I Did It Myyyy Waaay...

Frankie (Sinatra that is) makes it sound so easy. Just choose to do it "my way." Yet when you try to fill someone else's shoes, those around you constantly speculate if you can do it as well as she did, wonder how much you will change their jobs and hope (well some people anyway) you'll fall flat on your face so the big bosses can see they really deserved the job. To complicate matters even further, the person you replaced didn't retire or leave the company. No, she simply got promoted and (with all good intentions on her part) checks in every few days to see how it's going. Yet, you continue to try to do things "your way" since "her way" just doesn't make any sense to you.

Welcome to my work life...

Now, let me begin by saying I love my new job. It is a great new challenge that keeps my brain hard at work at all hours (not so good for a restful night's sleep, but I am sure I'll get used to it). But my predecessor's presence lurks around me...always. She is great with people - always has a kind word and remembers everyone's husband's name, childrens' names and life stories. She writes personal thank you notes following almost every act of kindness. She treats every meeting as an opportunity to cater an event. I am just not built that way. I do not do small talk. I believe personal lives should remain personal. And I still haven't even sent my parents their anniversary card (going on 3 weeks now).

But...and this may sound pretentious however I am starting to really believe it is true...my predecessor didn't do her job as well as perhaps she should have or could have. It was a position she held for over 25 years. I am sure complacency set in at some point. There are tremendous gaps in her work, not to mention no computer files (yes, that's right folks...none. She handwrites most her memos). Glaring flaws confront me everyday, ones I know she must have seen, but instead seemingly chose not to ruffle feathers or chose not to work very hard. Because she is as nice as she is, I prefer to think the best of her.

However, here I am eight weeks into this great job trying to patch some of the gaping holes without ostracizing too many people (including my predecessor) at the same time. How do I fix some of the most pressing problems without sending the message to her employees that their much beloved former boss often dropped the ball so they are wasting their time doing some of the things she asked of them? That's tough news to break without all the home baked cookies and spinach quiche to distract them. I guess I will try to "wow" them with common sense first and try to address those areas that will help make their lives a bit easier.

If not, there's always Entenmann's chocolate chip cookies and Dunkin Donuts coffee. I guess I should go to a stationary store too (just in case of emergency).

Boy Crazy...

My sister-in-law and niece are visiting for a long weekend. My niece is 10 years old, going on 21. She wears mascara and blue eyeshadow, has a boyfriend, has a cell phone and has that "I'm on the edge of puberty" attitude. She is this fantastic girl who is in the often ungraceful process of shedding her childhood skin. All she wants to talk about is boys and who is hot and who is not. She loves the Jonas brothers (Nick is the hot one by the way). As she pages through her generation's version of Teen Beat, she floats into her fantasy world where everyone loves her and she always gets the hottest guy (that would be the aforementioned Nick Jonas). And I, trying to be the good aunt, listen intently to all her stories about what would happen if she met the Jonas brothers and why she needs to have a boyfriend even though she is only in 5th grade. But what I want to say (and do whenever an opportunity presents itself) is there is a lot more to life than boys. Yet even in this post-feminist movement world where women are equal (and probably your boss), she stares at me with exasperation and bewilderment when I ask what else she is interested in besides boys and shopping.

As she continues on, I find my eyes glancing at my own two year old Princess, and I wonder who she will be at ten years old. What world will she enter? Who will her role models be? How crazy will she get about boys? It is a little nerve wracking to contemplate.

So tonight rather than worrying about all those questions which I cannot control right now, I tiptoed into Princess's bedroom, hoping she wasn't yet asleep. Thankfully, she wasn't. I asked her if she wanted to rock in the chair with me for a little while, and she eagerly nodded her head. And so we rocked - back and forth, back and forth - while she told me stories about her day and what we will do this weekend. And I, trying to be the good mom, listened intently and snuggled her tightly. All the while, though, I was thinking that someday Princess will be ten...but tonight, thank God, she was wonderfully, fantastically two (without a hint of boy mania in sight).

You Spin Me Right 'Round

Well, I am on the working mom carousel today. As I have to do on many days, I left for work before Princess opened her eyes (it bums me out everytime). When I got to work, I dropped my stuff in my office and ran out to do two observations, back to back. Returned to my office to find 12 new e-mails (two with the high priority exclamation point) and three phone messages. Believing I only had 20 minutes until my next appointment, I quickly addressed the most pressing, and then dashed off to an elementary school. Patiently, I waited for my partner to arrive at said school only to find out we miscommunicated on our days so she thought our meeting is tomorrow. While lingering at the school, though, I thought about Princess and what she was doing now (gymnastics class, I think). That palpable "mom guilt" swirled around me as I saw other brown haired, brown eyed little girls skip through the school's hallways. Ugh...yet no time to wallow; it's back to the high school to comb through hundreds of pages of curriculum, four years' worth of department meeting agendas and school board policies as I attempt to do my part to prepare for state monitoring. Several people come and asks questions. I find out one teacher I observed is in tears because she thinks the lesson was terrible (it wasn't). I send a "don't worry, it was fine" e-mail. A few hours (and two Advil) later, it's off to my "new administrator" cohort/support group where I stare at a clock and eagerly anticipate picking up Princess.

Sprint to the car...drive too many miles to pick her up.

Big, big, delicious hugs from Princess. Breathe....

But only for a second.

Drive home. Change clothes. Make dinner. Empty dishwasher. Eat dinner. Play outside. Play inside. Feed dog. Bath. Strawberries (for Princess). Stories. Bed. Turn on the sprinkler for new sod. More kisses. Bed. "Rub my back Mommy." Bed. "Daddy's still at work baby girl." Bed again. Turn down the monitor's volume to make it easier to do the tough love approach to bedtime. Sleeping Princess.

Blog...and a glass of red wine. I think I earned it today.

