming from a 5-year-old.

Then comes the adrenaline rush of anger and indignation against these all-knowing adults who dare to pass judgment of any kind on my children. Why, they are just free, imaginative spirits who cannot – and should not – fit into the conventional mold that public schools so desperately try to force them into.

After that – the twinge of working mother guilt rises to the surface. If only I worked closer to home, or worked 3 days per week, I could spend more time helping them navigate the public school system that, like it or not, they’re going to have to live with for the next decade. And I could be one of those perfectly organized, perky class parents, closely attuned to the teacher and the politics of the school and classroom.

In the end, I do what I do best. I call them to discuss the issues, or write them long, thoughtful notes back, trying to give them a better insight into what goes on in my little girls’ hearts and minds, and offer suggestions for how we can work together to make sure they develop a deep love for learning and school.

And I scheduled that EEG for Lily, and clued Jessica in to the fact that sarcasm and hastily scrawled ABCs are not the best way to win friends and influence people.

These notes may temporarily throw me off balance, but I’ve realized that what it comes down to is this:

My daughters are the most interesting creatures in the world to me. As a result, I listen, truly listen to them. And with a scientist’s trained eye, I watch them interact with each other and with the world.

So I can safely say that nobody knows them better than I do, and nobody can advocate for them as effectively as I can.

I’m sure I haven’t gotten my last note home from a teacher. But next time, I’ll know to take it for what it’s worth – one person’s observations about a child they don’t know very well.

And remember that when it comes to these two exasperating, imaginative, devilish, wonderful little 6-year-old girls, I am the resident expert.

Reflections of me

2006-08-30T00:43:00.000-04:00

The girls are in that limbo week of after-camp, before school starts, so since we're staying in the city with my Mom, I had the bright idea that she bring them to my office in the afternoon for an hour.

Another woman at work had her 6-year-old daughter there with her all day, and I thought it would be nice for them to meet and play together.

What was I thinking?

While the other child played nicely and quietly during her two full, 8-hour days there, my tornados both acted as if they had no other aim for that one hour than to

a. laugh as loudly as possible
b. run, while talking/shouting down the corridors
c. be rude to every adult who tried to engage them in conversation
d. ignore every plea, threat, or demand from me - their presumed parental figure, to behave

I admit it - I felt whipped, embarrassed, and utterly unable to control my children.

And I felt like everyone there missed the opportunity to see the best sides of my children. I didn't even attempt to introduce them to anyone after their mania became evident, and spent most of the hour trying to herd them into a conference room, or lock them in my office.

Now I understand why my mother made me write thank-you notes, and refused to let me go to the theater in ripped jeans.

I am a reflection of her parenting, and my children are now a reflection of me.

I know my girls can be angels, but they were in complete disguise today, and will not be coming to visit again anytime soon.

Reflections on a lost dream

2006-08-17T21:49:00.000-04:00

We were so excited that morning. After a miscarriage at 7 weeks, we were quickly pregnant again, and the first two sonograms confirmed a steady heartbeat.

I was starting to tentatively wear maternity clothes, mostly because I just wanted to, to prove to myself that I was really pregnant.

It was the 14 week mark, and we were going to get the amnio. My mother came along, too, just so she could see a sonogram for the first time. When my older sister had her two children in the 1980s, sonograms didn't exist.

The medical building iwas all shiny blue glass, and reflectieed off a a clear, blue sky, on a cold winter day. I was filled with hope and excitement and so many dreams for my first baby.

When the technician looked at the baby on the sonogram, I should have known something was wrong, but I was too caught up in my happiness to recognize the signs. She didn't point out the body parts to me, or tell me whether it was a girl or boy (I was dying to know). She just abruptly left the room and said the doctor would come in shortly.

A doctor who I had never met before walked into the room, took a look at the sono, and then broke the news.

"Your baby has very serious defects and cannot possibly survive. It will probably die within a few days. I'm so sorry."

I screamed. I'm not sure exactly what I did next, but I remember screaming, and the doctor, my mother and Fred ushering me into a small office and shutting the door. For my privacy, and probably to protect other pregnant women there from me, the embodiment of their deepest fears.

I remember feeling embarrassed that my mother was there. I wanted to show her my triumphant pregnancy, and instead I had to endure her efforts to comfort me, when I wanted no comfort.

At my obstetrician's office a day later, she told me I was too far along in the pregnancy to have a D&C and that I'd have to go through labor and delivery. In a way, I was glad. If I had to go through labor, that meant this was a real baby, and no one would be able to dismiss or minimize the death of my child.

The morning we went to the hospital, they gave me a valium to calm me before the pitocin to start the labor. It made the entire experience surreal, and I remember laughing and making jokes while Fred and I waited for the pitocin to start working.

Fred, meanwhile, was breaking down. He was suddenly seized by awful pains and spent most of the morning doubled over in agony. I knew it was a reaction to what was happening, but I remember hating him for it, and wishing he would have been able to be strong for me. But he was losing his baby, too, and the sadness had no outlet for him but physical pain.

There was a little crib in the room and Fred promised me that next time, we'd have a healthy baby to stare at in that crib, and pick up and hold through the night when he or she got hungry.

A couple hours later, my water broke and my doctor came in and delivered my baby. I felt a wrenching pain, I pushed and the baby easily slid out. It was over.

I knew from books on loss that it was important that I see the baby, or I would run the risk of forever imagining that she looked like something too scary to see.

Still, the nurse didn't want to show the baby to me, but I insisted. Wrapped in a hospital blanket, she put her in front of me for just a few seconds. I remember looking at her perfect little nose and soft skin. Later I learned she was horribly deformed below the waist, but the hazy picture of her I keep in my head is of a perfect, sweet face.

I should have held her. I wish I would have held her. But they whisked her away so fast and I didn't have the strength or maybe the courage to do it. And I should have had them take a picture of her to keep. They offered to. But something held me back.

I did insist that we have her cremated, and a local Rabbi gave me some readings so that we could have a ceremony to help us grieve.

The cremains came in a small, rectangular white plastic box, marked "Baby S" that Fred still keeps in his dresser drawer. Despite how small she was, there were bits of bone remaining in the ash, and we buried her in the backyard, in the hole we dug for a cherry tree to plant in her memory.

I was numb for a month, and started hating myself, wondering who the Hell did I think I was that I could actually be a mother? I felt like I didn't deserve it. And I hated all the pregnant women I saw or read about. When I held a friend's newborn baby girl, I had the urge to throw her from the window. I couldn't stand the joy she was bringing someone else and it just magnified my misery.

I gave birth to my twin girls about 18 months later, and take a picture of them every year on their birthday in front of that cherry tree. When we bought the tree, the nursery said it would never bear fruit because you needed two trees to pollinate each other.

But each spring, the white flowers come, and then the shiny green fruit, which barely has time to ripen before the birds and squirrels pick the tree clean.

Gone too soon, like the baby I would never hold. But sweet and beautiful and miraculous, like my living children, who dance and sing and fling stuffed animals into its branches , filled with a childish joy which now fills me up and helps me bear the loss of Tessa, my firstborn.

More conversations with a (now) 6-year-old

2006-07-25T17:40:00.000-04:00

Scene: Lily is seeking vainly to get her sister's attention by using numerous silly gestures.

Jessica (to me): "Pathetic."

Me: "Jessica - do you know what 'pathetic' means?"

Jessica: "No mommy - what does it mean?"

Me: (scrambling) "Well, it means doing anything to get attention, even if it makes you look bad."

Jessica eyes her sister again, who is oblivious to our conversation and is still gesticulating wildely in a vain attempt to get Jess to notice her

Jessica: "Yep, pathetic."

###

On a kinder, gentler note, an unexpected declaration while lying in bed with Lily as she goes to sleep.

Lily: (turning to me with adoration in her eyes) "Mommy, your kisses are like honeysuckle in the field of love."

Me: (speechless - but repeating the line over and over in my head so I won't forget to write it down for posterity)

So I guess I'm raising a cynic and a poet.

Just add water....

2006-06-02T21:53:00.000-04:00

As the one day of Spring in New York City quickly morphs into full-blown summer weather, it occurres to me , once again, how much water is an integral part of my life,.

I was explaining to the girls today that we live right near the ocean, but that many people in this country would have to take a plane to see the ocean. They were downright amazed.

I was a water baby, teaching myself to swim at four years old, thoroughly enjoying baths and showers for as far back as my memory can stretch. I went to politically incorrect Camp Mon-o-co (Camp Monoco, big reservation, we've got the best camp in the nation, beat those tom-toms) in Lido Beach one summer, and have always loved the sea (if only it weren't for all that sand).

The picture up above is me in Acapulco, at about 7 years old, in the midst of a tantrum because my parents were leaving me at the pool in care of my older sisters - and forbidding me from going off the diving board in their absence.

I have another picture of me at about 30 weeks pregnant with the girls, lying in the tub in the only place at that point in time that I could possibly feel buoyant. The nurse at my OB's office warned me against taking hot baths - too much risk of pre-term labor, she said. But water has always soothed and buoyed me...and it was advice I just could not, would not, take.

The apparent result of which is that I spawned two little girls who are happiest, freest, boldest and most spectacularly beautiful when wet. They can literally spend an hour in the tub together, frolic all day in the ocean, and jump gleefully into any pool they see.

We made the colossal mistake of taking them to Disneyworld last June, thinking they were old enough to take the crowds and the heat and the rides and the noise. We wer, of course, dead wrong, and it is destined to be known henceforth as the vacation that will not be mentioned.

But even then, once they were safely surrounded by the blue of the hotel's pool, splashing merrily in their water wings, they had found their element, and weren't ready to get out until the sun came down.

My conclusion: Children , like plants, need water to help them grow..

Mother's Day musings, take 2

2006-05-15T12:06:00.000-04:00

So this is my second year of blogging, and herewith, my obligatory Mother's Day post.

I'm the kind of person who really loves the heck out of holidays. Thanksgiving is my favorite, but I'm a sucker for any Hallmark-inspired occasion, from Valentine's Day right on to that most sacred of them all...Mother's Day.

I tried to lower my expectations this year, and asked Fred to just cook for a family BBQ as my present this year.

We have a spanking new propane grill (to replace the 9-year-old blue Weber we got when we first moved into the house), and we were ready to really dive in and give it a workout.

My Orthodox sister is in from Israel, however, so that made barbecuing a delicate business. We had to kosherize our stainless steel BBQ tools in the dishwasher, use aluminum pans to hold the kosher steak, hamburgers and hot dogs, and make sure to use a newly purchased knife for any cutting that couldn't be done with a little white plastic one.

Fred covered the grill in aluminum foil with some holes poking through to keep the grill itself kosher, and we proceeded to wrap freshly shucked corn in tin foil and put it on the grill while Fred did the first round of hot dogs.

About the time they started to brown, it was apparent that something was not right. The grill was melting before our very eyes, and then flames started shooting up through the bottom. Not a good sign.

We quickly moved the food off the grill and inside and Fred used our kitchen fire extinguisher for the very first time.

The upshot? I ended up literally slaving over a hot stove for the next two hours, broiling all the meat in aluminium pans, fetching condiments and other assorted accoutrements for my guests, and generally not having a much-anticipated relaxed Mother's Day.

My brother, sister-in-law and Fred did pitch in to help, and played with the kids so they weren't all underfoot, and all in all - it was nice to have my entire family together for the first time in nearly 6 years. But it was certainly exhausting.

The best part of the day? After everyone had left, I asked Fred to bathe the girls. Then I took my lemon Italian ice and the Sunday New York Times and curled up on the plush sofa chair in the living room and leisurely read the paper while watching the neighborhood go by through my picture windows.

