Who's The Boss?

We Are Sleep Training Failures

It's true. I suck at sleep training. Neville and I both suck at it. Neville cannot stand to hear a baby cry. There must be something wrong. The baby must be hungry - even if he just ate 15 minutes ago. Or the baby needs a diaper change - if it was just changed after you fed him. Or the baby is sick - even if he is cool to the touch and shows no other signs of illness. Neville's version of crying it out means letting your baby cry for 20 seconds. He'd never make it to the requisite 20 minutes.

I, on the other hand, am one stubborn son of a gun. I could outwit and outlast a tired toddler that hasn't learned to self soothe. While my milk ducts, long dried up, still tingle when my baby cries; I won't even twinge. I'm heartless when it comes to the crying it out method. I know it won't last forever.

Or so I thought.

We have a tiny house. 1400 square feet that holds 2 adults, 2 kids, 1 make-do office in the family room, 7 fish, and 1 albino frog. 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, and at least 25 different small toys that will impale you if you step on them in the middle of the night. We are quickly out growing this house. The truth is, we practically had already outgrown it when we bought the place four and a half years ago. During the housing peak thankyouverymuch. Making our home now worth about 20 percent less than we paid for it. Which isn't terrible considering many have lost much more. But when you pay Bay Area real estate prices for your home, you know that 20 percent is more than a Harvard education.

Due to lack of space - or really a lack of a 4th bedroom - Cooper's room is our bedroom. While I dream of the day the boys can share a room, with a 6.5 year age gap I know that day isn't anytime soon. Coop's crib is tucked into a corner of our master bedroom. And by tucked away, I mean that it is 8 inches away from our bed.

If we let Cooper cry it out, we have to sleep on the couch for a few nights. There is no way that Cooper is going to self soothe himself to sleep when his parents are within arms reach. Believe me, we tried. So Neville typically goes to stay at his dad's house (re-read the 1st paragraph) and I get to pretend that I'm sleeping on the couch while I'm really timing how long he'll cry before he makes himself throw up. After he seems to get that his parents are assholes and pick sleep over him, he will fall asleep.

After a couple of days, we parents think that we've finally master sleep training and move back into our room. And Cooper realizes that the party has really started and begins to wake in the middle of the night - screaming because his parents are only 8 INCHES AWAY and are trying to ignore him.

Last month, I gave up. I admitted defeat. The kid is too strong and I am too tired to give a good fight. Instead, I bought a King size bed. Now there is more than enough room for our son's 2am requests to co-sleep.

There's only one problem...

Darius has decided that a bigger bed means there is room for a bigger boy.

This post has very little to do with Whitney Houston

I spent Saturday off Twitter and Facebook and kept my phone hidden so that I could get in some valuable family time. When I peeked at Facebook after dinner, my stream was abuzz with Whitney Houston's death. While no cause of death has been named yet, there is speculation that the pop diva of my youth drowned in her bathtub after taking a deadly mix of prescription drugs and alcohol.

Sad? Yes.

Tragic? Perhaps.

Expected? Maybe so.

Perhaps I'm blessed that I've never had a drug or alcohol problem. I partied in my 20s with the rest of 'em. I experimented with a few drugs that are known to be addictive. I smoked and snorted and drank at frat parties like every other insecure girl there. And then I grew up. I grew out of it. Now as real adult (you know, one that doesn't call her dad at the end of every month asking for $50), I have a glass of wine maybe once a week. I walked away from all that crazy and I feel blessed that walking away was more than easy. It was effortless. So effortless that when I walked away, I didn't even realize the importance of it.

But I have friends and family that haven't been able to walk away on their own. I've watched them destroy their lives during their addiction. I've watched them try to pick up the pieces. And I've seen that once something is broken, no matter how much glue you have to put it back together, it never quite fits the same way. I've witnessed people closest to me fall back into addiction just when you thought they were pulling themselves together. I've been there to walk beside those whose journey in recovery never ends. Never. I've never been more proud of these people.

One of Neville's childhood friends is an alcoholic. A raging one at that. I've known him as long as I've known Neville. Over the course of the 12 years, he's always been an alcoholic. I've seen him get sick at parties. I've heard Neville's phone ring in the middle of the night because he's too drunk to even walk home. I've had to ask him to leave when he shows up fully loaded at our house to play with our kids. At 33, Neville's friend is dying, slowly and painfully, from his addiction. His liver has begun to shut down. The doctors have given him two years at most - if he stops drinking. Less, if he continues to drown himself in jack and coke.