Back to the Coffee Shop

Yep, I totally stink at balancing work, home and blog!! My world is just starting to get some rhythm back to it, so I hope to do a better job of posting here. Three posts a week is my new goal. Let's see who can keep me honest (thanks to Bookgirl whose friendly "where the heck are you?" message prompted this entry). But I have to warn you...baseball playoffs are only a week away, and they do take up a lot of my free time in the evening (my Yanks need me, you know). Plus, hello, new TV shows! I've got sitcom romances to catch up on. It is difficult to keep track of all my imaginary flat screen friends on How I Met Your Mother, The Office, Scrubs, 30 Rock, etc. But I promise to try to give equal attention to my real flat screen blog friends!!

Speaking of favorite TV shows, do you know they are turning Sex and the City into a movie? Now, of course, I kept up with all the talks preceding the start of filming - Sarah Jessica was in and then holding out, Kim Cattrell wanted this sex scene and not that, Kristen Davis just wanted to have a job doing something else besides bad Loreal commercials - you get the picture. The thought of a continum to the finale (which I still have saved on my Tivo, almost 3 years later!) made my heart twitter. The possibility of catching up with the girls at the coffee shop practically brought tears to my eyes.

And now they are actually filming it in NYC. Go to Bookgirl's blog for visual proof (they are shooting scenes in her building!!).

And now, I don't know. I am having second thoughts. Shouldn't a TV show end on the TV screen?

I fear they are going to screw it up. I worry they are going to twist the plot too much. Do I want to peak into the "married with children" lives of Miranda and Charlotte? Not really...I live that each day. Do I want to watch Carrie marry Mr. Big? Absolutely not (and if they do I promise there will be an entire entry devoted as to why this is a terrible choice). They picked the right ending the first time. Great books leave you wondering...great tv shows should too.

So don't kill the magic, Darren Star! If it turns out the last season was all Carrie's dream or the characters go to jail for their questionable morals, I promise you will hear from me. Please don't ruin my imaginary flat screen TV friends lives by stretching their little worlds onto a huge movie screen. Bottom line - don't f*ck it up.

Yet, if Ross and Rachel should happen to make a cameo at the coffee shop (they must have moved uptown by now), at least then I'd know how they are doing too.

Itchy, Itchy

Recently I have been involved in several conversations about relationships - what makes them work, what causes them to go wrong, etc. Most of my friends fall into two categories - single yet desiring marriage and married but wistfully recalling singledom. Most in the married category have been betrothed for 6 or more years. They have started to glance back into their early twenties, wondering what could have been if they have turned a different corner. What if they had moved to California instead of stayed in New York? What if they had gone to College A instead of College B? Yesterday one of my closest friends eloquently speculated, "What if I hadn't been such an insecure prick who felt the need to have a girlfriend since I was 13?" What if?

These questions can make your head spin, and I know my friends in the single category wrestle with them as well. However, when you are one half of a married couple these inquiries are taboo, as if by asking them you are proclaiming the imminent downfall of your marriage. Not true (well about half the time it's not true since our divorce rate is over 50%). Instead, I believe it is a very natural rhythm for a relationship; some have even called it a seven year itch. Around the six or seven year mark in a relationship you start to really realize (maybe even accept) that what drives you crazy about your spouse is just not going to change. You understand that despite the hours and hours of conversations (some heated) the person to whom you have given your life is going to possess this negative trait - forever.

For example, I am an anxious person. I try to manage it, suppress it, and contain it. Yet there are times when I just cannot do so. Before we travel, for example, I slowly unravel my cool exterior to reveal my twitching self who must pack every blanket, medicine, and tidbit for Princess or else I am uneasy. During these times I have been unreasonable, moody and unapproachable. My husband and I have had endless talks about my anxiety. He, Mr. Laid Back, hates when I am so tense. Sometimes, he finds these harried episodes of mine funny, which just ticks me off even more. So now as we move into our seventh year of marriage he confronts the very real possibility that yes, this is who I am. This anxious, control freak person is the one he said "I do" to, and now he needs to know if he can really live with it. Perhaps he peers backwards into a time in his life when he could just be carefree, when no one lingered over him asking if he packed the baby's monitor or "if we should bring the nasal aspirator?" What if he had pursued his original dream of being a personal trainer? What if he had moved with his parents to Florida? What if he had never taken that catering job and worked with me? What if?

Over the past summer I have struggled to truly accept something about my husband. He is a workaholic. He claims he isn't, that it is just the nature of his business. And it is, but it is a business in which he chose to make his livelihood, thus feeding this addiction. Our conversations about his job are like the movie Groundhog Day. The same discussion recurs over and over: I say, "You work too much." He says, "It will get better soon." I say, "You said that last year and now you are working more." He says, "You knew this when you married me." I say, "You said you were going to find a new job." He says, "Well, I didn't. I love what I do. Why can't you support me?" And then the "talk" usually comes off the hinges and moves into the unpleasant, unfamiliar realm of a "fight."

After the wistfulness of college days and innumerable options fade away, we, the itchy married ones, realize that turning different corners would have only lead to different problems. Instead, we must begin to face new "What if" questions, ones that focus on the future rather than our pasts. What if I just accept this about my husband? What if we don't eat dinner together most nights like I want us to? What if I just accept this about my wife? What if she loses it every time she forgets to pack extra diapers? What if?

I guess we just don't know. Can a anxiety ridden woman and a workaholic man have a happy, fruitful marriage? And who wants to deal with it if the answer is no? Ugh...not me. That would be too painful to face. But what if?

So Mr. Laid Back, can you hand me that back scratcher over there? I think we've got an itch.

Can Someone Hand Me a Towel?

If you didn't read my previous post, this one won't make sense until you do. I'll give you a minute....

Whew. It was a long one, but as you can probably tell I was having a bad week. I did turn down the new job. Surprisingly, they came back with a counteroffer, a guarantee in writing, and a few other tidbits. While it was not the total package I desired, it was a strong gesture of good faith. So I'll do the job for a year, and then I can decide if I want to continue in that position or return to my old one.