My reverie was only interrupted a half hour later by a naked Jessica, fresh from her bath and smelling sweetly of shampoo, who cuddled up with me in the chair and asked if I would sleep with her that night.

As a working mother, I don't get much alone time at home, and something like reading the paper for a half hour is a luxury I rarely get to enjoy. So I treasured that time last night and a half hour was all I needed to recharge and rejoin my little girls in our nighttime routine.

Happy Mother's Day to all of you out there who rarely get that much "me" time either, but who also could never resist the lure of a freshly washed child - a beautiful reminder of the wonders of being a mother.

To sleep, perchance to dream....

2006-04-28T09:35:00.000-04:00

I never let my babies "cry it out" to sleep.

OK, there was that one time when they were only about two weeks old and I read something in some book that said it was OK to let them cry even at that young age.

Big mistake. Lily screamed her head off for 10 minutes before I couldn't take it anymore and went in to try to soothe her. But my poor infant, who barely tipped the scales at 5 pounds, was not soothable that night. She wailed mercilessly for three long hours, despite baby swings, bottles, lullabies, and a stroller ride around the house, before I started sobbing uncontrollably right along with her.

Finally, Fred rescued me, took her out of my arms, and I fell asleep in the bathtub where I retreated, beaten and ashamed, to try to calm my own shattered nerves.

I think that experience marked me for life.

Over the next few months, while all my friends were marveling about how letting their babies cry it out for a few nights or a few weeks until they "got the hang" of soothing themselves to sleep had greatly improved their lives, I could never really do it again.

And so I did all the things most books told me not to. I nursed Jessie to sleep in the rocking chair, I walked back and forth in the house late at night soothing Lily to sleep in my arms while singing her lullabies before gently putting her down in her crib, praying she wouldn't wake up when she hit the mattress.

When they woke in the middle of the night, I even climbed into the cribs with them, curling myself around their little bodies and holding their tiny hands to help them go back to sleep.

It's no wonder that they didn't successfully sleep through the night until they were 18 months old.

They're now nearly six, and each night Fred and I go through the same ritual. We read them books, make up fantastical stories, brush their teeth and hold them close until they drift off to sleep.

We've been doing this for a few years now, and although initially I felt that we should be more tough with them, and that I was missing out on some evening time for me, I've come to really enjoy this part of our routine.

As a working mother, I have precious few hours to spend with them during the weekday, and if I just read them a book or two, said "Goodnight" and shut the door, I'd be missing so much. Like the way Lily grabs my hand and pulls it over to her cheek so that she can feel safe. Or the way Jessie throws her left leg over mine, asks me to rub her tummy and puts the pillow on top of her head to get comfortable.

In a few very short years, I will slowly be replaced as the center of their universe by friends, teachers, or who knows what.

For now, I'm able to experience the sweet pleasure of hearing Lily sing a nonsense song until she lulls herself to sleep. Or have Jessie insist on me finishing a story only to realize after I'm done that she had fallen asleep minutes earlier.

In the middle of the night, more often than not, one of them will call out, "Mommy, I need you!" And I will go lay down with them until they fall back asleep.

So I go to them. And at least for now, I can comfort them and myself, knowing I have the power to make everything all right.

The Bratz Phenomenon

2006-04-06T16:10:00.000-04:00

Can we talk Bratz dolls? I cannot adequately express how much I hate these dolls, which to me (a liberal New Yorker who isn't easily shocked) look like streetwalking, low life hookers.

A friend of mine got them for the girls for the holidays and I almost gagged at the outfits. As soon as the girls weren't looking, I threw them out.

Then yesterday I was in a Michael's craft store with the girls and J saw some Bratz craft thing and wanted it. I told her no, that I don't like the Bratz dolls, that I don't like how they dress or that they show their bellies.

"But I think they're cool and I think they look good," my precocious 5-year-old told me.

I'm horrified that already at 5 years old, this is what J thinks is "cool."

If I tried to wear something like that as a teenager, my mother would have sent me to my room for a week. And now you see pre-pubescents parading around like little hookers. It makes me ill.

I'm no prude, but how do we get the genie back in the box and let little girls be little girls again?

The lighter side of death

2006-03-16T17:18:00.000-05:00

After the trauma J suffered when she first "got" the concept of death when she just turned 4, I was understandably apprehensive when her first goldfish, a cute white thing with an orange spotted head, got an incurable case of "ick" and shuffled off its mortal coil a mere week after we bought her at the fish store.

Herewith, our exchange following this news:

Me: "J, I'm sorry honey, but Spot didn't make it."

J: "Oh, I'm sad."

Me: "It's OK to be sad, sweetie..."

J (cutting in and brightening up): "Hey, God has a new fish!"

Me: "You're right - I guess he does."

J: "Can I get a new fish on Saturday?"

Me: "Sure."

L (whose fish is still very much alive): "J is so lucky."

Me: "Why do you say that? Her fish just died."

L: "Because she gets to get a new fish on Saturday and I don't."

Glad a crisis was averted, but think we need to work on the whole "gratitude for what we have" concept with L.

Talking turkey

2006-03-13T22:05:00.000-05:00

OK, let's talk food. Nutritious food. The kind you want your children to eat.

The problem, I'm realizing, is that your children won't eat it if you don't seem to eat a whole heck of a lot of it yourself.

A little background.

I grew up in a food-obsessed household. My mother was always on some diet or another. In fact there was a time in my childhood when I was certain that the way you lost weight was by eating a lot of dietetic food because my mother always seemed to be overdosing on grapefruits or carrots or Weight Watchers meals. Also, my eldest sister was overweight as a teenager and never had a date. I quickly linked the two in my mind and I remember thinking that the absolute worst fate in the universe was to be fat.

So I began dieting, probably at the age of about 13. When I weighed maybe 105 pounds soaking wet.

The flip side of my food-obsessed household was that when my mother wasn't on a diet and had a craving for her ultimate treat - a vanilla Carvel ice cream sundae with hot fudge and chopped nuts (I can barely type the description without trembling with desire ), my father and my siblings and I piled into the stationwagon to soothe the craving and, naturally, take part in the sugar orgy, too.

Suffice to say, I grew up with a fairly unhealthy relationship with food that lingers into the present day.

When my twins were born, I swore I'd change my bad food habits for them. I even bought a book on making my own, healthy baby food (yeah, I was pregnant and starry-eyed at the time). I started out like gangbusters, too - nursing J (with some formula supplementation) and pumping for Lily for just about six months before I nearly sank into the floor from exhaustion - not to mention extreme hunger.

I remember weakly asking F's blessing to stop breastfeeding after L came through with flying colors from her open heart surgery. I was still at the "I'm going to be a perfect mom" stage.

Once the girls started eating solid food, the baby cookbook got relegated to the dust bin (like a working mother of twins has time to strain her own peas and then pour them into ice-cube trays), although I did stock up on the organic baby foods and introduced them to baby veggies and fruits like the books recommend.

But somewhere between J refusing to drink milk after we graduated to sippy cups and our pediatrician's office offering lollipops to any child whos could spy them at the reception desk, the battle was lost.

Here is a list of the foods that J will not eat, and may never eat, if her inborn stubborn streak

Pasta, couscous, beans - of any variety, shape, flavor or color
Anything green (unless it's clearly a lollipop and even then she'll hold out for a red one if she suspects it's lurking in the back of the cabinet)
Soup
Most fruits
Seafood
Nuts

Basically she lives on pizza, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, strawberries, chicken fingers, cereal, breakfast bars, ice cream sandwiches and candy.

L, thankfully, would eat broccoli for breakfast, craves raw mushrooms and milk and lights up when she sees dried tofu in her chicken soup ("Tofu cheese!" she squeals delightedly, warming her mother's heart).

The good news, I guess, is that it can't just be nurture, because nature gave me these two children at the same time and we really did feed them the exact same food.

And in an effort to not perpetuate the unhealthy relationship with food that I grew up with, I don't force J to sit at the table and eat or to try new foods (although I do encourage her and reward her when she even takes a bite of something new). I don't diet myself, either. But my girls don't see me eat a whole heck of a lot of veggies or fruits, either.

And that gnaws at me.

Like the carrots and celery they rarely see me eat.

The working mom backlash continues

2006-03-04T22:30:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since I've even touched on the subject of living and (usually) loving my life as a working mom, but a New York Times article I read on Friday touched off a rage inside of me that I'm finding it difficult to quell.

The article starts out by profiling a former business development executive who gave it all up to be a stay-at-home mom to her three daughters. To drive home the point that she's no longer in the fast lane, she's pictured in dowdy jeans, sneakers, and a shapeless maroon t-shirt with a toddler on her hip.

The article describes her as "pining to go back to work, but (she) has not figured out how to mesh work with caring for her three daughters."

"Most of us thought we would work and have kids, at least that was what we were brought up thinking we would do — no problem," she told the paper. "But really we were kind of duped. None of us realized how hard it is."

Oh yeah - and who do you blame for duping you? This kind of victim mentality sets my teeth on edge.

Yeah, after I gave birth to my twins in 2000, I had to hustle to figure out daycare arrangements, didn't count on how many days I'd need to leave work due to a sick baby, and could never have imagined how difficult it would be to disentangle myself from a crying child at 7:30 a.m. Monday morning or how impossible it would be to stay vertical at 3 p.m. when I had been awake since 4 a.m. that morning with one or more sleep-resistant toddlers.

But I stuck it out, and I found a new job that launched a great career, and I don't feel I'm cheating my children - or cheating myself - by staying in the game.

I wonder how many of these women who opt out of the workforce will wake up one day thinking her world is just fine, only to find her spouse has run off with another woman? How many of them will lose the skills and brain-sharpening instincts that only a career can offer? How many will put all of their energy into child-rearing and then wonder when the last one goes off to college, what she is supposed to do next?

Is the next generation of young girls doomed to become 1950s housewives? Not if I have any say about it. I want my daughters to rule the world - not the roost.

Yes, it's important to raise happy, secure children. Yes, if I had but world enough and time (and a trust fund or two), I probably would have stayed home for at least the first two years of their lives.

But - and this is crucial -- I truly believe that we need more, not less mothers in the workforce. For the good of our economy, and our children.

My mother worked as a teacher for most of her life, and I was so proud that she had students who obviously adored and admired her. Even when I was an authority-defying teenager who showed her no mercy, I understood on a gut level that she was more than just my mother, and had intrinsic worth outside of that role.

Most women I know have too much to offer the world to confine it to just their children. There are cancer cures to be found, great novels to be written, and great companies to be created and run that may never exist if more and more women take the path of least resistance and just stay home.

Which isn't to say that all women need to work outside the home to fulfill themselves and their destinies. Of course there will be, and always should be, many stay-at-home mothers and fathers. I'm not advocating that every woman march out into the workforce.

But the insidious message behind this article - that unless and until the government or companies themselves help women solve the problem of raising children and having a career, they should stay home to raise their kids - frightens me.

Men destined for greatness don't let obstacles stand in their path. Or wait for someone to make their path easier. And women shouldn't, either. Even if sometimes that means putting themselves and their needs before their children.

Yes, balancing motherhood and work is hard, sometimes heartbreakingly hard. But the rewards can be immense.

For all of us.

Animal allure

2006-02-24T19:18:00.000-05:00

Men are diabolically attracted to gadgets, power tools and magazine fantasy women who don't exist. Women are psychically drawn to beautifully uncomfortable shoes, dangerous men who make them cry, and many variations of chocolate.