Neville's friend is a talented guy. He's funny. He's caring. My children love him. He's patient and kind. He's smart. He's drinking his life away. Literally. He's taking forty years off his life - maybe more - by poisoning himself. And it's unbearable to watch.

So I'm not going to wax poetic about Whitney Houston. I'm not going to reminisce about her music - the music of my childhood. I'm not going to pretend that her death was tragic. The tragedy began long before her death. It began when Whitney continued to abuse. It continued when Whitney didn't get help. The tragedy wasn't in her death. It was in her life.

Drug addiction, from what I can gather, is like a death sentence. It's a prison. But here's the remarkable part. The addict himself is the warden. He has the key to his release. It's recovery. It's asking for help. It's a choice that may seem impossible to make. But it can be done.

Just as Neville can't release his friend from his addiction, we can't take pity on Whitney Houston's death. If you want to honor her, stop posting her videos from the 80s and seek out a friend who is struggling with addiction. Help someone see that they are worthy of recovery. They are worthy of life. They are worthy. Period.

For Susan

I can't remember if I ever met Susan in person. I been searching through all of my blogging memories to figure out if we've ever shook hands or looked one another in the eye or hugged. I'm know deep down inside that we most likely never met in real life. If we did, I'm sure I would never forget. It's the craziness that is blogging. We meet so many kindred souls online that it's hard to remember who you know in real life and those whom are just friends on Facebook and Twitter.

It's hard to believe that I'll never get the chance to meet Susan now. At least not until we meet in Heaven.

I "met" Susan in an unusual way. I decided at the last minute to attend BlogHer 2007 in Chicago. Yahoo! had sponsored my ticket, my airline miles were getting me there, but I needed a place to stay. The block room rate was gone and I was going to have to pay through the nose for a room. Kim, who also decided at the last minute to stay in a hotel, and I were going to be roommates. Kim called me to let me know that Susan...

Susan who had just been diagnosed with IBC...

Susan who was now in the fight for her life...

Susan who should have been screaming F^CK YOU to the world...

Susan who should not have cared about BlogHer or hotels rates...

Susan wanted to make sure that her room - the room with the cheaper rate - was transferred to someone else.

Who does that? Who cares about helping someone else when you yourself are in crisis?

Susan does. Because that is who Susan is.

I was floored by her grace. By her generosity. By her. Period.

Susan and I talked briefly on the phone. At the time, she blogged under a pseudonym and held her family's privacy above all else. She made me promise that I would never speak her real name - as I was about to find it out during the room transfer to mine. I remember promising that I wouldn't even look at the form with her name. But I lied. I did look. I saw her name was Susan and I smiled. And I began praying for her everyday, lifting her name up.

For the last five years, Susan has been on my heart and mind every single day. While I'm officially the world's worst blog commenter (as I rarely do it), I've followed Susan's story with total commitment. I have virtually been by her side, virtually holding her hand, virtually singing her praise. I've learned more about breast cancers, cancer treatments, recovery, and chemo from Susan. She has taught us all about the science of our lives.

I've been struggling with how to close this post. Do I say good-bye? Do I say thank you? Do I say how I terribly regret never getting to shake your hand, look you in the eye, and maybe even get to hug you? Do I tell you that I'll never forget you? That I love you? That I'm here, virtually at least, for you as your journey on Earth ends to begin your everlasting one with our maker? I don't know what to say. So I'm just going to say this.

I've been praying to those in my life who have passed before and have asked them to meet you at the Gates of Heaven. And I pray that I should be so lucky as to be greeted by you when it is my journey here is over. You've touched more lives than you could possibly ever know. You are not alone. You will never be alone.

I may or may not be wearing a bra while writing this

When I was Darius's age (shut up, it wasn't THAT long ago), I was a morning person. Sometime during college, that changed. Nowadays, I'm not a complete night owl either. I can stay up until midnight without yawning once. For all you whipper snappers, I realize that midnight is when most night clubs are just getting started. But for a full-time working mom, midnight is practically like pulling an all-nighter.

Transitioning back to school hours has been really tough for me. Getting up at 7:30am is hard when I went to bed at 12:20am. And I realize that all you commuters are now rolling your eyes and saying how easy I have it. I know, I know... working from home full-time is a blessing from God and I need to shut up about how hard it is to wake up at 7:30am when there are people commuting on the road before 5 o'clock in the morning.

I know it's not fair that my commute consists of six steps to my computer. It's not like I asked to work from home full-time. I just lucked out. And I know that lucky me shouldn't complain about it.