So, someone hand me towel. The Big Boss wants me to wash the egg off my face.

One Chicken, Two Chickens...

I am a bit beside myself this evening (a tremendous understatement). In July, I wrote a post about my "secret" promotion, which now is far, far from secret. At my school district's administration meeting yesterday, my colleagues were openly congratulating me. One person even gave me a hug. What these people did not know was I had just left a meeting where I learned that what I thought my salary was going to be is no where near what I was going to be offered. Yet during a preliminary meeting in July, I presented what I wanted as a salary, and no one made any indication that I was not even close.

Since yesterday I have consulted a lawyer and had a second negiotiation meeting, all to no avail. Th big bosses want me to take this newly created job (absorbing the full responsibilities of someone's previous job while also fulfilling my current responsibilites) when my take home pay increase will equal less than what I spent on first car, a 1986 Dodge Daytona (w/ t-tops of course). It is a huge job. It is a shitty offer. I have 24 hours to make a decision. But I will give you a preview of how the phone conversation will go...

"Hi Very Friendly Admin Assistant...is Big Boss available?"

"Sure, Working Mom. I'll put you through. Oh, by the way, congratulations on your new job! I think that's wonderful."

"Ummm...Thanks Very Friendly Admin Assistant."

"Working Mom? It's Big Boss. How are you today?"

"Good, good. Listen, I know you are busy so let me cut to the chase."

"OK, great."

"You have offered me what basically constitutes my dream job, one that will challenge me and thrill me, a job that I will somehow work even harder than I already do to make sure I am successful, therefore making our school district successful. During all of our discussions you have given me some truly fantastic compliments and assured me that I am the person you want to do this job. At each meeting, you stated that you are fully confident that I am the individual who can make this supervisory model work. It has all been so kind of you to share that with me."

"Well, Working Mom, all the school administrators feel that way. We know you are the person for this job."

"Again, Big Boss, thanks. But you see, Big Boss, I drive a Ford now, and I really have no need for a 1986 Dodge Daytona. Nor do I need a new Pottery Barn throw rug (the big one). And I certainly don't need those extra funds to splurge on a Prada bag (not retail price, of course but we all know I love Ebay). It just doesn't seem fair to my colleagues for me to accept this district position, which oversees the curriculum development and implementation for over 7,000 students, professonial development training for approximately 200 teachers, direct supervision of over 35 department members, and then flaunt the fact that I was able to use my raise to buy a pair of used skis for Princess."

"I see."

"So I am going to have to say no to my dream job. I'm sure you understand."

Okay. It probably will go more along these lines....

"I have carefully considered your offer, taking numerous factors into account while doing so. Since it is a job I want to do and one I know I would love, you can imagine how difficult it is to me to say no. I can't do it. My bottom number is still thousands away from your best offer. The position is worth more than that. I am worth more than that. And the additional time I will spend away from Princess is worth more than that. I also know that while you have promised me you will not dissolve my current position, by turning this job down I am destroying any additional possibilities for career advancement here, at a school I really love. But I stand by what I said yesterday; the salary offer is unfair and unreasonable. And as hard as I have tried to do so, I cannot justify accepting it, knowing how much it will cost me and my family."

And then I will hang up the phone and cry. Or I might wait until I get into my car (that is where I have been doing much of my sobbing these last two days). I don't know. I'll be on pins and needles waiting to see how long I can control the lump in my throat.

So a lesson, my friends. When you count your chickens, make sure everyone involved in this exercise is counting eggs in the same coop, or you might end up like me...with slimy yolk all over your face.

For Adults Only

Okay...before you get too excited, it's not a racy post. Instead, I need to vent about where I believe it is appropriate to take kids, especially those 10 and under. As you all know, I am a parent of a 2 year old who is just as sweet as sugar, but there are places I do not take her because it is not fair for other patrons to suffer through a whiny tantrum or a "I'm so sleepy" crying episode. I made her (well there were 2 of us present during her creation), so it is my job to deal with those fun moments. Yet, those people out to enjoy a nice dinner at a good restaurant, or I don't know, let's say women set to enjoy a quiet pedicure on a Sunday morning, should not be subjected to a screaming child. And yet, during my ONE hour of alone time on Sunday, that is exactly what happened.

As many of you already know, my husband works like a maniac, especially during the summer months. From May through September, I am basically on my own. So those few times when I get to go somewhere, anywhere without toting extra diapers, a sippy cup, wipes, Abby Caddabby, matchbox cars and crayons, well those are rare. special moments for me. This Sunday, though, my husband was home for a total of 24 hours, and he said I should go out and treat myself to some alone time. Before he completed the sentence, I sprinted to my car with just my debit card, iPod and book in hand. Off I drove to Jane's Nails, the only local salon open on Sundays.

It all started off very well. I walked in, and they immediately fulfill my "mani-pedi" request. Fantastic. Approximately five minutes into my manicure, a mom walks in with her 5 year old daughter to get a pedicure. At first, this sight does not trouble me at all. I understand a mother's need to get out of the house. I understand her desire to treat herself to a foot soak. I understand her want of red polish on her toes. I've been alone with a toddler for the last 3 days; I get it. But, then she says she wants her daughter to get a pedicure too, and I think "This is going to be trouble."

Now, ladies (no offense to my dear male friends who read this blog as well - please don't feel excluded), you know damn well that occasionally you'll get pinched or the water will be a little too hot or the file will burn just a bit. And you are not a five year old girl with tickly feet who squirms and wiggles because, you know, you're 5! You're a grown up who can sit still for 30 - 45 minutes, longer if someone is rubbing your feet! But a kind (perhaps naive) technician invites this sweet little girl to climb into a massage chair to give her a pedicure.