Gross generalizations, I'll grant you, but definitely true for a large percentage of the population.

Which brings me to young girls between the ages of 4 and 6, who (if my twins are indicative of the zeitgist) are irresistably drawn to cloyingly cute, soft, furry stuffed animals. Of all shapes and sizes. From alligators to zebras, with a strong concentration of bears, mice, cats and dogs, and families of bears, cats and dogs (with larger animals serving as the parents of the smaller animals)

Their love for these furry critters knows no bounds. They spend weeks coming up with the perfect name (right now we have Woof, Woofie, Cheese, Meowy, Tigery, Cheddar, Cattie, Ruffle, Lovely and Quackly - to name a few). They tend to them more lovingly then their real-life cats, bestow upon them full-fledged personalities and are heartsick when the weekly favorite is missing at bedtime.

And like a Hummel nthusiast who can't pass up a new variation on an old theme they are always on the lookout for new specimens to add to their collection.

I know there are women and men in the world who also grew up loving stuffed animals and may still keep a few by their bedside, but this type of stuffed devotion was never my thing. I can't remember having any stuffed animals, much less a favorite one, as a child., although I'm sure there were some lying around. I was much more into dolls with long hair that I could braid and twist and shampoo and comb for hours (a favorite was the Crissy Doll whose hair lengthened when you pushed a button on her belly and then got shorter again when you twisted a knob on her back - I was thrilled beyond belief when I ggot her as a present after a tonsillectomy.

But I digress.

As their mother, I think it's incredibly cute when L&J engage in elaborate role-playing with their aniimalss, racing through the house to save Cheddar from the evil bear (who then miraculously turns good whenever L has control - she's the softie in the crowd).

But as someone who's trying to keep the clutter under control (I'll never live in a Pottery Barn catalog but I don't want to end up on the cover of Garbage magazine either), their obsession is threatening to spiral out of control. And I seem to have misplaced the ability to say "no" when one of them sees a new, particularly adorable Ty critter, grabs it to her little breast and assures me she can't live without it.

I'd conservatively estimate that since they turned 4 (they'll be six this summer), we've spent at least $500 on this hobby, with no end in clear sight.

That's still less than a few pairs of shoes lurking in my closet or the telescoping ladder and obscenely large lantern F just had to have a few months back, but I wonder if they'll develop lifelong links to their furry friends or if the majority of them are destined for garage sales or the Salvation Army.

For now, it's a kick to watch their imaginations at play, and hey, if they ever get sick of them, maybe I'll start them on a new obsession. I hear you can get a mint condition Crissy doll on EBay for about $100....

102 minutes

2006-02-18T22:20:00.000-05:00

I just finished reading 102 Minutes, a gut-wrenching history, pieced together from 911 transcripts, oral histories and survivors' accounts, of what really happened inside the Twin Towers on September 11, from the moment they were struck, until the time they fell, written by two New York Times reporters.

Ever since 9/11, I've been waiting for this kind of book to come out, and although it came out in hardcover last January, I don't think I was ready to read it until now.

Every New Yorker has a 9/11 story to tell and mine's certainly less tragic than most. I lost no one in my family or close circle of friends, although I was friendly with Father Mychal Judge, the FDNY chaplain who died after the second plane hit. (A bond we shared was that he was a twin, and he was very kind to me during two miscarriages and then a scary pregnancy with my own twins). I wasn't even in Manhattan that day - I was working at home and oblivious to what was going on until my husband called me from West Fourth Street after he emerged from the subway and told me that he was looking downtown at the towers and that one of them was on fire and he heard that a plane had crashed into it.

We both assumed it was a small plane that had gotten lost and accidentally crashed into the building, much like the Empire State Building tragedy many years earlier. So he went off to work and I turned on CNN.

As I watched TV, I was overcome by a sense of disbelief and confusion, which only increased when I watched a second plane crash into the other tower. Even then, it didn't register that we were under attack and that my husband was just 20 blocks away from where terrorists had struck.

I watched in horror and helplessness with the rest of the world as the cameras panned in on desperate people on the upper floors clinging to open windows miles above the ground with no hope of immediate rescue. It was only when the first tower fell that I started to cry because I knew that thousands of people, maybe tens of thousands of people, were dead.

The phone lines to the city were so overloaded that I wasn't able to call my husband all day, but had to wait for him to contact me. He finally left his office to go to a friend's apartment, and although all transportation to and from Manhattan was temporarily suspended, he was able to get a commuter train home and arrive at nearly his usual time.

I spent the afternoon at my daughters' daycare, watching TV, playing with my uncomprehending toddlers, and worried along with the rest of the staff about the parents they knew who worked in the towers.

In the days and weeks after the attacks, I couldn't bring myself to read the papers or the weekly magazines. I was instead transfixed by television and couldn't seem to shut it off. In retrospect, I think I was afraid to take my mind off the here and now because fresh attacks could be imminent and I needed to be aware of what was happening every second in order to safeguard my family. Reading a paper or a magazine then seemed a luxury of those who felt they were safe. I didn't feel safe in NYC for a very long time.

As a former reporter, though, that didn't stop me from going down to Ground Zero within a few days of the attack and getting as close as I could to the rubble to see it for my own eyes. My husband expressly forbid me to go there, but I needed to see it with my own eyes for reasons I still can't fathom. I saw just a brief glimpse of the remaining facade, twisted into an almost beautiful shape as it served as a backdrop against the smoke that didn't dissipate for weeks.

I remember writing an entry that week in a journal I had been keeping for my daughters since I was 16 weeks pregnant, pouring out my horror and shock and wondering what kind of a world I had brought them into.

As the days and weeks passed and the city and the nation and the world carried on, I started wondering what really went on in the towers that day. I know not to trust official versions of events, and was sure that one day a good team of investigative reporters would share the truth of that day with the world.

This book does just that. It shines a light on the civilian herose that day, $10 per hour security guards who never left their posts and helped shell-shocked victims escape while they stayed behind, a nd many others who tended to and saved many injured people on upper floors that rescue workers would never have time to reach. And it also casts an uncomfortable glare at the shocking lack of cooperation between the fire, police and port authority police departments that compounded and confused the rescue effort. While millions of people outside the towers could see quite clearly what was happening, hundreds of would-be rescuers inside didn't even know that a second plane had struck or that the South tower had fallen.

It saves its harshest criticism for the real estate developers who convinced the city in 1965 to pass laws that made tall buildings like the WTC virutually unescapable duiring the kind of catastrophic event requiring a full evacuation that came to pass that warm September day. From reducing the number of exit stairs to increase the amount of rentable space, to never testing the fireproofing - it closely mirrored the hubris and short-sightedness that led to the scarcity of lifeboats on the Titanic, and closer to home, the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire.

I remember, after coming out of the fog of those days and weeks, that I was surprised that people who didn't live in New York were so affected by the attacks. People who had never, like me, walked up to the imposing structures in an awe unbefitting a New Yorker. Who had never ridden in those express elevators to press conferences when then-Gov. Cuomo took up residence in the building. How could people who had never even been to NYC be so affected? I wondered.

It took time and reflection to realize that for many reasons 9/11 was a worldwide event that will reverberate for years, if not decades. But what struck and still strikes me most about that day is the human tragedy, the people who jumped holding hands from the highest floors, the firefighters taking a rest on a landing and ignoring the mayday of others running down the staircase below them. The painful loss of the NYC skyline., which I anticipated and loved as a child, everytime my family would drive from the suburbs into Manhattan..

Today, I wonder what I will tell my daughters about that day when they get old enough to ask.

Malaprops and dentist chairs

2006-02-06T12:08:00.000-05:00

We're skidding on one long, icy rough patch here, with L undergoing two tooth extractions in three weeks (with a filling thrown in between for good measure where she clutched at my shirt so hard, I briefly flashed the dentist and his staff), and various assorted injuries that has left one, or both of my daughters in tears nearly almost every night.

L's asleep on the couch right now, after meeting her 2nd dentist in three weeks who spoke sweetly to her, then jacked her up full of novacaine and pulled a baby molar out., leaving her bloody and numb.

And we won't even touch the tantrum situation, which is threatening to spiral out of control at any moment.

So, I thought in the interest of recording and remembering the joyful, bearable part of parenting, and before they realize how cute and ridiculous they are, I'd better write down their most recent malapropisms.

J started this one, when we introduced the notion of privacy in the bathroom. She interpreted this in her own 5-year-old way, aand now when she closes the door in the bathroom and someone tries to come in, she says "No, I need my private seat!"

J also invented this next one, after viewing numerous cartoons about mediums and superhero duos. When you ask her if she knows something that she obviously could not know , she says - "What am I, a sidekick?"

There's so much I'm going to forget about their childhood. I look at a 3-year-old now and can't even remember what J&L were like at that age. What kinds of foods did they like? What kinds of conversations did we have? I just don't remember and I have a feeling it's only going to get worse as they grow so I'd better get it all down now, in black and white. So one day I can look back and smaybe even show them how unbearable (and unbearably adorable) they were back when they were 5.

Lending calm

2006-01-23T22:02:00.000-05:00

Somebody very wise once wrote that the best way to soothe a troubled child is to "lend them your calm."

My poor J was overtired tonight and wound herself up into a state that even a strawberry ice pop couldn't cure it. It was that bad.

Although F was convinced she was on the brink of schizophrenia (she was playing happily not two minutes before her rage took flight, for no apparent reason), I sensed she had just reached her limit for the day, badly needed sleep, and that it was going to be a rough night.

So I took a deep breath, gave her a time out when she hurled a hardcover book at her Dad, and then poured on the calm. I didn't try to reason, cajole or tease her out of it (I knew from experience that never works). Instead I patiently waited for the storm to blow over and for her to come to me.

It takes extreme stores of patience to be a parent. And I think it also requires a deep understanding of your child's individual personality, her verbal and non-verbal cues. I was in a calm mood to begin with, so that helped. But I watched her, I really watched her as she went through each stage of this tantrum, banishing us all from the room one minute and then running to me for a quick hug and then a push away. Trying to shake herself out of it by ordering the cat not to stare at her, laughing for a second and then shooting death rays at anyone who dared join in.

"Oh, I am in such a bad mood and I can't stop!" she told me at one point. "I know, honey," I told her. "Sometimes I feel that way, too."

She still didn't stop, and she needed a second time out with the door closed for throwing another book, but as I softly spoke to her through the door, I know that somewhere deep in her little 5-year-old brain and heart and soul, she was responding to me - even if she still couldn't let go of her rage.

Finally, I wielded a parent's ultimate secret weapon - distraction -- to great success.

I told the story of Princess Criesalot who was angry almost every night and would go through the castle saying, "Stomp, stomp, stomp, no, no, no - everybody must go, go, go!"

One day she was walking in the forest near the castle and tripped over a tree root. When she cried out again, ""Stomp, stomp, stomp, no, no, no - everybody must go, go, go!" a squirrel looked up at her quizzically, and then an owl looked down and said, "Who?" (The girls loved that part).

Princess Criesalot got so angry that she began crying, because that's what happens sometimes when you get really angry - it's so frustrating that it makes you cry. J perked up at this, although she still wasn't won over.

The story devolves into a simple mistaken identity fairy tale, with the Prince of Heart Mountain disguised as a woodsman happening upon the crying princess. They talk, both neglect to tell the other of their royal heritage, go their own ways, and then finally meet again, discover their mutual nobility, they laugh, he proposes, happy ending.

J fell asleep in her clothes before the secret identities were revealed, but she was definitely enjoying it, lying with her tear-stained face in my lap before she finally dozed off, exhausted, just as the prince and princess were about to have a second rendezvous.

