Who's The Boss?

How I deal with a picky kid: the lies

This was originally posted in March 2007 for the Silicon Valley Moms Blog.  I wish I could say that, four years later, I've changed my ways.  But I haven't.  In fact, my latest way of getting Darius to try something new is to tell him "You had this before and you LIKED it."

D is a picky kid.  It's genetic.  I was a picky kid.  My dad was a picky kid.  I remember having total anxiety over what was being made for dinner - would I like it, would I be forced to eat it, would I go hungry?  My parents were not consistent in dealing with my picky-habits, so I never really knew what was going to happen next.  There were times were I was sent to my room without dinner, times where my mom made me a PB&J instead, and there were even a few times when I was spanked for my disobedient (not eating) behavior. 

I didn't want to repeat any of those mistakes with my son.  So I came up with my own strategy: LYING THROUGH MY TEETH. 

When D only liked chicken, all meats were chicken.  Shrimp was chicken.  Steak was chicken.  Now D likes shrimp.  So salmon, scallops, and other seafood is called “shrimp.”  Once he has eaten the new food a few times (and likes it), I change the name back to its original.  You see the pattern.  Now rinse and repeat. 

Foods that are still in liar-liar land:

• Rice cakes are cookies.  Yummy yummy “BIG cookies” (I buy the caramel or sweet ones)
• Yogurt is melting “ice cream.  Hurry and eat it before it makes a mess!”
• Rye bread is “chocolate toast” (bet you never thought of that one!)
• Salmon is really “shrimp.”  Flat shrimp with no tail, in fact.
• Just Peas are “green cracker-balls.”  OK, so I was off my game that day. 

Yes, I am a big fat liar.  But my kid isn’t just eating cheese and Goldfish crackers for dinner. 

Mothers and Daughters

Last week, my mother celebrated a milestone.  The big six-oh.  For the last few years my mother has been riddled with health problems, including more than one big scare that left us wondering if she wasn’t going to make it.  Nearly a year ago, my mom started on the road to recovery and has been in fairly good health since.  I know that her days are numbered; after all, everyone’s days are numbered.  But I also have peace of mind in knowing that my mom and I have had a really good ride.

Our relationship hasn’t always come easy.  We are so alike and so different in many ways.  Our opinions of each other matter more than anyone else on this earth, so criticism can often lead to hurt feelings.  But we always have a way of making it back to each other.  Of realizing that while it may not always come out of our mouth the right way, we want only the best for each other.  And our intentions are always good, even if the outcome gets muddied.

This weekend, as I wandered the Farmer’s Market alone, I saw a teenage girl and a mother having a dispute about something.  I wasn’t listening in, but I could tell by their body language that the teenager wasn’t getting her way and the mother was frustrated.  I smiled and remembered when my relationship was like this with my mother.  I wanted to be grown-up and felt like my mother was squashing my independence.  My mother, seeing me for the child that I still was, would try to give me enough rope to wander but not enough to kill myself.  It was a give and take – mainly her giving and my taking – relationship then.  I’m sure that my mother felt like the only time I was nice to her was when she was buying me something.

So to be here, all these years later, in a place in our relationship where it is serene.  And supportive. Where we can disagree without door slamming, or eyes rolling, or the “I hate my mother” journal entries.  It’s a nice place to be in this journey.  I wanted to go over to the teenage girl and tell her,

“You should listen to your mother.  She’s probably right.  Even though in this moment you think you hate her and that she doesn’t understand.  She does understand.  She does ‘get it.’ That’s why she’s telling you no.  She protecting you.  Sure, you don’t think you need protecting.  But that is the very reason why she is protecting you.  Because your teenage judgment doesn’t stack up to her years of experience.  Believe me, one day you’ll understand.  And one day you’ll thank her for loving you.  And you’ll look  back on these years where you were so hard on your mom, and thought she was an idiot who ‘didn’t get it’ and you’ll realize you treated her pretty darn horrible.  And you’ll have to apologize.  And she’ll forgive you. Because that’s what mom’s do.  They love you even when you hate them for loving you. So save yourself the trouble and just listen to your mom.  Your future self will thank you.”