At first, it's okay. Yes, she's a chatty five year old and I would prefer a little more serenity (as I just left my chatty 2 year old), but it's manageable. The little girl is good for the first 10 - 15 minutes and I think, "I misjudged; shame on me. A preschooler can get a pedicure." However, before the daydreams of kindergarten Princess and I getting pedis begin, a scream catapaults from this girl's mouth out into the salon. This little girl's yelp reverberates off the salon's coral walls, circles each patron's head, and sends familiar maternal quesiness into my belly. Then, the tears pour from this little girl's face and true hysterics set in. Her mother frantically interrogates the girl and the tech, "What happened? What hurts?" But no one speaks, or if they do, I can't hear it over the child's gut-wrenching, "my foot has been cut off" cries.

Just the relaxing Sunday morning I was looking for.

So it turns out, as the tech clipped the little girl's big toe nail, the girl flinched, and the tech caught a tiny piece of skin. Yep, that hurts. I don't blame the child for screaming. She's five... I blame the mom for getting her a pedicure because, you know, she's five...

After several minutes of consoling her, wrapping her toe in mountains of gauze and assuring her it would be fine, the mother finally decides to remove her daughter from the salon. But as she leaves, she doesn't apologize or state (with contrition) "This probably wasn't a good idea." No, instead she makes a ridiculous proclamation: "Don't worry, baby. We will NEVER come back to this TERRIBLE place again! They OBVIOUSLY don't know how to take care of their CUSTOMERS properly."

Lady...she's five, and you got her a pedicure. And your daughter's screaming ruined 20 minutes of my 60 allotted minutes to be without my own screaming child. Let's not pass blame on the salon here.

So, call me crazy, unreasonable or plain mean. But there are some places that really are for adults only. If men can have an entire section of a non-franchised video store (b/c we all know women order their porn online), then I think ladies should be allowed to have nail salons.

There are just some places that should be for Adults Only.

One Last Sweet Treat

Princess and I had ice cream for lunch...and it was delicious! Now before anyone reports me to an agency for bad parents, let me defend myself.

I go back to work next week. My summer fun officially stops on Tuesday. So today after a morning of music class, followed by a late morning of walking around a farm feeding lots of animals, Princess and I each got a Kiddie cup full of silky vanilla ice cream. We found a nice little picnic bench (far enough away from both farm animals and garbage cans thus avoiding a swarm of bees reminiscent of My Girl) and indulged ourselves in spoonful after spoonful of the creamy sweet treat. It was our swan song for a lovely mother-daughter summer that feels as if it only just begun.

As I wiped the sugary drips from my daughter's cheeks (and knees, fingers, t-shirt, shorts and one ear - not sure how that happened), I felt that familiar knot creep into the back of my throat. Our mornings of music, cooking shows, play-doh, car races, crayons, books, blocks and dolls are over. The afternoons of pool splashes, park swings, and salt shakers (to season the dinners we watched assembled on Food Network, of course) are through. We will walk back in the maelstrom of early morning wake-up calls, long hours without one sticky kiss from Princess, and ridiculous traffic jams which nibble away our few precious hours together. The knot is repositioning itself as I write.

So, yes, we had ice cream for lunch. We licked away our fun summer and prepared ourselves for another school year.

And don't worry...we are having chicken and a big salad for dinner.

Never Too Many Cooks

Many people learn to cook in their mothers' or grandmothers' kitchens. They cozy up around countertops or linger over hot stoves, consuming every morsel of culinary knowledge available. That is not my story. My mother, bless her heart, does not love to cook. Growing up we had lots of meals generated from cardboard boxes, and that was really fine with me. However, several years ago I decided I wanted to learn more about cooking and to try to become a really, really good cook. So my education began...thanks to Food Network.

Not really the touchy, feely comfortable place to learn, but hey - I didn't even know how to chop an onion when I started. Lovingly (though two dimensionally), food network cooks invited me into their kitchens and showed me the ropes - well the microplanes, whiskers and juicers. Rachel Ray became my new best friend as I watched night after night of 30 minute meals. Not only did I learn how to chop an onion, but before I knew it I was making sauces, entrees, side dishes, and salads, all from scratch. I tossed my measuring cups and spoons, preferring to "eyeball" it like my dear friend Rachel (this decision has created some salty disasters, but I have learned my lesson).

Then I started having dinner parties, inviting couples and family members over to experiment with new recipes. Nothing is more fulfilling than filling the bellies of those you love with delicious food. I've made balsamic pork tenderloin for 4 and 14. Of course, I am now a bit famous for my Christmas Eve dinner (utilizing seven types of fish to honor my husband's Italian heritage and making killer filet mignon for those who can't stomach the pesce). I have to say I am pretty darn good now and have graduated to creating my own recipes.

Yet, when Princess came along a few years ago, cooking became much more difficult. Finding the time to make the macaroni & cheese from scratch (w/ freshly ground nutmeg, of course) became nearly impossible. So some cardboard boxes have made their way into my pantry. As a working mom, I had to let go of some of my homemade dinners in order to spend those precious evening hours with my little girl.

But now Princess has discovered Food Network as well, and all may be right with the world again. Yes, my two year old (former lover of all things Mickey and Zoe) would prefer to watch Rachel, Emeril, or Ina "do some cooking" rather than any kids' show. Recently, I updated my Tivo so that these beloved cooking shows could be viewed at a moment's notice. Princess also loves to help in me in my kitchen, which can present some toddler challenges (no, honey, you can't pour the gallon of milk into the very hot saucepan). But she can mix salads, spices and vinagrettes pretty well. Overall, it has been really fun!

Yesterday, I prepared a Sunday dinner for my family. It was an unusually chilly day for August, so I made my husband's favorite roast chicken along with cous cous and green beans. For some of the time, Princess was propped up on the counter asking "What's this mommy?" or "Can I mix that mommy?"