I've been making up my own bedtime stories for the girls for a few years now, and it tickles me silly that they enjoy my tall tales. Now that they're at the age of memory, I hope I'm helping create some images that they'll share one day with their children.

And that they'll learn how to share their calm with their own children. It's a wonderful gift to lend.

Ipod Nano Nano

2006-01-18T16:41:00.000-05:00

For those of you from my era, "Nano, Nano" signified the "Mork & Mindy" show, the slightly deranged situation comedy which launched Robin Williams' career in the 1970s.

As a middle-aged mother of two kindergarteners, it has gained a deeper meaning to me since I have become the proud, slightly deranged owner of an Ipod Nano.

Up until I received this sweet little package for the holidays, my musical tastes were lodged firmly in the mid-60s to mid-80s, somewhere between the Beatles and Terence Trent D'Arby.

Then I discovered Itunes.

And while I spent the first few days downloading long-lost favorite tunes from cheesy girl-bands like the Go-Gos and the Bangles (I raise a symbolic lighter to "Eternal Flame") and long-forgotten bands like Yaz ("Only You" and "Misty Blue" - I missed you!) , I slowly started sampling some of the Imixes and nosing around where I imagine navel-pierced 15-year-olds would be appalled that I dared to tread.

My 21-year-old niece may deride Green Day as "so junior high" but they're a new taste for me, and bring me back to my college years when a friend turned me on to The Clash (who GD definitely worshipped when they were in diapers). "Give me Novacaine" is my new anthem and "Are we the Waiting" makes me feel like I'm once again a disaffected youth, even though I'm listening to it while trekking from commuter train to work...in my Tahari suit.

Then there's Carlos Vives, who sings so beautifully in a language I don't understand. And Motion City Soundtrack, whose song "Everything is All Right" is hysterically funny and poignant, all at the same time.

Unlike the teenagers out there who are probably racking up massive debt downloading songs (I have at least a $5 per day habit and I can see the day where I will refer to it as "I-Crack"), at least I've got the disposable income to feed my habit.

And although it may only be another symptom of my burgeoning mid-life crisis, it's still a lot of fun.

And although I haven't yet learned how to use this feature, I can also download and store color photos of the girls, so I'll have them with me when I travel next month to Vegas. I can just see me now, winning the jackpot on Wheel of Fortune, while glancing at the girl's holiday pics and listening to Kanye West.

Joy and fear - I have been tagged for my first meme

2006-01-09T17:08:00.000-05:00

Nevermind that I had to google "meme definition" and read an "About.com" explanation to finally understand what this actually means (I got the gist by reading other blogs, but being tagged forced me to actually understand it before responding).

So, landismom tagged me, and now I'm forced to reveal five "weird" things about myself.

Hmm. Truth be told, I'm fairly un-weird, so this took some thought. And I'd probably be laughed right out of a weird convention for what I'm about to write, but so be it. This is as weird as I get.

1. My pillows and sheet have to be crisp and cool or I can't get comfortable, and I habitually turn the pillow over and over every night to find a "cool" spot. This must be genetic, because J does this, too.

2. I once had (and occasionally still have) an obsession with reading words and phrases backwards and finding the results hysterical. In fact, I still think Niknud Stunod is laugh-out-loud funny.

3. As a weekly newspaper reporter and then a daily reporter for a wire service for a number of years, I wrote hundreds and hundreds of stories, many of them filled with much detail, analysis and many sources. Now I'll look back at my clips and can't remember the events detailed within them, much less having written them myself. But there my byline sits. This may not be weird, it may be early onset Alzheimer's.

4. Here's one donated by my husband. Every time I make up my face or check myself out in a mirror, I purse my lips in a 'vogue-ing' kind of way.

5. On the rare occasions when I eat at Burger King, I order a Whopper - no onion, and a side order of - onion rings.

I told you, I'm not that weird.

Adventures at Chuck-E-Cheese

2006-01-07T23:36:00.000-05:00

I'm not in favor of evening birthday parties for anyone under the age of 25, but that's just me. I believe children's parties should either take place early enough in the morning that you're not completely awake, or close enough to a meal that the children can have fun for exactly 40 minutes, scarf down pizza and cake and we can all get home before bathtime.

Other parents apparently harbor distinctly different notions about such things.

Which is how my Friday afternoon turned into a rush to buy a 6-year-old presents at Wal-Mart after taking the 1 p.m. train home to the burbs, a mad dash home by 3 p.m. in order to not miss the girls' bus home (I only do this at-home mother thing once a week, so I know I'd better not f#%k it up or the bus ladies will forever brand me as "that bad working mom").

That was followed by the delighted squeals and smiles from two 5-year-olds who are pushed beyond ecstasy when I play the stay at home mom role that one day each week (the flip side of working motherhood guilt - they practically get apoplectic when they see me - it's a real ego boost).

After they made homemade cards for their friend, had a snack and watched enough Fairly Odd Parents episodes to sate them for a few hours, we headed out the door toward Chuck-E-Cheese's. Not my ideal party spot, but the girls were stoked, and their happiness is, ispo facto, my happiness, so I buckled them into their seat belts and was just about to go when I somehow slammed my index finger into the spot between the window and the door.

For a few agonizing and somewhat transcendental seconds, I looked at my finger - wedged tightly in a closed door, and had this succession of thoughts:

"My finger is stuck in the door.

"How the hell did I do that?"

"I'd better open the door and get it out."

"This is going to hurt."

"A lot."

When I finally disengaged my digit, it quickly swelled up to three times its normal size, I pushed back tears, and silently wondered if the girls' evening of fun was going to turn into a trip to the emergency room.

Luckily, my father rushed out of the house with a boo-boo bunny and some extra ice packs, and once we got to the party, the swelling decreased and it soon became clear that I had not done any permanent damage.

The girls did fine, and thankfully the place wasn't too crowded (did I mention that I routinely turn down invites to parties if they're held at Chuck-E-Cheese? Now that the girls are learning to read, this is going to get more difficult).

My impaired state only forced one concession - I gave in, I mean completely caved in, to a tantrum L was having because at 9 p.m. (what children's party ends at 9 p.m. when my daughters' demons are just waking up?) she wasn't ready to leave and wanted - in this order - more tokens and ice cream.

So I gave them to her. Then I lied about how many credits we had from the tickets they earned, they both got a sticky eyeball (did I ever mention I am not raising girly-girls?) and we went home.

Then J balked when told she couldn't watch more than 10 minutes of the Lion King 2, and launched into a hysterical, I am so tired I can't even see straight tantrum at 10:30 at night, complete with pillow missiles aimed squarely at my head and kicking arms and legs whenever I got near her. She finally fell asleep after a final exhuasted (but still determined) demand - "I-want-to-watch-the-Lion-King!"

When she woke up this morning (completely rested and sweet as spun sugar), I asked if she remembered her tantrum the night before. She smiled slyly and said she did.

"I turned off the TV and told you you had to go to bed because you were so tired and I knew you needed sleep," I said, in the hopes of teaching her how NOT to behave next time this kind of drama threatens to unfold.

"I wasn't tired," she asserted at first.

"J..." I said.

"OK, mommy - I was sooo tired. I was tired even before I got in my room!"

Thanks for telling me now, little one. Thanks for telling me now....

I want to live in a Pottery Barn catalog

2005-12-30T14:11:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was a lazy, day after we got back from vacation day, the girls were riding their scooters around the basement and I was flipping through the latest PB Kids catalog and thinking, for the thousandth time,"This is how I want to, no - must live."

With pink and green gingham curtains hanging neatly from the girls' bedroom window, a whimsical finial to wrap the excess fabric around so sunlight comes through the window, just so.

With rows of neatly stacked craft baskets (identified by child's name, of course!) sitting on perfectly neat whitewashed shelves, nothing out of order, and my children, with their tangle-free hair in perfect little ponytails, playing sweetly with the Caldecott winning hardcover picture books (jackets still attached) that they've gently taken out of their dollhouse-shaped bookcase.

Instead, I look around me and see a Scooby-Doo Chia Pet that has been mauled by a curious cat, a basement brimming with stray Mr. Potato Head parts, Crazy 8 cards and the unfinished masterpieces of attention-deficit children for whom Scratch Magic lost its allure many months ago. And seemingly a thousand plastic figurines, McDonald's and Burger King toys from failed movies and numerous naked dolls forever separated from their clothes.

I don't know what it is about looking through the PB catalog, especially, but everytime I do, I get wistful and think, "How manageable and graceful and wonderful my life would be if I could just get rid of all the clutter and live like these fake catalog people do."

It's a fantasy, I know, but it grabs me everytime and sucks me in.

And so this is Christma-Hanukkah

2005-12-29T23:20:00.000-05:00

And what have we done? Well, apparently sending out a Hanukkah card instead of an all-purpose "Season's Greetings" one this year has effectively ended our relationship with my in-laws, who are practicing Jehovah's Witnesses.

It's so unbearably sad, but as a friend noted, many people consumed by a religion eventually cut off their families to bow to what they truly believe is a greater good. The notion that a loving God would tear families apart in this life to attain Nirvana in the next is a concept I'll never swallow, but that gives me, and eventually my 5-year-old girls, small comfort when they next venture to ask when they'll see their grandparents again.

So, after digesting this bit of holiday cheer via a terse phone call on Christmas Day/Hanukkah Eve, we packed up the kiddos, the menorah, the gifts and some mittens and headed out to Montauk, Long Island for a brief holiday week respite.

F's artsy photo of the beach from Montauk Point seems more appropriate to this post than the sweet one of the girls with the Lighthouse in the background (that's in the Flickr box), although the mood was far from somber, what with the two healthy kindergarteners racing around the Point on boulders the size of small buildings, the unseasonally warm wind at their back and getting caught up in the notion that we were "explorers" on an adventure.

Still, it's strangely appropriate that in light of recent events, we traveled to a place on the Eastern seaboard that's nicknamed "The End" since at its easternmost point it juts out into the Atlantic Ocean on three sides, causing terrific winds, beautiful waves, and a sunset that takes your breath away.

For even if my in-laws finally realize they miss F, me and their grandchildren too much to stay away, this experience closed a 10-year chapter in my life that began the day I met their son. And things can never be the same again.

Tales from the Transit Strike

2005-12-21T22:02:00.000-05:00

I snapped a photo from the long, snaking line I waited in tonight just to enter Penn Station to get home, but my Treo 600 has a pretty crappy camera, so it's really not worth posting. Take my word - it was long and snakelike.

Suffice to say, it took a half hour just to get inside the darn terminal due to the high volume of people heading out on one of the only train lines left in service during the strike. I almost made it inside in half the time, but an eagle-eyed cop saw me try to sneak under the barricades to cut the line. Busted. In my mid-40s, I'm still a rebel. (But I still managed to shake the fuzz when they tried to redirect us once again once we got near the entrance to one a block away. I maneuvered my way inside by pretending to head towards New Jersey Transit. As if.)

Unlike my husband, who has to walk about 40 blocks downtown to work, I usually head to and from work on foot for the exercise so the strike hasn't affected me too badly. I feel for the people from the outer boroughs who depend solely on the subway. Especially those who don't get paid if they can't get to work and can't afford to get to work now if they don't get paid. Catch-22.

Which doesn't mean I don't see the union's side, too. Despite the mayor's protestations that this is an illegal strike, the original strikes that begat organized labor were illegal, too. Sometimes you have to buck the system in order to effect change.