But I'm a complainer. What can I say?

Getting up at 7:30am sucks. Making sure that Darius is up and stays focused to do THREE tasks in FORTY-FIVE minutes is truly and utterly exhausting. I mean, did you know that it can take TWENTY minutes just to put on a shirt and pants... a shirt and pants, by the way, that are the SAME every single day because the child wears a school uniform! I swear I'm practically chugging shots of coffee to take the edge off during the morning hour.

At the private school, Neville was in charge of drop-off. On rare occasion, he had a work conflict that put him in the office before 7am when then put me on drop-off duty. A joy really. Half of the time when we headed out the door to school, I was still in my pajamas. Thank god the school had a car drop-off where the teachers open your passenger door and escort your child onto campus. Throw a fleece jacket on top & my giant sunglasses over yesterday's smeared mascara, and you probably wouldn't know that I didn't have a bra on.

Every single time that I was responsible for drop-off, Darius would demand that I walk him to his classroom like Daddy does every single morning. When I was actually dressed and didn't have a morning meeting, I acquiesced to Darius's demand and walked him in. Which I quickly learned was a total waste of time. As soon as the kid got within 100 feet of the playground, he took off like a sprinter in the Olympics. No good-bye Mom. No kiss. No see ya later.

In the car, I get a kiss.

In the car, I get a "I love you."

In the car, I get a "Have a great day."

And did I mention that I don't have to wear my bra in the car?

This year, we've been incredibly lucky to have our next door neighbor walk Darius and her daughter to school every morning. Incredibly lucky. Beyond lucky.

The only problem is that when they knock on the door, I'm never ready. I'm always still in my pajamas. I'm nearly always without a bra. And I don't have a car door blocking the view. Every morning, after I've embarrassed myself at our front door, I say to myself that starting tomorrow, I am going to get dressed as soon as I get up. But then the next morning comes round and I spent 45 minutes getting my eldest child to do three things while getting my youngest child to stop doing 3 million things that will hurt him, break something, or hurt him while breaking something.

Every morning when I hear that knock on the door, I know that I've failed at doing the three things I've been screaming at my second grader to do for the last 45 minutes. Although, I feel even better about myself when the nanny shows up 30 minutes later AND I'M STILL NOT DRESSED.

For the next three days, I have work commitments that require me to be ready and out the door before Darius gets picked up. Which means that my neighbors and my nanny won't know I'm not only wearing a bra, I am also dressed like a professional. With make-up on and hair styled. With high heels instead of house slippers. With a bra on.

I'm starting to feel like I need to take pictures and text it over to them with a caption that says "See? It is possible for me to not look like I've just rolled out of bed when the truth is that I've been up for almost 2 hours."

But who's kidding... there's a strong possibility that I'll be leaving the house with my hair still in rollers wearing a sweater I thought was clean but does in fact have a greasy hand-print from my toddler. That's how I roll these days. One thing it certain... for the next three days, I'll be wearing a bra.

You're welcome.

Learning About Dr. Martin Luther King, One Cupcake at a Time

When Darius was in kindergarten, his teachers did a demonstration about segregation. They sent out an email to the parents to let us know that our kids would probably come up upset because the class would be divided into boys and girls. We, parents, were not to let on that we knew about the demonstration or that the changes weren't permanent. Instead we were to sympathize with our children and then ask them:

"What could you do to change it?"

It was the kindergarten version of the Civil Rights Movement. Two years later, it is a lesson that my son still talks about.

The children were divided into boys and girls. The girls had all of the privileges inside the classroom. They got to use the indoor drinking fountain. They sat in the front of the class. They got to line up first and all papers/supplies were passed to girls first. If a girl raised her hand, she would be called on before a boy. The boys had all of the privileges outside. They got to use the outdoor drinking fountains. They could play on the kindergarten play structure. They had first pick of the balls.

If either gender was caught breaking the Jim Crow Laws of Room 17, the child would lose 5 tokens. Those tokens were hard earned and used to buy little trinkets in the class store. Normally a kindergartner would cry if they lost one... so 5 was a big deal. The kids were told that it was "Separate but Equal." The boys knew the truth. They were getting screwed.

I remember volunteering in the classroom during these two days. And I remember that the boys felt like they had much less power. With only two recesses and one lunch break, the power outside was significantly less than the power the girls wielded inside the class. And, boy, did the girls make sure that the boys never forgot who was in charge. It was disturbing to see how quickly one "class" of students - the girls - took to their new privileges. The boys had been their friends until now. Now it seemed that the girls took pleasure in making sure their boy peers were at the back of the class.