As she inquisitively pointed to each ingredient I realized something. While she may love the TV cooks as much as I do, she may actually be learning to cook while hanging out in my kitchen and stirring our family's orzo salad. That brings me great joy and I hope years worth of wonderful memories.

So thank you Rachel Ray...I owe you one.

A New Romance...

This entry is a two-parter, so bear with me.

Last night, my husband and I (unable to bear watching the Yankees lose again, but we still love them) watched a rerun of Scrubs. Those of you who have never seen it are really missing out. It is a quirky, entertaining show with at least one laugh out loud moment in each episode. Anyway, this episode was the season finale from last year, one of my favorites. See one of the main characters, Elliot, gets engaged to her boyfriend, Keith. But her old boyfriend and still good friend, JD, looks on and realizes he still loves her. It is a wonderful scene with a great song playing in the background. I decide to go on a mission to track down that great song...and my whole world opened up.

I began on iTunes, searching for my "best guess" song titles and possible artists. No luck. Hmmm...I really needed this song. So I thought "Let me give this web site the kids call 'YouTube' a try." Oh my goodness...I will never turn the computer off again.

First, I found the Scrubs scene I described above in about 3 seconds, thus finding the song title (as the person mentions it in their Notes section). Hey...do you want to watch it too? It's so simple...just click here. Or maybe you'd like to check out my other favorite scene of all time from the show where Turk dances to Bel Biv Devoe's song "Poison?" Oh, you do? Then just click here .

Amazing, isn't it? I thought I was so advanced by getting Tivo (and I love my Tivo). But I had no idea sitcoms' highlight reels were right at my fingertips! So you know what I did for the rest of the night? That's right...I searched for every freakin' favorite tv moment I could think of. You know what I realized next (here comes part 2)? I am a sucker for the sitcom romances.

Yep, that's right people. I love Ross and Rachel's first kiss in the coffee shop. You too? Here it is. I love their break up (you get the picture now - find that one on your own). I love the ups and downs of Jim and Pam on The Office. I even find a place in my heart for those crazy preteen sweethearts Kevin and Winnie of The Wonder Years. And, of course, Carrie and Mr. Big from Sex and the City. Now, thanks to the magical powers of YouTube, I can relive these tv moments over and over again. Bless you Mr. Internet Inventor. Double blessings to the guy or girl who started You Tube.

Yes, I appreciate the guy who invented fire and the other one who figured out pencillin, thanks for those. But You Tube...wow. Let's just say if you need me, I'll be hanging out at some coffee shop (maybe Central Perk) laughing and crying over Carrie and Aiden (because didn't they really belong together?). OK (reality check), I'll probably be home on the couch with Princess at my knee and my husband rolling his eyes at my latest obsession, but I was trying to paint a more romantic picture. You know...me and my new beau, YouTube, sharing a latte and some giggles.

Stay tuned. It's going to be a great love story.

Home Sweet Home

Back from the beach! I did get a pretty good tan and some hard earned R & R. Yet I have to admit, it is really good to be home. Not only is it fantastic to sleep in my own queen size bed (a double with the hubby is just too squished), it is great to have my little Princess back as well. "Didn't she go on vacation?" you ask. Of course she did. But when we got to the beach another Princess emerged, one who followed every move her older (by 4 months) cousin made, including all the bad ones. And, the saddest part of all for me, this Princess was not very interested in reading, coloring, swimming or playing with Mommy (the one who carried her for 9 months and endured 12 hours of unmedicated labor only to be subjected to major abdominal surgery). No, unless she fell down or was really tired, she was all about DADDY!

At first this might sound great to some of you moms who spend more time feeling like a human jungle gym with little people dangling from your limbs. It was a nice break for the first day or so. But then I started to really miss her. She wouldn't climb in my lap, bury my feet in the sand or you know, make eye contact. No, Daddy was the go-to guy. When he wasn't around, she had plenty of other admirers from which to choose. Her older cousins, her aunt, uncle, grandma and pop-pop were all at the ready to entertain my little one. Only if none of them were available would she scamper to me looking for some entertainment (or more likely a diaper change...great). My husband kept telling me not to take it personally. She is with me everyday now and is just looking for other playmates. My logical side tells me this statement is true; however my paranoid I'm a bad mom side continued to torment me with "Ha! Ha! She doesn't love you."

On Monday, we arrived home late and tucked a sleeping Princess into her familar bed. Magically, the next morning my Princess awoke, gave me one of her most delicious hugs and all was right in the world.

It is so good to be home.

Just in Case

We are off to the beach today for a well-deserved vacation! The caravan is stuffed with lots of "just in case" and "rainy day" items. It is truly astounding how many things fall into these categories when it comes to a two year old. In the days of yore (a.k.a before baby) I packed for an entire week in one small suitcase and a beach bag. My rainy day items consisted of the latest New York Times bestseller and a deck of cards. Right now my car is expertly packed with a huge rolling suitcase, a small rolling suitcase, endless shopping bags of snacks, two medium tupperware boxes with toys and books, beach chairs, a beach umbrella, a beach tent (hey, it's small, maybe she'll use it), a gigantic beach bag, a cooler, and the list goes on and on.

What is not coming with me is this computer...so I will probably have some kind of withdrawal at about 11 tonight. When I get back in a few days, I hope to have some entertaining toddler tidbits to share (and a killer tan)!

Our Layers

Disclaimer: Feeling a little "off" for the last few days so this entry is a bit more serious than I usually allow myself to be here. However, there is a great poem at the end so feel free to skip to the bottom for a powerful piece of writing worth printing out! When I get back from vacation next week, I promise, back to my usual lighthearted self!

We are complicated beings. Ones filled with twisted, gnarled emotions, attached to memories, people and losses we should have let go of long ago. There are nights, like this one, when I cannot forgive myself for not being able to do just that. Let go.