Just from an experiential point of view, any kind of mass experience like the strike, the blackout and 9/11 does tend to bring out a friendliness in NYC that isn't often apparent in the day-to-day sturm and drang of city life. Strangers commiserate with strangers, police officers with bullhorns unleash their inner comedians (One cop tonight, after announcing the entrances that were open for varying commuters hastened to add that buses and trains were running smoothly in Boston, Chicago and Washington, DC, so if anyone wanted to head there on Amtrak, they could use the entrance on 8th Avenue. That gave the crowd a good communal chuckle).

Once inside, I hooked up with the husband and we luckily made it home in time to play with the kiddos for a bit before bedtime.

I hope the strike ends soon, but in the meantime, for us New Yorkers, it's just business as usual. Only it's a little more unusual due to the strike. And we're all just taking it in stride.

Black is wack

2005-12-19T10:38:00.000-05:00

I went to a business holiday lunch last week and got a bracing reminder of what kind of person I don’t want to be, working mother or otherwise.

I struck up a conversation with a friendly woman who, within minutes of meeting me, realized she had apparently left her Blackberry at the office across town. Although the luncheon was only scheduled to last for 2 hours, she called to have her assistant messenger the device to her at the restaurant, so she wouldn’t be without her email fix for the duration.

No wonder they call them “crackberrys.”

Welcome to the jungle

2005-12-14T17:19:00.001-05:00

Most days I feel I've got this working mother thing down pat. Yesterday was not one of those days.

The girls have made friends with another girl who goes to the same after school program. The mother and I have become friendly, the girl has come to our house for playdates and I agreed to let the mother take them home with her yesterday and then I'd pick them up at her house when I got home from work.

Big mistake. L threw a tantrum when it was time to leave, and despite gentle cajoling, promises and threats, she continued to rage. The upshot? I ended up alternatively picking each one up, dragging the other one (L didn't even have a coat on in the freezing cold) the 2 blocks to the car, and while they both screamed bloody murder in the backseat, realized I had left my car keys in the mother's apartment.

By the time we got home, both were in full-out tantrum mode, and I literally had to push J inside the house, because she refused to go in and L was freezing.

Which prompted my daughter to start screaming at me over and over again, "You are the devil!" Then, when it just became all too much for one supermom to bear, and I started crying, L came over and clutched as my legs, shouting, "Stop crying! I don't know what to do when you cry!"

Which stopped me dead in my tracks. Last thing I need is for my 5-year-old to have to worry about taking care of her mother.

So since their father had to work late last night and I knew I had to go it alone, I breathed in and breathed out, was finally able to calm them down and get them into bed and asleep by 9 p.m. One half in her pajamas, the other fully clothed. No one brushed their teeth.

Lesson learned? No playdates on weekdays ever again.

Jon Stewart at the Guggenheim

2005-12-09T22:49:00.000-05:00

Anyone planning a trip to NYC might be surprised to learn that a portrait of Comedy Central star Jon Stewart is hanging in the Guggenheim's current "Russia" exhibit.

OK, so I used Photoshop to add him to the current subway poster publicizing the event - but you have to admit, the resemblance with the portrait to his left is uncanny. (The original poster is below in my Flickr box)

And since Stewart is Jewish and probably has some Eastern European ancestry, it's not too far-fetched to assume that this guy's a distant relative.

As a New Yorker, I'm used to spotting celebrities at restaurants, in the lingerie department at Macy's (caught Al Roker lurking there about 15 years ago) and on the streets, but I actually had dinner with Jon Stewart once, way back when he was just starting out at HBO in the early 1990s.

A friend of mine worked at HBO and somehow I got invited to dinner at an upper East Side coffee shop with her and Stewart, and then we went to watch his act at a local comedy club.

During the meal, I learned that Jon and I had another quasi-celebrity in common, City Councilman (now Congressman) Anthony Wiener. I knew Wiener when I worked as a reporter in Brooklyn and he was an ambitious aide to then-Congressman, now-Senator Chuck Schumer. Turns out both of them worked as pages on Capitol Hill back in college.

Two things I remember from that dinner - that his humor already had an intellectual, political edge (one joke alluded to the fact that in some Third World countries citizens braved gunfire to go out and vote, while New Yorkers avoided the polls if there was a 10 percent chance of rain). And he said that if women had a choice between a funny guy and a handsome guy, they'd choose funny every time.

A word about housekeeping

2005-12-08T22:29:00.000-05:00

I'll be the first to admit I'm a bourgeois, upper middle class working mother whose own working mother had housekeepers as I was growing up to perform the mundane tasks of cleaning our family's bathroom and doing the laundry.

While dating a socially aware guy during my college years, he nearly had an apoplectic fit when he noticed a pamphlet lying around my suburban home called "Speaking Spanish to Domestics."

I'd seen the pamphlet around before, and it never registered with me that this might be offensive (it was the unpolitically correct 1980s, after all). I'm surprised he didn't break up with me on the spot.

Throughout college and my young adult years, I worked in secretarial jobs and then in journalism, which meant I could little afford an apartment, much less someone to clean it. So I spent quite a few years lugging my laundry down five flights in my 5th floor walkup Brooklyn apartment, heading to the local laundromat for a few hours, wrestling the clean and folded clothes back into the laundry bag and then back up the five flights to my apartment. I paid my dues.

So when I finally moved into a career where I could afford a housecleaner, I jumped at the opportunity. And as two full-time working parents with twin kindergarteners, I've often commented to my husband that I'd rather not eat than not have V come to clean my house each Thursday, and wash and fold my laundry. And you know I like to eat.

When I come home from work early each Thursday, I cannot even describe how wonderful it is to smell Murphy's Oil soap on the freshly cleaned wood floors, see my daughters' beds neatly made with fresh linens and know that, at least until my rambunctious 5-year-olds get home from school, I have waded into an oasis of calm.

Some women may derive joy from cleaning, but for me - it just breeds resentment. It's time away from my children, my husband or something else that has got to be infinitely more exciting than choosing which rinse cycle to use with the delicates or scrubbing soap scum off the bathroom tiles.

So when my husband told me today that V felt she was getting overwhelmed by doing all the laundry and cleaning our house today, my heart sunk and I was instantly on the defensive. We increased her pay when we finished the basement and my Dad moved in, to accommodate the extra cleaning. And I really don't want to pay what I'm paying and have to do a lot of my own laundry on top of that.

She's hardworking and reliable, so my first instinct (fire her and find someone else who will do it all) isn't the solution, at least not for today. But I gotta tell you, the knowledge that I'll be forced to do some of my own laundry going forward (I may do a load or two occasionally - but it's not the same as knowing I have to) is not a pleasant prospect.

I already told F that he's on laundry duty, too - he's better at it anyway, and really gets a charge out of adding Oxyclean and various assorted bleaches and softeners to the mix.

And when it comes down to it, I guess this bourgeois suburban mom can get used to the weekly laundry routine again, but man, I'm not looking forward to it.

Why I can't say 'no' to dessert

2005-12-06T21:44:00.000-05:00

One of my daughters has inherited my unquenchable sweet tooth and even at age 5, I can see a little roundness in her belly that her twin sister, who we nicknamed Lily "The Body" at age 2, will probably never develop.

When I was younger, I had a variety of vices, which I won't go into in a public forum. Suffice to say, I was able to spread the cheer around in those days.

But now that I'm married with a serious career, the one vice I've got left does not mix well with middle age.

It's like alcoholics who tell themselves, 'I'm not an alcoholic, but you know what - I'm not even going to have a drink tonight." And then they end up hanging out with friends at the bar, and before you know it - bam! - they're sharing their saddest moment from grade school with the poor schlub on the next stool.

So it is with me every time I go out for a business lunch, or to the grocery store. I start out with the best of intentions - and end up sliding down into oblivion and whipped cream within 30 minutes.

Take today - I had a business lunch with a colleague from another firm and I started out like gangbusters - a lump crab meat cocktail for appetizer (lots of protein - no fat!), then followed it with a Caeser salad with grilled shrimp (OK, lots of fat in the Caeser dressing and shaved cheese, but still - I ate greens, wonderful!).

It's when the waiter came with the dessert menus that I completely broke down. I find I am physically unable to push a menu away and say "No thanks" as my svelte colleague did. So she demurely sipped a skim milk cappucino while I devoured an entire serving of creme brulee.

So when I find myself having to explain to Jessica why lollipops are not a good breakfast food, and why dessert is not a necessity, nor her God-given right after every meal, it would behoove me to remember that her thirst for the cane is genetic, and, like her mother, she may not ever be able to escape its syrupy grasp.

On Sunday Nights

2005-12-04T23:20:00.000-05:00

Today, I could have earned a new merit badge in motherhood, but I chose instead to sneak out of the girls' room at bedtime to watch 'Desperate Housewives' and let their aunt and father (who slept much of the day) lay down with them while they toss and turned themselves to sleep.

And while earlier in the evening I carved a Boston Chicken carcass to an inch of its life to gather enough leftovers to make chicken croquettes from scratch, I am choosing (at least for the moment) to leave the dining room table in the dissaray that my family members left it after partaking of the evening meal.

I'm burnt out today, from a weekend of fighting with a stubborn 5-year-old who needs to take an antibiotic twice a day to knock out an awful sinus infection that has her coughing and heaving nightly, from spending the night at my mother's apartment shuttling between two little girls who woke up a varying intervals and cried out for me to come close, from the recurring pain of a recently extracted tooth that's left my mouth throbbing.

And to make matters worse, it just occurred to me that another drawback to having small children in your 40s is when you need to spend a full 5 minutes trying to read the fine print on the back of a Tylenols chewable bottle to determine how many to ingest (since the medicine cabinet is currently out of any adult analgesics).

I know that motherhood, like life, is ceaseless, that there are no guarantees that home life, work life and time for myself will ever move in a satisfactory rhythm. I'm not bemoaning my fate at all, and unlike younger women (and my younger self) who thought that whatever I was feeling at a certain place and time WAS HOW I WAS GOING TO FEEL FOREVER, I'm much more jaded and knowledgeable these days.

I'm tired and worn out, and not really ready for a new week at work, but I'll greet it when it comes, take the first shower in the morning as usual, and chances are, probably clean up the dishes before the whole routine starts over again. I might even make pancakes. Cause truth be told, i kinda like getting those merit badges.

Conversations with a 5-year-old about God

2005-11-29T17:04:00.000-05:00

J: Mommy, what did God look like when he was little?

Me (scrambling for what to say): Um, God didn’t grow up like you and me, honey, he was always big.

J: Mommy, how could that happen?

Me: Well, I don’t know, sweetie.

J: Does he live in a house like us?

Me: No, honey. He lives in heaven and watches over us all the time.

J: Mommy, is there a place you can go to learn about God?

Me (relieved and a little excited that she may be ready for Hebrew school): Yes, there is….

J (before I can continue): I think you should go there, Mommy.

Obviously, I don’t have all the answers.

Another conversation about God

J: Mommy, what is heaven like?

Me: Heaven is a wonderful place. You can do anything you want there, and everyone’s happy.

J: What does it look like?

Me (getting increasingly nervous and unsure about what kind of details to offer): It’s whatever your favorite place looks like, sweetie. Whatever you want it to be, wherever you're happiest, that’s what it will be.

J: I want it to be my house.

Me: OK.

J: Mommy, I’m scared to go to heaven.

Me: Don’t be scared sweetie – you won't go there for a long time and heaven is a wonderful place and there’s nothing there that will frighten you there.

J: Mommy, will you hold my hand when I go to heaven?

Me (stifling a sob): Of course I will, honey.