But I didn’t.  Still in touch with my inner teenager, I knew the girl would just give me that teenage girl look, roll her eyes, and not listen to a word I said.  Instead, I turned around and wandered down to another fruit stall at the Farmer’s Market with love in my heart and a new respect for my mother.  She survived two alcoholic parents, a divorce when divorce wasn’t the norm, a horrible car crash, two back surgeries, many scares with complications from diabetes… and a teenage daughter.  She’s the strongest person I know. 

Originally published in April 2010 for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

 

Lost Boy

It was a bright, sunny Sunday morning.  The Campbell Farmer’s Market was in full swing, a couple hundred people crammed in the downtown city street picking the freshest, juiciest peaches.  We stopped to look at some grapes.  And when we looked up, he was gone.  D was at my side just a second before and how he was gone.  He had vanished. 

My heart dropped into my stomach and my stomach rushed into my throat.  I could barely breathe.  I did a quick scan.  No need to panic, he is probably just behind this man.  Or that man.  Or the lady with the stroller.  Everywhere we looked, D was not there.  My son was lost.  My little boy was lost.

N shouted out his name.  Suddenly, I had a voice.  I shouted and shouted.  The crowd was paying attention.  Others started calling his name too.  N took off up and down the side streets.  Where was our boy?  And why could no one find him? 

I reached for my phone and did something I never thought I would ever have to do.  I called 911 to report a missing child.  My missing child.  The worst experience of my life was giving his description to the 911 Operator.  “He is 38 inches tall, weighs 33 lbs, with brown hair and brown eyes.  He is wearing a white shirt that says ‘If you think I’m cute, you should see my mom’ and blue pants with light blue stripes running down each pant leg.  He has new white shoes with blue trim.”

She asked where in the market he was seen last to which I replied “At a fruit stand.”  I started to walk back towards which stand – she wanted to know the business behind it.  When the crowd broke and there was D.  Standing in the middle.  Looking confused.  He had been missing for 15 minutes.  And now he was found.  Another mom who had heard us calling for him was standing behind him.  She was watching him, waiting to see N or me again.  As I walked closer she said “He’s here.  Your boy is here.” 

As I swooped him up, N was approaching.  He grabbed him from my arms and starting yelling – his knee jerk reaction was to scold.  My knee jerk reaction was to cry.  Tears started pouring.  Those 15 minutes were the longest of my life.  D was safe.  We were safe.   

800,000 children go missing every year.  My child was one of them for 15 minutes.  Please look at this site to see a list of missing children.  A wonderful mom found our child.  Maybe you can find another missing child too.

Originally published in August 2007 for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Sex after baby? That's just crazy

A former co-worker turned close friend called me recently to discuss motherhood.  She had a gorgeous baby boy six months ago and recently returned to work.  I figured when she said she needed my advice that she’d be asking about how to pump at work or quick and easy dinner recipes.

Oh no.  She wanted to talk about sex.  Or rather, wanted to know when she’d be interested in sex again.  She was exhausted from nursing, exhausted from working full-time, and exhausted from life in general.  Sex was just one more thing on her “to-do” list and she didn’t care if that got checked off.

Sex after a baby?  Now that’s just crazy.

I laughed and laughed (probably longer than I should have) because it brought it all back for me.  I remember sitting in my post-partum 6 week check-up where my OBGYN cleared me to have sex.  I cried a deep sad cry.  I still couldn’t figure out how to shower regularly but I was okay to have sex?  Bullocks.

I felt in those early months as a new mom that my sex drive had clearly died the moment I brought new life into this world.  There was no way I could have sex, would want to have sex, or considered sex to be a good idea.  Come on!  Sex was for childless couples or empty-nesters; certainly not for a new mom whose baby still fed every two hours like clockwork.

My loins had pushed out a beautiful baby.  It had a new purpose.  My breasts were now nourishing my child.  They couldn’t be my spouse’s “fun bags” any longer.  My stomach was stretched.  I didn’t feel comfortable being naked – even with the man who had seen me naked for years and not only tolerated my nakedness but was actually turned on by it.

My friend now laughed and laughed as I told her about the first time we had sex after the baby was born (by far, the worst sex of our entire relationship) or about how I literally made grocery lists in my head for the first year we continued doing it.  And I reassured her that one day, she’d feel differently about sex.  One day, she’d lock the door and wouldn't care if her toddler screamed on the other side. That soon she could take a weekend away with her husband to reconnect where there would be only two things on her “to-do” list: have sex and sleep. 