The world I have constructed for myself is one that is full of questions, insecurities and fear. I can only recall a handful of times when I have actually just allowed myself to relax, have fun and not "overthink" (my husband's favorite description of me). Those nights are so precious to me because I felt wonderfully alive and free. Many of you who read this blog were probably at most of those events. Let's see...my wedding, a Halloween party at the "famous" NYC apartment (shout out to Super Jeff), a night at Sweet Melissa's (bar in NYC), a dinner party at my house, one night at the "upscale" campus bar for my 22nd birthday, and my senior spring college formal. Strange that they all involve alcohol, but let's not deconstruct that now.

What I do notice, though, is the events do have people in common. So while I search for a hobby that fulfills me, a place that feels comfortable, or a dream that is realized, perhaps I should just spend more time with the people who know me (really know me) and love me anyway. Perhaps I should dedicate less time to climbing a corporate ladder and accumulating materialistic goods. Maybe I should focus on them, on you, on the people who matter to me.

Stanley Kunitz writes "Live in the layers/ not on the litter." It is from one of my favorite poems (see below), and it is a line I repeat to my students time and again when they get caught up in the thorny parts of life. Maybe it is time I listen too.


The Layers

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

Stanley Kunitz

Joy...

A short entry today...

There is nothing like watching my dear daughter experience pure joy. We went to our mommy & me music class yesterday, and for the first time she really let loose rather than her usual lingering outside the circle's perimeter. She's been a bit hesitant and shy (her usual) at music class, but this week she sashayed in like she owned the place. Class began and she sang every word, marched in the circle (without clinging to my leg), and beat her drum like she was in a 1980s hair band. She danced when everyone else was still sitting, banged her shakers on the floor with passion, and smiled from ear to ear.

Pure joy for her -- and me.

That Crazy Lady at the Gym

Stop the presses...I went to the gym yesterday. Yes, it has been a full year since I showed my face at the Y for a reason besides "Mommy and me" swim classes. But yesterday Princess went to school in the morning, and I (in my continuing search for me - see previous post) thought a trip to the gym would do me good. I dusted off my sneakers, found my ipod earphones, and off I went.

It was great - exhilarating and fun. In my previous life (before husband and daughter) I loved going to the gym, especially lifting free weights. When I was in college, those little dumb bells helped me lose that freshmen 15 ( and the sophomore 10). So I really owe them a visit, at least for old times sake. I still love my infrequent trips to the gym, as they allow me to just focus on being healthy and give me 60 minutes to listen to my music - really loud. And this music listening may be where I get myself in trouble.

In the life before my previous life (aka high school), I was a dancer and music lived in every muscle. It was impossible for me not to tap my foot, shake my shoulders, and/or snap my fingers when a song was playing. If I knew the song well, it was more impossible for me not to mouth the words.

This kinesthetic condition continues to this day. I can hide it a bit on the treadmill because I simply time my walk/run to the beat of the music. While "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers plays, I run quickly; "Stay" by Dave Matthews gives me a boost as I trudge the incline. But the problem really shows itself when I move to the beloved dumb bells. Again, I can time my bicep curl so it aligns with the beat, but any trainer will tell you you should rest between sets. And so I sit on a bench for a few minutes. Before I know it, I am mouthing words to a song only I can hear and nodding my head like a bobble head doll. I don't know how to control it. Yet I don't know if I should have to.

A few weeks ago my husband, Princess and I took a trip to my sister-in-law's house. On our way there, we passed a large marina with an active running path. As traffic slowed, I noticed a woman with large headphones dancing and singing as she jogged. She was living by the motto "dance as if no one is watching," because she was swinging her arms, jumping up and down, and shaking her whole body. To me, she looked like she was having a great time. I felt a pang of jealousy of her uninhibited nature. My husband thought she was crazy.

While I rested on the bench yesterday I thought of her. She would probably bob and sway and sing without a care. Perhaps I should do the same. So I let myself go a little. I did not bust out with a Martha Graham performance (well more like a So You Think You Can Dance? reject), but as I did my ab crunches I moved a little more, I mouthed all the words, and I felt really good.

Maybe I am now known as "that crazy lady at the gym," but I like to think they are all just jealous.

Ebay

It's a problem...one I wouldn't normally admit to because I really do hate shopping. But there is something about Ebay. Maybe it's the quest for the great deal, getting that Coach bag for a big discount, or knowing that if a wanted a cottage on the North Carolina coast it is only a "Bid Now" click away. I actually don't purchase that much from Ebay, but I love adding things to my "Watch List." It's entertainment to observe bidding wars for toddler pajamas or (and this is my personal favorite) seeing someone pay more than full price for a tote bag they could easily buy at their department store.

I think this obsession lives in the same corner of my brain that flips through House Beautiful magazines and plans to get that stove, that chaise lounge, or those sheets. I never do, but it is nice to dream. However, every once in awhile, I get involved in an Ebay transaction. Let me tell you, when I do I am in it to win it.

Recently, I got into a bidding war for a Vera Bradley handbag. It's a beauty. I've always wanted this black microfiber "Spectator" bag. Well, maybe not always, but since I saw it in a store a few months ago. So I spot it on Ebay and decide this is my chance. I add the item to my watch list and track it closely, not wanting to bid too soon and blow my chances.
Fast forward to 10 minutes left in the auction, and I am make my first move.

First, I bid just a dollar more than the current price to gauge my opponent's commitment. Outbid. OK, now add another dollar. Outbid again. Grrrrr... The current winning bidder is obviously committed. Seven minutes, forty-six seconds remain in the auction. My heart taps a little quicker against my rib cage. Let's round up to the nearest five. Click to "Bid Now." Yes, "confirm bid" ...c'mon, c'mon. Crap! Outbid.

Four minutes, thirteen seconds. What should I do? Now with shipping the cost is only $4.00 less than retail. But, hey, $4.00 is $4.00, right? Add another two dollars to my high bid...one minute, thirty-two seconds...Click to "Bid Now"...YES CONFIRM BID...UGH! OUTBID. Forty seconds...heart clumps in my chest, blood surges into my fingertips...fine add another dollar to the bid. I've got to have it now. Click...OF COURSE CONFIRM...DON'T YOU SEE I AM RUNNING OUT OF TIME! Deep breath...