A Sexy Coffins Calendar for 2006

2005-11-28T17:15:00.000-05:00

Ok, this has nothing to do with either being a mother or a career woman, but the former tabloid reporter in me just couldn't let this pass without a comment.

In my day job, one of our niche specialties happens to be serving as financial advisors to funeral directors. As our marketing director, I go to funeral trade shows (I've seen my share of coffins and shrouds and have developed an immunity - I can even snack on free food beside them), and read up on the latest news and trends affecting the industry.

Well today, I happened up on a site called underground humor and discovered that, lo and behold, there is actually a calendar featuring scantily-clad, provocatively posed young women beside a variety of coffins for 2006.

http://www.undergroundhumor.com.)

I know the Pirelli Tire folks gained some measure of fame for their calendar,
http://www.pirellical.com/thecal/calendar.html
so I guess undertakers aren't breaking any new ground here (pun intended), but I have to wonder how many of these calendars they sell each year, and to whom?

It's amazing what's out there on the 'Net.

Black Friday at Woodbury Commons

2005-11-26T22:06:00.000-05:00

I've never been a traditional holiday shopper, and I have never ever dared to enter a retail store on the day after Thanksgiving.

But I got my bonus at work this week, and the novelty of the mega outlet mall relatively nearby opening at Midnight on Thanksigiving going on straight through Friday just sent me over the edge.

So I convinced my 20-year-old niece to sleep over, and we woke up at 4 a.m., piled into the car and drove 90 miles to the mall.

When we arrived at 5:30 a.m., the parking lot was nearing capacity and we actually had to hunt for a spot. Without so much as a cup of coffee, we then embarked on an early morning 6-hour shopping binge and I have to say...it was fun. I felt like I was on that old game show "Beat the Clock" trying to collect bargain items that I really wanted or needed before the early, early sales ended at 8 a.m. (snagged some beautiful cashmere sweaters for 35 percent off but was otherwise thwarted in my quest for the ultimate deal- my niece was luckier with a $40 gorgeous cashmere poncho from a very trendy store).

It was the thrill of the chase, the feeling that I haven't had in a long while of money to burn, and the very real need to purchase some new clothes so I can stop wearing the same suits and sweaters that I've worn for the past two years that I've had this new upscale job.

I got a pair of leather boots that made the entire trip worthwhile - great with skirts for work and my assumption that my husband would appreciate them, too, proved correct.

I never really considered myself someone who loves to shop, but I definitely discovered my "inner shopper" yesterday, and she is a force to behold. She can walk into a store and within 2 minutes know if it's worth her time to further explore, she can eyeball a leather bag from 20 paces and know it's not "the one," she can whip out her Amex card in 2 minutes flat when she knows the object of her affection is just right.

Another joy of this trip is that it was one of those days where money, time and effort was spent solely on me. As a mother, wife and busy career woman, there's precious little of anything I spend just on myself - and the shopping really did relax me and make me feel good. I deserve to have nice things and spend time on just myself (and as a nice byproduct, got to spend some quality time with my niece - something just the two of us haven't been able to do in many years).

So to paraphrase Gordon Gekko from the movie "Wall Street," "Shopping is Good."

Random Thoughts on a Tuesday Evening

2005-11-22T22:45:00.000-05:00

I walked past a Bennetton store in a New Jersey mall the other day and it took me back to a place and time, long before I ever imagined that I’d make a career in marketing, when I got a firsthand taste of how NOT to treat a customer.

I was a teenager and a Bennetton store had just opened in my local mall. Çurious, I walked inside (wearing tattered jeans and my long curly hair probably wild – it was the 70s, after all). The moment I reached my hand out to touch a carefully folded sweater on a shelf, an imperious saleswoman walked up to me, effectively blocked my path and said “Can I help you with something?”

I understood from her tone that I was not welcome to touch the merchandise, and I mumbled something incomprehensible, shrank from her in embarrassment and quickly exited the store.

That was more than 30 years ago…and I have NEVER stepped inside a Bennetton store since.

Since that time, Benetton has gained national attention as a socially responsible company, and pushed the envelope with provocative advertising campaigns featuring a person with AIDS at the moment of his death, and a black baby nursing at a white woman's breast.

But they never swayed me.

Today, Bloomberg News ran a story about how an Indian tribe in Patagonia is accusing the company of trying to buy the tribe's gratitude and allegiance with 30 acres of land for 40,000 Indians.

http://quote.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=10000086&sid=a_hYZMzfhZd8&refer=news_index

I don't know what the real story is there, but I do know that today I am the kind of executive woman with disposable income that Benetton would love to have shop in their stores, and I was tempted the other day by an attractive children’s clothing display, but I just couldn’t walk in. That one bad experience cost Benetton this customer back in 1977 and they’ll never get her back.

Why I never really liked Madonna

2005-11-12T22:50:00.002-05:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/11/13/fashion/sundaystyles/13MADONNA.html
Two stories in the NY Times today pay homage to Madonna, and it got me thinking about the effect the original material girl had on my life.

I was a sophomore in college when Madonna's "Like a Virgin" record came out, and although I danced to it in the sorry excuse we had for a disco in upstate Binghamton, New York, and enjoyed watching her videos on the newly-created MTV, I just never idolized her the way so many other women have - and still do today.

She's only a few years older than me, and I even worked out for a short time at a health club in Greenwich Village that she was said to frequent, but I never really envied her fame or her life.

I admire her ambition and her drive to keep pace with the latest movements (techno, Kabbalah), but even at 19, I felt kind of sorry for her. She always seemed to me to be a little bit out of her element, and her constant reinventions over the years and bids for attention laid bare (I think) a deep insecurity that she has never quite been able to shake, despites millions of adoring fans, scads of cash, and even a steady husband and two beautiful children.

As an insecure teen and young adult, I recognized in her what I didn't like about myself at the time - the burning need to please, to even scandalize myself in order to get others to take notice of me. And it wasn't a pretty sight. The confidence she showed in "Express Yourself," for example, belies the lyrics. What was she doing with a man who couldn't express himself in the first place? Probably what I was doing with all those unavailable, unexpressive men in my life - hanging out in the hardware store looking for apples.

Later on, in interviews on television, she always seemed to be performing, and at the same time, not really present in the moment. Nothing ever seemed unscripted about her, as if she were afraid of what might come out of her mouth if she dared to just be herself.

And dare I say it - for someone who's managed to reach a pinnacle of success that few people achieve, she has never struck me as a very smart, or very interesting person.

Much has been said and written about Warren Beatty's comment during her documentary (something to the effect) that she doesn't really exist without a camera following her every move. I don't know if that's true, but I can honestly say that I've never gotten the sense, from everything I've read about her or seen in her interviews, that there is a real live, intense human being in there.

As I grew older and matured, I grabbed for the kinds of female heros that had what I desperately wanted - confidence to be themselves. My number one hero of all time is Katherine Hepburn. Forget Madonna. Here's a woman who defied the conventions of her times in ways Madonna couldn't even begin to fathom. A daredevil from birth with a healthy ego and a knack for meeting the right man at the wrong time, she nonethless pursued her life her way, mannish pants and all. And I loved, and still love her for it. She survived a bad first marriage, her brother's suicide, and the ignominy of hiding her love for Spencer Tracy from the public spotlight for many decades. And she did it with true grit, a searing love for life and for movies and the theater. She lived her life passionately and supremely confident that she could -- and should -- get what she wanted out of life.

For me, Madonna could just never measure up.

Ode to 'No More Tangles'

2005-11-08T22:03:00.002-05:00

Until you become a parent, there are some things in the world you just never imagined would play such a pivotal role in your life.

Lately, I’ve been musing about these modern-day conveniences and how they’ve smoothed the path of working motherhood for me.

In no particular order, herewith my ode to the products/services that have made, or currently make my life easier:

1. No More Tangles. For once, marketers have named a product that tells you exactly what it does, and furthermore, it really works. Beware of imitations – they do not detangle, they merely coat your child’s hair with a greasy substance that does not in any way, shape or form get out those really difficult, rat’s nest-type knots. I love this product so much, I’d do a commercial for them.

2. Velcro. Nuff said.

3. Juice boxes. Yeah, I know I shouldn’t let my daughters drink too much of it, but you gotta love the kind of packaging that even 5-year-olds can manage on their own.

4. Adjustable waist pants. It amazes me that it took The Gap and other stores until last year to figure out that not all children fit perfectly into cookie cutter sizes.

5. Twistable, rainbow-colored, washable, fluorescent pens, pencils and markers. Although I’m sure my daughters could still create grade school masterpieces if they only had at their disposal the 64 Crayola crayons I used while growing up, these new tools fuel their creativity and get them so pumped up about drawing that it’s worth every penny it costs to replace them on an almost weekly basis.

6. The new Pampers Kandoo wipes. I have never smelled something so heavenly in all my life that was destined to be swiped across a toddler’s butt. I’d like to bottle it and wear it as perfume. Hats off to whatever genius realized that toilet-trained children are still not wipe-their-own-butts-trained children. My rash-free daughters thank you.

7. Paz on “Ready, Set, Learn” on TLC. Although I limit my daughters’ TV watching these days, I am truly entranced by this little penguin who channels so well the thoughts and feelings of a small child. The show has helped one of my daughters better understand death in a gentle, loving way, and truly teaches them both so many great lessons about working together and sharing and dealing with uncomfortable feelings. And it’s pretty funny, too.

8. Nori. This humble piece of pressed and flavored seaweed has probably been around for hundreds of years in Asian cultures, but not until sushi became a national pastime over the past decade did Asian grocery stores pop up in my neighborhood, making this Vitamin-A rich delicacy readily available in the burbs. It is the only vegetable that Jessica will eat, and it’s pretty funny to see the two of them fighting over who gets the last piece in the jar.

9. Cellphones, of course. I got a call from Lily tonight while I was on the train home. She told my father she urgently needed to speak to me to let me know that someone from school had apparently gone home with her red wool coat. Instant gratification can be a good thing, for both of us.

10. Digital photography. Ever since the girls were born, I’ve been able to keep an updated, indestructible photo library of their little lives online at ofoto.com (now kodakgallery.com). Their grandmother, especially, loves being able to check in every now and then to see the latest shots of her little girls via a computer and modem.

The dangers of blogging

2005-11-04T23:11:00.000-05:00

Another confession - I crave attention. I guess anyone who goes to the trouble of writing a blog must harbor a deep desire for applause, approval, commiseration, whatever. A therapist might say it stems from my childhood, where I frequently got lost in a family of five children.

One time, I got lost for real. The entire family was headed out to an amusement park, but I was busy washing my doll's hair in the bathroom sink and didn't come when my mother called. I couldn't have been more than 7 or 8 years old.

When I was finally finished with my doll's hair, the house seemed eerily quiet. When I went downstairs, I realized that everybody was gone. I ran outside, and sure enough, the stationwagon was gone, and I was alone.

Guilt swept over me. They left me on purpose, I was sure, because I didn't come when my mother called, and were teaching me a lesson.

Meanwhile, the story I hear is that inside the car, one of my sisters finally realized I was missing. "Where's Tracey?" she asked. "Very funny," my mother snapped. "She'd hiding underneath the seat (this was pre-car seat or seatbelt days)."

"No, Mom, she's not," my sister answered.

A few minutes after this exchange, the phone rang in my house. It was my frantic mother. She assured me that they left me by mistake, and I assured her I was all right, and all turned out fine in the end, and I was treated like a pretty special person for a day or two.

Back to my point, however. That kind of attention was scant throughout my childhood, and I craved it even more as I grew up. I started keeping a diary after reading "The Diary of Anne Frank" and "Go Ask Alice" and secretly hoped that my writings would some day be as famous as theirs (although I preferred that, unlike them, I'd be alive to reap the benefits).