The teachers were stunned by the girl behavior. After doing this demonstration for years, they had never come across a group that seemed so content with the law that the girls had actually asked if these new laws could become permanent. The girls were so caught up in the power of privilege that they not only didn't stand up for their friends; they asked for more power. The teachers and I brainstormed about what to do. How could they get the girls to understand the other side of the coin? While the boys were already making picket signs and planning a march to the Principal’s office, the girls were enjoying being the ones in charge.

Until the arrival of the cupcake. A mother dropped off goodie bags and cupcakes for Alex's* birthday. A boy's birthday. The teachers debated back and forth on what to do.

Who knew teaching moments would present themselves in the form of a cupcake?

It was decreed that since this was a boy birthday, only the boys would get to celebrate. The girls had to sit on the rug while the boys sang “Happy Birthday” to Alex. A few of the girls cried as they watched the boys relish in their cupcakes. Since only half the class was participating in the party, the teachers told they boys that they were allowed to take home the other cupcake.

It was ugly. It was brutal. It was heartbreaking. It also was just what the girls needed. The girls finally understood that segregation hurts everyone.

Then something extraordinary happened. Without any prompting, Alex took 5 tokens from his pencil box, walked over to his teachers, and asked to let the girls participate. The girls who had been mean to the boys. The girls who had previously asked to keep The Jim Crow Laws of Room 17 permanent. Alex got the lesson.

Separate but Equal isn’t equality. Or fair. Or just. Or what we should uphold.

With tears of joy in their eyes, the teacher accepted Alex’s tokens. The girls were allowed to their cupcake.

And the light bulb went off for everyone else.

For the rest of the afternoon, the girls took the 5-token penalty to allow the boys to sit wherever they wanted on the rug and to use the indoor drinking fountain. The boys did the same for the outdoor rules. The kids were fighting for equality but still were paying the price.

The next morning, the kids worked together to protest the law. They made signs, wrote little speeches about why these laws were not fair, and planned a march to the Principal’s office. It wasn’t quite The Million Man March, but it was equally momentous for these 5 and 6 year old children. The Twenty-Seven Kid March through the cafeteria, across the playground, and to the school office garnered a lot of attention from the rest of the school. Their principal listened to their speeches, asked some questions of his own, and let them know that he would make a decision before lunch.

In the end, the laws were reversed and everything went “back to normal” for Room 17. It was a long two days for the kids and the parents both. But I’m glad that my son’s teachers didn’t just read a book about Martin Luther King, Jr. I’m grateful that the kids learned a lesson the old fashioned way… By walking a mile in another person’s shoes.

*Name changed to protect the innocent

2012: The Year of Intention

Looking at the sad state of my underwear draw, it is safe to say that I didn't take care of myself during 2011. 2011 was The Year of Transition. Neville was promoted at work, leaving me home with the kids way more that a working parent should be home with the kids. I returned from my 6-month maternity leave to a job with a new team, new responsibilities, but the same title and pay. Darius moved from private school to public with a few hiccups along the way.

2011 wasn't a horrible year. But it wasn't The Year of Awesome. Change is often good. A lot of the changes we faced were ultimately good. But that space when you are in the middle of it? The transition part? The uncomfortable movement from your comfort zone to something different? Well, that part, frankly sucks balls. 2011 was not an easy year. It made me question our life. Do I work at the right place? Should I work at all? Do we live in the right neighborhood? Do we need to move?

Looking back, I realize that I've really neglected myself in 2011. I've neglected this blog. I've neglected my body. I've grown distant from many friends. I've spent too much time bitching about the craziness that is my life that I've had a hard time finding the things I'm grateful for in it.

So 2012 is going to be another year of change. But this time, I'm starting it on my own terms. We've got 2 family vacations planned. I'm about to embark on a wellness journey. I'm recommitting myself to my other blog. And I'm cutting back on my writing here. No more posts about how hard life is. No more posts telling you I'm taking a break. No more posts complaining about how the dishes never get done. No more half-assed product reviews as a substitution to real writing.

I'm going to be writing a weekly essay here. I can't guarantee that it is going to be the.best.thing.you've.ever.read but I can guarantee that the appropriate time and energy will go into writing it. I don't know if it will stick. Or if I'll even find the time for a weekly post. This is another year of change, after all. But I'm going to try. This isn't The Year of Me as many of my friends have posted on Facebook.

2012 is The Year of Intention. My intention is to change things for the better. Personally. Professionally. I hope you stay along for the ride.