"Sorry, the bidding has ended for this item."

Noooooo! How could I lose? Why didn't I go for it all at the beginning? I should have been a high roller. There's got to be another Vera Bradley Black Microfiber Spectator handbag on here somewhere. Search, search, search...

This could be a problem.

And you are....?

My daughter went to "school" this morning. We send her two mornings a week during the summer even though I am on vacation so that she will keep the routine. Plus, she loves, loves going. Her teachers are wonderful, and she gets so excited to see her pint-sized friends. When she shuffles through the classroom door, all her friends shout "Princess!" It is reminiscient of Norm's entrance from Cheers (except without the beer). So cute.

So here I am - 9:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning - all by myself. The house is quiet except for the soothing rattle of a train every now and then. What shall I do with myself? The possibililities are endless...I guess. I don't know. What is it I like to do again?

So far I've checked my work e-mail, written a few messages, and logged onto my paperback exchange account, requesting several Virginia Woolf titles that I may never get to read, but I will feel smarter with them on my bookshelf. And now, well, here I am. Writing, thinking, wondering - what could I do for the next three hours that will fill my soul just a little? Not enough time to go to the beach or the city. If I go to the mall (which I really don't enjoy that much, so I am not sure why I would consider it), I will spend money I am not supposed to. And hey, I could unnecessarily spend cash online right from the comfort of my own home! It's too early for the bar, right?

I know you're all screaming at me right now. "If I had 3 hours to myself, I would...!!" I'd probably do the same if I was in your position. In fact, I know I would. I often tell my husband, "I just need a break so that I can go out and be me for a little while. Not the mom, not the wife, not the career person, just me." Yet, I am not really sure who she is anymore. What did I do during the summers I was not a mom and did not have to go to work so frequently even during "vacation"? I really cannot remember.

I guess my mission is to figure out who this new version of me is. I can never be the college co-ed, graduate student or the newlywed again. Instead, I need to carve out a little space for the fulfilled individual who also happens to be a working mom. Maybe a yoga class? a therapy group? a writer's workshop? a gardening club? a softball league? a dinner with friends?

I just hope I am greeted with a resounding "Working Mom!" when I arrive. Then maybe I'll know who I am.

Project Runway

Every morning my husband or I prepare to wage war with our two year old daughter. The issue? Getting dressed. I have come to dread it. I feel as if I am a corporate lawyer actively negiotating a complex business deal. I don't want to come on too strong because then the opposing side recoils. I don't want to appear desperate because then my competitor feels empowered. I don't want to appear wishy washy because then the talks will drag on forever...and I just don't want the act of putting on a t-shirt to swallow 22 minutes of my day (as it did this morning).

I take almost full responsibility for this situation. As Princess began wanting to make some of her own choices, the well-intended toddler rearing books offered the following suggestion: "Your child has few choices in his/her life, thus tantrums tend to be a product of this lack of control. So allow them to make decisions when you can. Pick two outfits, for example, and let him/her choose which to wear." I took it to heart and informed my husband to do the same.

Everything went well. She was delighted to pick her clothes in the morning and even her pjs at night. We made a fatal mistake, though, when we started letting her sort through her drawers to pick a skirt or socks. All of a sudden, Heidi Klum appeared.

"No, not that t-shirt! I don't like that. I wear this t-shirt!"

"No pants! I want a skirt."

And then yesterday's meltdown...she wore one of her favorite dresses to church in the morning. We ran several errands and carried our peaceful sleeping beauty (still donning her Sunday best) up to her crib for a nap. Later, some family came over for a barbecue. Her 2 year old cousin patiently waited as my husband and I literally had to pull this adorable dress off our screaming daughter so that we could put her into her play clothes (of her choosing by the way).

Someday, perhaps, my daughter will be a famous fashion designer. Perhaps she'll be a tough- as-nails Vogue editor. Perhaps she'll host her own reality TV show on Bravo.

Until then, I just hope I can get her to wear socks that match.

Suddenly, Sekou

In April, poet and performance artist Sekou Sundiata visited my school to meet with students and perform. He was wonderful...so approachable, thoughtful and passionate about his work. It was the third time I had the chance to see him this year; however this was so special as I also spoke with him personally about his work and shared dinner with him during a pot luck supper. Those people who know me well know that poetry lives inside me, always pulsating right under my skin. So you can only imagine how thrilling this day was for me.

While he corresponded with my colleague as we planned for this event, he would sign every e-mail "Suddenly, Sekou." I always thought it was odd. Could you imagine getting an e-mail from me with a signature like "Outstandingly, Working Mom"? Yet, as I got to know Sekou and his work, the signature started to make sense. He was a poignant man with a very powerful message.

Today I learned that Sekou Sundiata passed away on Wednesday from heart failure. Much too suddenly...at 58 years old. If you wish to pay tribute (even if you've never heard of him) simply by hearing his work, link to Bill Moyers' website and press "click to play." I promise, you will be moved.

Damn you, Mr. Disney!

Recently, my daughter discovered Mickey Mouse. Well, rather, I introduced this oh-so-sweet animated character to her. Tivo (bless its heart - love it) made a suggestion that we watch the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. I previewed it for a few minutes, thought it was adorable, and allowed Princess to watch it one particularly trying afternoon when I needed a moment of sanity. Yet in this weak moment, my sanity may have been eradicated forever.