Anyway, getting back to blogging. In an effort to increase my viewership beyond the 20 or so friends and relatives who've been reading this since April, I sent out some emails a while back to news reporters who deal with family/work issues in the hopes that one of them would write about my blog and make me just a little bit famous (or at least inspire someone other than spammers to comment on a post).

One very nice columnist for a major newspaper finally called this week, interviewed me for about 20 minutes about the blog and asked me to send her my picture, too. I was ecstatic - finally I would be recognized for the brilliant writer, mother, and writer that I am, and I'd soon be on my way to fame and untold riches with a syndicated column, a spot on the "Today" show and a six-figure book deal.

Today, however, she called to say they couldn't include the URL to my blog or any of my comments because one of my posts (since deleted) pretty much defamed the character of a non-public official. While I didn't name the person, if the paper had given my name and other identifying characteristics, it wouldn't have taken too much sleuthing to figure it out.

Needless to say, I was deflated and disappointed. But the reporter made me look at my blog in a new light. I've been so careful not to write anything specific about my job (I've read too many stories lately about people getting fired for indiscretions about work in their blogs), but it didn't occur to me until today that if my readership ever does spike, anything I write will be open for scrutiny by my neighbors, the guys at the bagel shop, and anyone else with a Web browser.

And in re-reading the post, I realized that no private person deserves to be forever branded by someone with a pen and a point of view. It's one thing to let off steam with my friends and confidantes, but quite another to publish it for the world to view. Even if I still do feel a bit like ripping out her heart and stomping on it in public. Yeah, I wrote that.

So I deleted the post. It was cathartic to write it, and it came from the heart, but especially in such a public forum, I need to be more careful about what I write. Yeah, it (selfishly) makes it easier for another reporter down the road to link to my blog without fear of lawsuits or other reprisals, but I also know it was the right thing to do.

As the reporter and I agreed, blogging is still such a new form of communication that it's hard to get a handle out how to, well, handle it. And not publishing my URL was the only choice she and her editor could make.

I may need to wait for another few months or years to get the attention I crave, but I guess it just gives me more time to refine my writing and my point of view. The 'Today Show' will just have to wait.

Confession time.

2005-11-04T01:31:00.000-05:00

Confession time. This is not a linear, check in today to get the update on what I wrote about yesterday, or last week kind of blog. I don’t link to other blogs, and I imagine some bloggers might claim this isn’t really a blog at all, just a series of self-published columns touching on whatever I feel like musing about that day. Fair enough.

But as a working mother, I literally have no time to update my blog on a daily, or even weekly basis – much less peruse the thousands of blogs out there to see which ones I like. I’m too busy just trying to get my work budget in on time, my children off to school with their hair slightly brushed and their homework done, the groceries packed away, and often fall into bed exhausted at 9:30 p.m. without even speaking 10 words to my husband.

I’m not complaining – I love my life, but I’ve learned, as time goes on, that some things have to give. I accepted a while ago that I will never be the perfect mother, worker, wife, and now, blogger. And I’m OK wth that. Just thought I’d get that straight.

The Power of 5

2005-10-27T09:40:00.000-04:00

Five has always been a meaningful number for me. There are five children in my family, my parents were married on Nov. 5, 1955 and it has always conjured up in my mind a vision of a boisterous childhood, and of having more than enough.

Until my twin daughters turned 5 earlier this year, that is.

Now I’m trying really hard to understand the apparel industry, the underwear sub-specialty in particular. Because try as I might, I cannot find size 5 underwear for my daughters. I finally realized, after countless fruitless searches at children’s stores and online, that it simply does not exist. There are size 2s, 3s, 4s and 6x’s everywhere you look, but size 5 has apparently been banished, excommunicated, extirpated from this earth.

To compensate, there is a size 4-6, which in no way, shape or form can conform to my little girls’ narrow hips and butts. Add to that the fact that Lily is the original princess and the pea, and cannot abide any undergarment that doesn’t fit just so, and what do you get?

A child who refuses to wear underwear at all.

I’ve tried every brand, from Osh Kosh B’Gosh to Bloomie’s to Children’s Place to Disney Princesses, and it’s always the same story - size 4s are too tight, and 4-6 is way too big.

What kind of manufacturer really thinks that a size range as broad as 4-6 will fit any child? I guess they’re counting on the fact that most children are not as picky as Lily about what goes on their rump.

I wonder what kind of collusion went on behind the scenes at underwear manufacturer gatherings to foist this upon an unsuspecting public. Is there really such a small market for a true-to-size 5 underwear that manufacturing them makes no economic sense?

It’s gotten so bad that I’m nearly willing to pay a seamstress to make seven pairs of cotton underwear exactly to Lily’s measurements, ridiculous as that may seem.

Come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea. Sure, she’ll grow out of them in about six months, but at least I’ll have the peace of mind of knowing that she is appropriately clothed beneath her jeans.

And a small germ of an idea is starting here, too. Isn’t necessity the mother of invention? With the immediacy of the Internet, I may have the makings of a niche market here. All I have to do is build a small stockpile of size 5 underwear, post its availability on some parenting boards so that other mothers around the world in my predicament will know there is one place on this earth they can go to get underwear that actually fits their daughter – and voila – I’ll be rich. A girl and her bare-bottomed daughter can dream, can’t they?

Time marches on....

2005-09-16T17:18:00.000-04:00

So I’m careening toward my 43rd birthday next month, and that got me thinking. About where I am in my career, about how quickly my daughters are growing up, about how hallmarks of the aging process are hitting me in strange and unexpected ways.

Like for instance this summer I noticed that my toes – my toes! – are getting, well, wrinkled. Not many telltale aging signs have appeared yet on my face, but apparently my toes are getting ready for the shuffleboard court.

Laugh if you will, but it gave me pause. I remember so clearly being 14 years old and feeling so overweight (at a whopping 110 pounds) and imperfect and just not good enough. If only I were thinner, richer, with straight lustrous hair instead of the mass of curls God gave me, then and only then, would I feel OK. And now I look back at pictures of myself then and see such a beautiful young girl, brimming with promise and youth.

Today I weigh considerably more than 110, and still engage in a daily battle with my hair, yet in most respects, I’m pretty content with the way my life has turned out. I even changed careers two years ago and feel incredibly invigorated by the work I do. And of course, I’m madly in love with my 5-year-old daughters.

Nonethleless, I feel a midlife crisis coming on. I no longer get the sidelong glances and comments from construction workers that I got even five years ago, and I miss it – I really do. I watch my niece blossom into a 20-year-old woman with her whole life stretching out in any direction that she wants to take, and I feel a twinge of envy, wishing I had had the confidence she has at such a young age to explore and travel and make her way in the world.

And wondering what I might have done differently with my life if I knew then what I do now.

Already I see my daughters’ lithe young bodies changing and curving more into the young women they’ll become in less than 10 years and I mourn the loss of their babyhood, but it’s more than that. Are all mothers deep down just a little jealous that their daughters will supplant and one day surpass them with their youth and vigor and freshness and feminine charm?

I like to tell myself that I had my time in the sun and I’m more than happy now to let them shine, but suddenly I’m not so sure I’ll fade into the background as easily and naturally as I had hoped.

So I’ve embarked on a mini self-help campaign, trying to eat more nutritiously and in smaller portions, actually exercising for a few minutes every day, and taking more care in my appearance.

I may not get the stares on the street anymore, but it sure feels good when your kindergartener looks at you in your crisp business suit on a Monday morning and says, “Mommy – you look beautiful.”

Greetings from an almost TV-free weekend

2005-08-15T15:01:00.000-04:00

So, I finally did the scary thing. I turned off the TV for the entire weekend.

OK, so the girls watched “Dr. Doolittle” on Saturday night before bed, and one show on Nickelodeon last night. But for most of their (and our) waking hours this swelteringly humid weekend, we played. And ate meals at the table together. And played some more.

For most working outside the home parents (and many stay-at-home parents, I suspect) the TV is a gift from God. It gives us the needed break to make a meal or a phone call, do the laundry or just have 30 minutes of peace. I am also guilty of letting my children watch TV for many, many hours on a weekend, just so I can take a nap on the bed while they watch, or so I can read the newspaper or a book.

Or I often watch with them, and know instantly, not whether they’ve already seen this episode of “Fairly Odd Parents” or “Sponge Bob Square Pants” before (they have), but whether it was long enough ago to warrant another viewing without complaint.

Intellectually, I know and understand that watching too much TV isn’t good for them. It can lead to obesity, lower reading scores, the uncanny ability to recite TV commercials at will for decades, yada yada. Guidelines for such TV abuse can be found on Web sites like this:

http://www.ithaca.edu/looksharp/resources_tv.php

I agree with everything they write, but they don’t live in my home, and I am not, nor will I ever be, a perfect mother. Heck, my mother let me watch “Dark Shadows,” whatever 4:30 movie was on, and the news since I was 4 years old. And I turned out fairly well, I reason with myself.

An online group of mothers I know once held a poll on how many hours a day their children watched television. I was amazed that no one said (admitted?) that they let their children watch TV for more than 1 or 2 hours per day. And many even qualified that by saying that such TV time only included PBS channels or educational videos. Needless to say, I didn’t respond.

I’m not going to outright accuse them of lying, but I have to say that in my heart of hearts – I didn’t believe them. I think the stigma of allowing children to watch a lot of television has made us ashamed of the hours we let them sit in front of the boob tube. I was (am) certainly embarrassed that our TV watching is so out of control.

During the week, I can rationalize it because my elderly father watches them after school and camp, and can’t really run around with them too much. Letting them watch TV makes it easier on him.

But the weekends are another matter. We’ve had perfectly beautiful spring and summer weekend days pass by in a blur while they sit transfixed in front of the TV, demanding food and drink be brought to them like the royalty they believe they are (and yes – to keep the peace, I often do it).

Well, this weekend I decided I’d make more healthy meals for them (another blog entry for another day), and that the TV was staying off.

I pulled the plug from both TVs, told them that the electricity was off (“Then why is the light still on?” my precocious Jessica inquired. “Because it’s just the TV electricity that’s off,” I responded, which was, technically, true.

Amazingly, instead of the bored, whiny, annoying 5-year-olds I expected as a result, we had a really nice weekend. We played games, we horsed around, we bought them new 2-wheeler bicycles, we played in the sprinkler at the local playground, and interacted with them in all kinds of interesting, and enjoyable ways.

What surprised me the most was that they were actually less whiny than usual and even Jessica, who loves TV more than anything except me and her father, only asked for it once or twice. When I firmly said that we were doing something else instead, she quickly accepted it and moved on to riding her scooter or building something or completing another project we had lined up for them. Lily didn't even miss it at all.

So maybe those mothers weren’t lying after all. Maybe they’ve discovered what I finally learned by turning off the TV. That it makes it easier to connect with my children when I don’t have to compete with animated sponges, that it really doesn’t take too much effort to come up with activities that we can all enjoy, and that while they’re completing a project or playing imaginative games with each other and their assorted rubber lizards and stuffed animals, my husband and I still have time to make meals, read a paper or just sit back and enjoy watching them.

Don’t hold me to it, but I think we’re going to stick to “TV-free weekends” from now on.

10 Reasons Why I Work

2005-08-03T17:00:00.000-04:00

I've been focusing lately much more on being a mom than furthering my career, but I had a good day at work today, I have a bright new assistant ready to start on Monday, and I bought a new sleeveless sweater and skirt to help beat the oppressive NY heat, so I'm in a good mood. Herewith, my manifesto on why I, a mother who adores her children to the point of distraction, still disentagles herself from them each morning, takes the LIRR and heads to Manhattan to work.