Sex after baby may not be same, but hey, babies eventually grow up - right?

Originally published in April 2009 for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

I laughed and laughed (probably longer than I should have) because it brought it all back for me.  I remember sitting in my post-partum 6 week check-up where my OBGYN cleared me to have sex.  I cried a deep sad cry.  I still couldn’t figure out how to shower regularly but I was okay to have sex?  Bullocks.

I felt in those early months as a new mom that my sex drive had clearly died the moment I brought new life into this world.  There was no way I could have sex, would want to have sex, or considered sex to be a good idea.  Come on!  Sex was for childless couples or empty-nesters; certainly not for a new mom whose baby still fed every two hours like clockwork.

My loins had pushed out a beautiful baby.  It had a new purpose.  My breasts were now nourishing my child.  They couldn’t be my spouse’s “fun bags” any longer.  My stomach was stretched.  I didn’t feel comfortable being naked – even with the man who had seen me naked for years and not only tolerated my nakedness but was actually turned on by it.

My friend now laughed and laughed as I told her about the first time we had sex after the baby was born (by far, the worst sex of our entire relationship) or about how I literally made grocery lists in my head for the first year we continued doing it.  And I reassured her that one day, she’d feel differently about sex.  One day, she’d lock the door and wouldn't care if her toddler screamed on the other side. That soon she could take a weekend away with her husband to reconnect where there would be only two things on her “to-do” list: have sex and sleep. 

Sex after baby may not be same, but hey, babies eventually grow up - right?

Originally published in April 2009 for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

The Santci-mommy Strikes Again

I was at Starbucks with my toddler yesterday.  D and I have our own little ritual at Dar-Ducks, as he calls it.  I order my lovely Grande Soy Latte and I pick up a container of milk for D.  I asked for an additional Grande hot cup so that D can pour his milk and have "coffee."  D really likes it when I add a swig of my latte into his 8-ounces of milk.  A little teeny swig. 

Well, yesterday the Sancti-mommy at Starbucks saw me give D some of my coffee and I think she would have called CPS if given the chance.  She marched over to me.  Yes, she marched all huffy and puffy.  And told me, very loudly, that children should never have coffee. 

I tried to laugh it off, but from the look on her face, I felt I needed to justify myself. 

"It's just a teeny swig.  He doesn't have a whole cappuccino.  I don't think it will hurt him.  It's an old wives tale about coffee stunting your growth." 

She didn't buy it. She went on to tell me that I was setting a bad example, that I was glorifying it and by allowing him to have this adult drink would open the door for him to try other adult things.  That she would never allow her children to drink coffee.

Now she pissed me off.  I had no idea that a Starbuck's coffee was the gateway drug to, say, alcohol or cocaine.  Come on, lady!

"You act as if I totally endangered him.  Don't you think your kids see you drink that??  Don't you think that maybe they think too that it is grown-up?? Maybe, just maybe, they steal sips of your mocha drink when you aren't looking.  Maybe they are closet coffee junkies.  Did you ever think of that?  Don't you see how very ridiculous this all is.  Really.  I mean, I don't even know you."

She gawked some more and then huffed out.  I looked around the shop - thinking that people must be staring. But no one seemed to notice.  Best of all, D just happily kept sipping his "coffee." 

Mommies beware.  The Sancti-mommy is on the loose.

I was at Starbucks with my toddler yesterday.  D and I have our own little ritual at Dar-Ducks, as he calls it.  I order my lovely Grande Soy Latte and I pick up a container of milk for D.  I asked for an additional Grande hot cup so that D can pour his milk and have "coffee."  D really likes it when I add a swig of my latte into his 8-ounces of milk.  A little teeny swig. 

Well, yesterday the Sancti-mommy at Starbucks saw me give D some of my coffee and I think she would have called CPS if given the chance.  She marched over to me.  Yes, she marched all huffy and puffy.  And told me, very loudly, that children should never have coffee. 

I tried to laugh it off, but from the look on her face, I felt I needed to justify myself. 

"It's just a teeny swig.  He doesn't have a whole cappuccino.  I don't think it will hurt him.  It's an old wives tale about coffee stunting your growth." 

