Who's The Boss?

Daddy's girl

Last week my dad turned 60. It's not that old, but it's still... well, old.

I held a surprise party for him.  Invited a bunch of people from work and his closest friends. My dad teared up when he showed up to my house, thinking that we were running late for our dinner reservations, and instead walked into a room with nearly 30 people. 

It was in that moment that I realized that my dad hates surprises as much as I do. Clearly, this apple didn't fall far from that tree. Sorry, Dad to put you through that stress.

On the drive home from school

How was your day at school?

It was good.

What did you do?

We learned about the Indians.

Oh. What did you learn about them?

I learned that there are two Indians.  There are the ones in India like Daddy.  And there are ones in America that run around naked.

Really?

Yeah, Mom!  We saw a picture of a boy with only a napkin in front of his privates.  And we saw a girl's BOOBIES!

[trying not to laugh] Yes, the Native Americans didn't wear the same type of clothes of that we do.

Are you sure that Daddy isn't that type of Indian?

Daddy isn't Native American.  His family is from the country called India.

Are you sure? Because Daddy sure likes to run around in his underwear.

Can you get FIRED for breastfeeding at work?

When I returned from my maternity, my darling Darius wasn't even 12 weeks old yet. He was teeny tiny.  And I was a very bust-y nursing mom.  Armed with my super duper Medela breastpump (a gift from my mother), I was so thankful that my employer had just created super duper "Nursing Rooms" for the working mommas.  It was a good thing too.  There were five other women who used that room with me.  We all felt like we were doing the right thing.  We bonded over our babies while we each discreetly pumped behind designer curtains while sitting on comfy chairs. It was a working mother's dream.

So why did I quit pumping four months later?

Because pumping at work is hard, y'all.  Really really hard.

When Darius hit a growth spurt at 7 months, he literally wanted to be feed every hour during the night (mind you, I was working during the day so there was no "just sleep when the baby sleeps" anymore). After a few days of being totally exhausted, my milk supply was going down, not increasing. So one night, I asked Neville to grab a bottle of formula.  I had kept formula in the house for a few months, realizing that if I got hit by a bus or had to take a business trip that there was not enough milk in our freezer to last more than a day (and that had to go to the daycare lady).  Neville made a bottle, Darius took it like a champ, and then Darius refused to ever nurse again.

Who's the Boss Guide to Office Relationships

Those of you in California have been bombarded with the reports of our own government sex scandal.  For those of you too lazy to read the article (yes, I'm looking at you), here's my spin.  A married Assemblyman shags a lobbyist then brags about such conquests (in lurid detail) to another Assemblyman during the break of a committee hearing. In front of microphones.  That were still on.  That recorded the whole thing. Oh and did I mention that it was also videotaped.

The idiot has resigned.  And has also gone on the record to say that he made the whole thing up.  Yeah right.

While his unethical, lewd, and ungentlemanly behavior cost him his career, let's use this as a learning opportunity one the chance that you decide to have your own office affair.

Lesson 1: Don't sleep with married men.  Or married women.  If you are married, the only person who should be seeing, diddling, or pleasuring your private parts is your spouse.  Extramarital affairs never end well.  So if you want to have sex with someone who isn't your spouse, make sure that you (or they) end their marriage first. 

The Un-bloggable

For those of you who know me in real life or those of you who've read this blog for awhile, you know that Neville and I are not legally married.  We had our own intimate commitment ceremony years ago.  Yes, we often call each other husband and wife.  And no, we don't call each other that because we want to "pretend" or play house.  There is simply no other word, no other title, that seems to get through some people's thick skulls about our relationship.

So we lie.  Okay. We are not legally husband and wife.  If Neville gets run over by a truck tomorrow, I won't get his life insurance pay out.  And that's okay with me.  The not getting the money, not the part about him getting hit by the truck thankyouverymuch.  I don't need Neville's money.  I don't need Neville's work benefits.  I don't need anything from Neville other than the man I love.  I don't believe that a lavish wedding or a marriage certificate makes people committed to one another.  We are committed.  And yes, one day I may need Neville's benefits.  Or he may need to make medical decisions on my behalf.  And who knows, maybe one day we'll drive over to City Hall and he'll make an honest woman out of me.

Just don't hold your breath. 

This is where I cry "UNCLE"

We made it through the first week of school with only a few tears and couple of boo-boos.  Last Friday, Darius and I celebrated our accomplishment with a big bowl of frozen yogurt.

And yes, it was OUR accomplishment.  While he may be the one who is actually learning, I also had a few lessons of my own.  What was my curriculum:

1. Navigating the narrow parking lot while attending a conference call

2. Juggling homework, dinner, and an urgent email from my boss

3. Praying for extra dozes of patience so that my child has a soft place to land after a long day at school

4. Getting up before the sun to get myself ready before my boy has to get up and get himself ready

5. Learning when to step-in and when to let Darius step-up

In the daytime playroom of good and evil

In Darius' homework folder, the teacher had placed a form that the parents were supposed to complete about their child.  It asked if we were willing to volunteer in the classroom and if there was anything that she should know about Darius that would assist her in teaching him.