1. It engages my intellectual curiosity in a way that "Arty the Smarty" never could - yet, paradoxically, I'm the living embodiment of the fish who swam "this way" when all the other fish swam "that way" and who wanted, more than anything in life, to "make a big splash." I was a little girl who grew up in the 1970s dreaming of making an impact on the world much more than I ever dreamed of being a mother. Being the head of a department in a field I never even went to school for, and thriving in this new profession, is enormously, gargantually satisfying.

2. Stroke me, stroke me. I don't know about you, but sometimes all I get at home is whining from my children, criticism from my husband, and a seemingly endless pile of dishes in the sink. On those days, a simple compliment from my boss or successfully completing a long-term project can send me into the stratosphere. And if I get at least 5 of my 10 to-do items crossed off my Franklin Covey planner, it's heaven on a stick. Today was one of those days.

3. I like meeting new people and forging better relationships with the ones I already know. Marketing is like breathing to me. I'm getting paid to do something I already do - to some degree- naturally. Can't beat that.

4. It's empowerin, and OK, even fun -- to have a budget. I take referral sources out to cool new restaurants, I hire professional designers, I use my creativity to dream up events that will help bring more recognition and more clients to the firm. I make important decisions, back them up with ROI, and make a real impact on a $40 million professional services firm.

5. A room of my own. I live in a small house and with a husband, two kids and my aging Dad living in the basement, privacy is not an option. Looking out over 5th Avenue from my small, but private, office, offers me a sanctuary where I can think, create, and recharge my batteries.

6. I like to earn money. There - I said it. I am not the kind of woman who would do well on a spousal allowance - no matter how generous. I like working hard and getting that pay stub to show that what I did that week was worth something tangible to somebody.

7. My children. Although there are days when I think that staying home with them all day seems like a wonderful existence, the truth is that they will ultimately benefit from me having a job. I will never be one of those women whose children grow up, leave home, and then go through the crisis of "Who am I and what do I do now that I don't have young children to care for?" A working mother of teenagers once told me that her children appreciated that she clipped stories for them out of the Wall Street Journal when she read something that related to a school project they were working on, and how proud they were that their mother did something important in the world besides raising them.

8. It's genetic. My mother worked and it showed me a side of her and helped me appreciate her in a way that I would never have known (and that perhaps she never would have, either) if she didn't leave the house each day. I actually have fond memories of going to a babysitter in the morning before kindergarten and getting away with eating sugar on my Cheerios (something my mother would have forb idden at home). I also loved going to the classroom where she taught and being fussed over by her students, who adored her.

9. Life is too short. If I had 120 years to live, perhaps I would have stayed home with my girls for 15 years and then pursued a career. But time is something you never get back. And yes, I know that at the end of my life, making a difference in my daughters' lives will probably mean more to me than anything I accomplished at work, but I have an overwhelming need to do it all, and I just can't sublimate one portion of my personality. It keeps me from resenting motherhood, or work, and I think that's a good thing.

10. It just feels right. When you come down to it, we all need to go with our guts - whether it's about working outside of the home, letting your babies cry it out to sleep (couldn't do it), buying the red shirt or the blue one. We all forge the paths of our lives with each small and large decision we make, and they all add up in the end to who we are becoming and will ultimately become. I like who I am today, and I'm convinced that being a working mother is the right path for me. It isn't always thrilling, it has its definite drawbacks, but in the end - it just feels right, so I do it.

Out of tragedy, the essence of what it means to be a mother

2005-07-05T17:22:00.000-04:00

I used to be a news reporter, and crime reporting was what I liked best. It was much more clear-cut and visceral than politics, the arts or business where everyone you spoke with had an agenda. A crime was committed, the cops searched for the criminal, maybe there’s a trial to follow up on, and the story was then complete.

I liked the excitement of a fire or a murder or a missing person – it got my adrenaline pumping and I soon learned that many firefighters and cops were in it for the same reason, despite all the public proclamations about wanting to help people. At their very core, they’re excitement junkies and thrive on being part of the action.

I was young and single then, and although I knew I wanted to be a mother one day, I had no compunction about putting an old macabre Edward Gorey alphabet cartoon in my bathroom detailing all the ways in which young children died. (If you want to see the poster I’m talking about, check out this Web site (http://www.wishville.co.uk/gorey.)

That all changed one spring day in 1991 when I came back to the office after wandering around my Park Slope, Brooklyn beat and discovered that a young girl had been killed by a car driven by a teenage joyrider.

Fiona Pechukas was just 17, heartbreakingly beautiful, and took off that day from high school in order to complete some college applications. She had just mailed them when the car careened out of nowhere, pinning her to a bus shelter. She died later that night at a local hospital.

I dutifully went to the family’s home the next day and although I expected the mother to dismiss me as a ghoulish chronicler of other people’s miseries, she instead welcomed me in her home, showed me her daughter’s diaries, and talked to me for about an hour about the child she’d never see again.

As I left that home, I didn’t know if I had the right stuff to be a reporter. I’d gotten too close, seen too much of what it really meant to be a victim, and got a small glimpse into what it meant to be a mother. I stayed a reporter for a few more years, but I didn’t have the hard shell that you need to really be a crime reporter, and I knew it. I still mourn for that mother and wonder what Fiona would be doing today if she had lived.

This morning, that experience came rushing back to me when I picked up the New York Times to read about a local tragedy. A family coming home from a family wedding in a limousine was struck by a drunk driver. A 7-year-old girl, one of the flower children at the wedding, was killed.

Another day, another tragedy, you might think. But what struck me was the fact that the girls’ mother held a news conference just days after the crash and described in chilling, horrific detail what it was like to sit there on the side of the road, clutching what remained of her daughter’s head in her hands for more than an hour.

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/07/05/nyregion/05crash.html?pagewanted=all

A drunk driver had literally smashed her life to pieces and she instinctively knew how to pierce through the tough New York City press corps’ armor to make them feel what she was feeling. To make sure that this crime would not disappear when the next tragedy reared its ugly head. To not let herself or her child be reduced to just another victim. To ensure that the drunk driver would severely punished. The paper’s accounting of the press conference noted that after she finished speaking, there was stunned silence from the throng of reporters gathered – an unheard of event in a city where murder and mayhem are taken for granted, and “Headless body in Topless Bar” is a celebrated tabloid headline.

I ache for that mother today in a way that I couldn’t in 1991 when I had no clue about the depth and ferocity of a mother’s love for her child. I see my little girls in her angel’s face; I got a terrible glimpse into the anguish of what it must be like to lose a child, and I feel a kinship with this unbearably strong woman who felt bound to use this personal tragedy to make the rest of the world feel her pain, and to focus on preventing this from happening to other mothers.

I hated reading her story, but as a mother, I had to read it. I live in New York, but I know that even if I lived in the middle of nowhere, nothing I could do could assure the protection of my children from outside forces, be they drunk drivers, terrorists or deadly illnesses.

Instead, I draw strength from other mothers who’ve gone through tragedies and come out, if not completely whole, at least to the other side. There are other children to care for, new important work that needs to be done. There is no way they can just withdraw from life or even kill themselves, as I’ve felt some of them must want to do after such a tragedy.

In the end, all mothers are working moms and despite our differences, what we share at our core is truly all the same. We push onward, write novels, change diapers, and advocate for our children in a way no other person in the world ever could. To be a mother is to be filled with fear for what could happen, yet completely fearless in our single-minded purpose - to raise our children until they’re old or wise enough to take care of themselves. It’s the toughest job in the world and the most rewarding one I’ll ever know.

Mother's Day musings - thanks, but I'll keep the guilt

2005-05-06T13:22:00.000-04:00

So it's inevitable that before Mother's Day, you'll read the obligatory column or two from a working mom on balancing work and home life.

Today, CNN featured a column from a working mother that caught my eye, especially since, like me, she's also raising twin girls.

It's about losing the guilt and looking "at the bright side of balancing kids and career."

http://money.cnn.com/2005/05/05/pf/workingmoms/index.htm?cnn=yes

Give me a break. First of all, she cites that day care study that had most parents in a tizzy a few months back. You know, the one where it said that day care could cause more violent children who might also develop developmental problems? Conveniently, she downplays the dark side of child care, noting that the "majority of children are in a normal range."

That may be a small comfort for us working moms who handed over our children to daycare centers before they got their first tooth, but you just know the smug soccer moms are secretly gloating that the hours they've spent nourishing their youngsters on Baby Einstein and neighborhood nature walks have forever shielded their offspring from such dire fates.

The writer also conveniently works in an office "a few feet away" from her house, and muses about watching her husband's silhouette as he makes breakfast, packs lunches and gets her daughters ready for school.

She urges other women to encourage other fathers to pitch in more, like hers. Hey, I'm all for that (I would have divorced my husband long ago if he didn't share the early diapering and late-night feedings), but she doesn't seem to get that her idyllic situation (who wouldn't want to work a few feet from their house, but how many of us can really do that?) is an aberration and even I, a mother of twins near her daughters' age, don't really identify with her working mother life.

My daughters spent 12 hours a day in daycare since they were 7 months old, and the guilt I felt over that family sacrifice will probably never go away. I didn't really have too much of a choice, unless I wanted to move from our home to an apartment, and like most people, I just did what I had to do, and I've learned to live with it. Guilt hurts, but it won't kill you.

And I still feel bad sometimes when my daughters don't want to school and beg me to stay home with them. Feeling guilt isn't just the province of working mothers -- I suspect stay at home moms feel it, too. For yelling too much, for letting their kids watch too much TV, for not being as in touch with the businessworld as their working mom friends.

But the funny thing about the work/life balance is that it's like the fairytales we tell our children at night -- it doesn't really exist. Sure I took a cut in pay to leave early one day a week and that helps, but I suspect that even if I were granted my greatest wish - working three days per week for the same salary I'm making now at a company 10 minutes from my house, I'd still feel guilty. About not advancing enough in my career, about not having the patience to read "Horton Hears a Who" for the fourth time, about not having enough time for myself.

Guilt is my God-given right as a mother and as a woman, and I'll be damned if anyone's going to take that away from me.

Happy Mother's Day

Ravings of a working mother - the saga begins

2005-04-22T17:21:00.000-04:00

I'm the kind of person who doesn't jump on technology bandwagons until they're about to merge into the mainstream or slide into oblivion. Like I've been thinking about buying a cool poncho for the spring. Only now I notice on the streets of NYC that nobody's wearing them anymore. Except perhaps tourists from Dubuque. So I missed that boat.

But the more I read about blogging, the more interested I've become in creating my own blog. After all, I'm a former reporter and editor, and I think best when I'm writing. It's a kind of self-therapy for me.

What to write about, though? I'm marketing director for a professional services firm, but that's not exciting enough to wrap a blog around. Don't get me wrong -- I truly love my job and it will probably figure into a lot of my writing here. But for a blog to be interesting, in my opinion, it's got to make a visceral connection with its readers. And that's when it hit. I'm a working mother at a time when it seems working mothers like me who choose both a career and a family (bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan to borrow the famous 1970s Enjoli commercial) are an endangered species.

So I'm going to be here to hold up the fort for working mothers who choose to work, who attempt the often-precarious balance between both worlds, and who want to have it all. I don't always love my life every day. But I know that being a mother and having a career is the only choice I can sanely, securely make every day. For both me and for my little girls.

And so that's my first post in my new blog. Welcome to my world.