She LOVES it! And not the "sure, I'll watch it when it is on" tv show love; this is the "I need to see it right now, all the time" kind of love. While I understand her desire to watch the show over and over again (it's a bit like my continuing obsession with Sex and the City), I cannot take that squeaky, giggly mouse voice for one more second. We limit her to two shows a day, and those 50 minutes of sheer delight for her are 3000 seconds of nails on a chalkboard to me. Mickey sounds a little like Karen from Will and Grace. It's funny for Karen's character because she is playing a dimwitted drunk. Mickey is supposed to be the clubhouse leader! For god sakes maybe he should sound like one rather than a sissy kid who pees in the school's sandbox!

Of course, Mickey Mouse is about as American as they get. So far be it from me to trash the big earred fellow with such venom. I just wish Mr. Disney had considered using a lower octave when developing Mickey's voice. I suppose he was trying to create a voice that kids would find amusing. I guess he thought the voice was endearing and sounded like a tiny mouse would had God intended mice to speak (He did not, and now I know why). Or maybe Mr, Disney was just a dimwitted drunk at the time. I think I'll do some research.

Munchkin Monster

We have created a monster - a munchkin monster that is. This spring my husband and I took our princess to swimming class every Saturday morning. After class we'd have a fun family outing to Dunkin Donuts - mom and dad sipping our soothing coffee while our little one nibbled on a glazed cake munchkin. We were happy...then.

Today, my daughter and I attended a music class together. We sang songs, played instruments and stomped our feet. Fun, fun! As we strolled back to the mom mobile, I suggested we stop on the way home to have lunch followed by a munchkin treat. Eagerly, she agreed. What I did not realize was all she heard was "munchkin." I mean, lunch - who cares right?

Well, we pull into the parking lot. Conveniently, a DD resides right next to a pizza place. I get a great parking spot, shut off the car, and turn around to my smiling babe in her car seat.

"OK, we'll have some pizza first, and then we'll go and get our munchkin."

Her brow quickly furrowed, "No Mommy. I want my munchkin."

Assuredly I replied, "We'll go get our munchkin after we eat our lunch. We have to have some lunch first before we have a sweet treat."

You would have thought I said I was abandoning her in the parking lot. Her face turned various shades of magenta, and she screamed, "NO MOMMY. I WANT MUNCHKINS RIGHT NOW!"

So I pulled my discipline tactics from my Supernanny toolkit and said calmly, "Princess, you do not scream at Mommy. You do that again and we will not get munchkins. We will leave and go home. This is your warning."

BA BOOM - the gauntlet was thrown down. With hardly any hesitation, my fuchsia-faced daughter morphed into a munchkin monster and demanded, "MUNCHKIN, RIGHT NOW!"

Car in reverse and we are on our way home. My daughter convulses in the back seat while screaming for a damn doughnut hole, and I am taking deep cleansing breaths. It was a long three minutes to our driveway - followed by a longer fifteen minutes as I attempt to calm her down and prepare her lunch.

The good news - she actually did not turn into the Weed Whacker (see previous post) so maybe yesterday's Supernanny tactic of taking away her most treasured dolls when she hits actually made an impact. It was nice not to get smacked in the nose. Always look on the bright side, you know?

I am Katie Couric

A week or so ago, exciting news came my way. I am getting a "promotion." Well, my job responsibilites are expanding greatly and I will get a raise so I guess that qualifies. The person who was previously fulfilling these responsibilities was promoted, so they are merging my position with hers (classic downsizing, I know). However, the powers that be want to keep this all hush, hush until mid-August. Why? I am not really sure other than it probably will create quite a stir amongst the management team so perhaps the big boss wants to wait until everyone returns from summer for the great unveiling. For now, though, I have been instructed to keep this on the "down-low" until the announcement is made. HA!

I cannot go anywhere at my place of employment without someone asking me about the new job. Everyone knows...and everyone knows it is supposed to be underwraps, but no one seems to care about the awkward position I am put in each time I am asked. My lame responses have included "Hmmm, I am not sure," and "I think they are still considering their options." It's ridiculous. I can only imagine how revealing my facial expressions are! I hate (yet understand) that everyone is looking for the gossip, but it is a bit much. I don't even want to make eye contact with anyone for fear of the inquisition!

I feel like Katie Couric must have felt as she negiotiated her CBS deal. She must have played duck and weave with her colleagues for months! I just hope my ratings are a little better than Katie's - but I wouldn't mind her salary!

Why Can't We All Just Get Along??

My daughter is 2...ah 2. When my princess first turned 2, I actually remember thinking, "Wow, this isn't that bad. What do people mean by 'terrible 2s?'" Those were the days. Now we are subjected to a bouquet of baffling behaviors. There is the Fresh Mouth - "No, Mommy, go away!"; Ms. Independent - "No, Mommy, I tie my shoe."; the Flip Flopper - "I want to play with the doll...NO!! I don't want her!"; and my personal favorite - the Weed Whacker. Her arms swirl in rapid, circular motions as she charges toward me yelling, "NO Mommy!" While her interesting anthology of coping strategies exhausts me, I fear it could be a glimpse of her at 13.

When I was 13, I could not figure out what mood I was in much less what mood I wanted to be in. I snapped at my parents daily, my mom getting the brunt of it. I just wanted to be left alone, and I wanted to be the center of attention, all at the same time. Those young adolescent years were terrible. Plenty of tears, secrets and silent treatments encapsulate my memories of the late 80s. Plus, I had to deal with my pin straight hair which would not tease up no matter how many hair picks I tried. That's enough to make a girl crazy!

Yet, my princess's rants are followed by many tender, breathtaking moments. Everyday she gives big hugs, produces contagious giggles, and cuddles into my lap. My favorite moment, though, is when she abruptly stops what she is doing, searches the room to find me, and shouts "I love you Mommy!" I have my doubts that will happen when she is 13.

Come on in...

and sit down. I need a place to bemoan and rejoice my day-to-day experiences as a full-time working mom. However, I am more than a mom and an employee. I am a wife, a friend, a daughter, and a woman - all issues will be explored here. So come on in and join me. I've got all the time in the world (ha! ha! - a working mom's idea of a joke).