I wrote down that he often confuses is "b" "d" and "p" when reading.  And Darius insisted that I write that he "loves Star Wars and the Clone Wars."

When he had a Ya-Ya night this summer, my dad let him watch the Star Wars movie where Anakin Skywalker turns into Darth Vader.  Of course, it was a giant hit.  But it brought about questions of good and evil that Darius just couldn't reconcile in his black-and-white concrete thinking development. 

How could somebody choose to be bad? 

And not just a little bad.  But really choose to do awful things and hurt people and all that.

I'm becoming my mother

Things I say that my mother said when I was a child...

• That's inappropriate
• Are you listening to me?
• ONE... TWO....
• You are about to get a consequence
• Are you acting the right way?
• That's unacceptable
• Look at me when I'm talking to you
• What did I just say?
• You're smarter than that
• Wait till your father gets home
• Because I said so
• I'm the MOM, that's why!
• You won't get what you want acting that way

For record, my mother said lots of wonderful things too.  These phrases were her standards when we weren't behaving (and my brother and I often didn't behave).  Whenever I say these to Darius, I think of my mom and how well she raised us. Love you Mom!

Private School was our private choice

I've been keeping a little secret, only sharing amongst close friends and family.  When I've had to tell people about the secret, I've been quick to list of my many reasons for our decision. See, we live in an affluent area with fantastic public schools.  Our neighborhood school is one of the best in the district.  Many think that the home prices here have retained more of their value than other parts of the city strictly due to the great schools.

And yet we chose to send our kindergartner to private school.  Despite living in a great neighborhood with great schools with phenomenal parent participation, we chose to spend an arm and a leg on private school.

Before this summer, I honestly had never even considered sending my son to private school.  I was a product of public education from kindergarten through my university years.  When we bought our house in the real estate peak in 2006, we only looked in neighborhoods with great schools.  While my spouse was on the fence between public and private, I stood my ground.  Public was the only choice for our son. 

Then the economy took a bad turn.  And then the real estate market crashed.  And then California went into a budget crisis like none other. Too many foreclosed homes meant less property tax revenue meant less money for public education.  This summer, our district announced a 50% increase in class sizes for Kindergarten.  Nearly 100 teaching positions in the district were eliminated. Suddenly, I wasn't so sure about our choice to go to our neighborhood school.

So we toured the school again.  We talked to the teachers.  I personally called the Superintendent.  We were assured that the school would remain great. That teachers would be trained on how to adjust their curriculum to the growing class size.  That parents would volunteer more, donate more, do more.  That it would be the same.

But when my father, an Assistant Principal at a public high school, told me to really look at all my options, I knew it was time to tour the private school.  In July we toured a few of the private schools in our area that still had availability.  I immediately fell in love with one of them.  It was a throw-back to the days when I was a kid in the public school system: smaller class sizes, incredible class room supplies, a curriculum that I trusted, a reputation of excellence, a safe learning environment.  A week later, I returned with my son and watched as he fell in love with the school too. 

In August, we waved good-bye to our neighborhood friends as they walked to school on the first day.  When asked by friends and, yes even a few strangers, as to why Darius wasn't starting school with the rest of them, I cringed when having to reply.  Our choice to send our son to private school was a private choice.  We don't think that our public school is horrible.  And we certainly don't judge our neighbors for sending their children there.  Our choice was based on what was right for our son.  That's it.  We found what we believe to be the right learning environment for him.  Plain and simple. 

So I'm done with keeping a secret.   There, I said it.  The cat is out of the bag.  Our son goes to private school.  And we couldn't be happier.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

So we toured the school again.  We talked to the teachers.  I personally called the Superintendent.  We were assured that the school would remain great. That teachers would be trained on how to adjust their curriculum to the growing class size.  That parents would volunteer more, donate more, do more.  That it would be the same.

But when my father, an Assistant Principal at a public high school, told me to really look at all my options, I knew it was time to tour the private school.  In July we toured a few of the private schools in our area that still had availability.  I immediately fell in love with one of them.  It was a throw-back to the days when I was a kid in the public school system: smaller class sizes, incredible class room supplies, a curriculum that I trusted, a reputation of excellence, a safe learning environment.  A week later, I returned with my son and watched as he fell in love with the school too. 

In August, we waved good-bye to our neighborhood friends as they walked to school on the first day.  When asked by friends and, yes even a few strangers, as to why Darius wasn't starting school with the rest of them, I cringed when having to reply.  Our choice to send our son to private school was a private choice.  We don't think that our public school is horrible.  And we certainly don't judge our neighbors for sending their children there.  Our choice was based on what was right for our son.  That's it.  We found what we believe to be the right learning environment for him.  Plain and simple. 

So I'm done with keeping a secret.   There, I said it.  The cat is out of the bag.  Our son goes to private school.  And we couldn't be happier.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog