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).