She didn't buy it. She went on to tell me that I was setting a bad example, that I was glorifying it and by allowing him to have this adult drink would open the door for him to try other adult things.  That she would never allow her children to drink coffee.

Now she pissed me off.  I had no idea that a Starbuck's coffee was the gateway drug to, say, alcohol or cocaine.  Come on, lady!

"You act as if I totally endangered him.  Don't you think your kids see you drink that??  Don't you think that maybe they think too that it is grown-up?? Maybe, just maybe, they steal sips of your mocha drink when you aren't looking.  Maybe they are closet coffee junkies.  Did you ever think of that?  Don't you see how very ridiculous this all is.  Really.  I mean, I don't even know you."

She gawked some more and then huffed out.  I looked around the shop - thinking that people must be staring. But no one seemed to notice.  Best of all, D just happily kept sipping his "coffee." 

Mommies beware.  The Sancti-mommy is on the loose.

10 Reasons why parties at Chuck E' Cheese are a BAD idea

10. Finding parking here is worse than going to a Giants game at AT&T park.  At least there you can ride BART.  At Chuck E Cheese, the only thing riding was my hefty 3 year-old on my hip.

9. Can we say bad pizza?  I love me some pizza.  But come on.  I’ve tasted frozen stuff that was better than that. What can you expect from a place whose spokesperson is a big rat?

8. More kids here than on “Kid Nation.”  It’s like Cancun for the four year old set.  I’ve never seen more wild children drunk on fruit punch.

7.  Every other game will eat one of your tokens.

6. There is only one employee who could fix the machines and refund you the token.  And when you have a three year old who can’t wait, that means you’ve just paid Chuck E Cheese for a whole lotta nothing.

5. A hundred tickets will buy you plastic key chain or a tootsie roll.  Seriously.  I spent 3 bucks on tokens for a tootsie roll.

4. Trying to find the table for your party amongst the 42 million tables in the place is enough stress.  Finding the holy grail would be easier than navigating in that place.

3. The noise level is so frickin LOUD that your head will be buzzing from blinking lights and arcade music for the rest of the night.  You will realize that you are officially old because you not only noticed the noise level but commented on it to three other parents.

2. The “helper” was totally stingy with the plates and forks.  Apparently cake and ice cream is best eaten with your hands and a napkin.

1. Your kid will get lost approximately 1.7 times in a 90 minute period.  And for the rest of the day will talk about how he wants his birthday party there next year too. 

Originally published in November 2007 at the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Silicon Valley Moms Blog moves to Technorati... without me

When the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog sent out an email (and later a press release) last June stating that they were closing shop, I was devastated.  As one of the original writers, I felt like my blogging security blanket had been ripped out from under me.  Sure, I had this blog... but in so many ways SVMoms was my home. 

After the initial shock, Kimberly reached out to a few of the SVMoms writers and said that we should find a way to fill the void.  In September, Kimberly and I co-founded Silicon Valley Mamas - a new fledgling community blog that touches on the uniqueness of raising normal kids in this high-tech, helicopter parenting place.

Then in November, SVMom's announced that they found a new home with Technorati.  I was so thrilled to hear that the writing would continue at the newly created Women's Channel.  And I was so honored to receive an invitation to continue my writing there too. 

But after much thought, I've decided not to join.  For one, I have a hard enough time consistently writing here.  Over the years, I've come to realize that blogging cannot take the place of real relationships... so I've loosened the reigns here to cultivate my real-life relationships. 

In so many ways, the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog was like four years of college all over again.  I feel like I'm in this awesome sorority of amazing women.  But it's also time to move on.  I grew as a writer thanks to the blog.  I'll never forget the experience.

And so, this week I'll be featuring some of my favorite Silicon Valley Mom's Blog posts from over the four years writing with them.  I'm moving over the last of my blog posts this week so that all of my writing will live on here at Who's the Boss?  I hope you join me for this stroll down memory lane with the blog that rekindled my passion for writing.

If breakfast is the most important meal of the day, I must totally suck

I’ve tried. I’ve really, really tried. I’ve cooked eggs a half-dozen different ways. I’ve spread peanut butter on toast. I’ve done every kind of cereal known to man. I’ve tried those nasty weight-loss shakes. I’ve eaten Oatmeal and Crème of Wheat. English Muffins, bagels, and donuts on Friday. It really doesn’t matter what I’ve tried to eat for breakfast. Because the fact remains, I hate breakfast.

If breakfast is the most important meal of the day, then I must totally suck. And I must be the biggest failure. But it is so hard for me eat in the morning.

My alarm goes off at 6:45 nearly every morning (don’t be telling me how late I get up, I don’t make it to bed until after Midnight). Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed in my workout clothes and I’m doing my best to get my son up and ready for school. Thirty minutes later, I’ve checked email, packed lunches, and have shoo’ed my family out the door so that I can officially start my day. And yes, I even make them all breakfast. But me? I don’t want breakfast. I’m not interested in breakfast. The thought of breakfast makes me want to dry heave in the sink.

I know I’m supposed to want to eat breakfast. I know that my metabolism doesn’t kick start in the morning until I eat. But I’m really not hungry. Not even a little bit hungry. And doesn’t eating when not hungry breaks like a million other diet rules? The way I see it, "The Never Eat Unless You are Hungry" rule totally trumps "The Never Miss Breakfast" rule.

Besides, our mornings are rushed enough. None of us are real morning people in this house. We all get up at the last possible minute and get what needs to get done in the least time possible. So I’ll survive on my banana and yogurt at 11am, hours after I’ve woken up and often times after my daily 2-mi walk.

Hey, 11am is still the morning right? Maybe I do eat breakfast afterall.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

I’ve tried. I’ve really, really tried. I’ve cooked eggs a half-dozen different ways. I’ve spread peanut butter on toast. I’ve done every kind of cereal known to man. I’ve tried those nasty weight-loss shakes. I’ve eaten Oatmeal and Crème of Wheat. English Muffins, bagels, and donuts on Friday. It really doesn’t matter what I’ve tried to eat for breakfast. Because the fact remains, I hate breakfast.

If breakfast is the most important meal of the day, then I must totally suck. And I must be the biggest failure. But it is so hard for me eat in the morning.

My alarm goes off at 6:45 nearly every morning (don’t be telling me how late I get up, I don’t make it to bed until after Midnight). Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed in my workout clothes and I’m doing my best to get my son up and ready for school. Thirty minutes later, I’ve checked email, packed lunches, and have shoo’ed my family out the door so that I can officially start my day. And yes, I even make them all breakfast. But me? I don’t want breakfast. I’m not interested in breakfast. The thought of breakfast makes me want to dry heave in the sink.

I know I’m supposed to want to eat breakfast. I know that my metabolism doesn’t kick start in the morning until I eat. But I’m really not hungry. Not even a little bit hungry. And doesn’t eating when not hungry breaks like a million other diet rules? The way I see it, "The Never Eat Unless You are Hungry" rule totally trumps "The Never Miss Breakfast" rule.

Besides, our mornings are rushed enough. None of us are real morning people in this house. We all get up at the last possible minute and get what needs to get done in the least time possible. So I’ll survive on my banana and yogurt at 11am, hours after I’ve woken up and often times after my daily 2-mi walk.

Hey, 11am is still the morning right? Maybe I do eat breakfast afterall.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Saved by the San Jose Parks and Rec

I’ve known for years that the only way to get into the Summer Camps you want is to register in March; months before you really should have to plan out your summer vacation. Emails went flying around my son's class group email about who was signing up for where and when so that parents could try to coordinate camps with friends. I even told another mom that we were signing up for particular weeks of the YMCA Lego Camp so that my son and his BFF could be together for two weeks in the summer.

And then my morning sickness kicked in full force. The camp brochures sat on my desk for weeks collecting dust. I knew that I needed to sign up to get the camps that we wanted. I knew that I had promised my son two weeks of Lego Camp. But I didn’t do anything about it. Over two months passed before I finally logged into the Y’s online registration. When I finally did get around to it, all of the camps that we wanted, in the week that we wanted, were booked solid. No Lego Camp. No Super Hero camp. No Magic Camp. There were weeks that were available for camps, but we weren’t available to attend it. I felt like a total failure as a mom in that moment as I desperately tried to find a single camp that worked.

On our weekly trip to our local library, I saw that the new Summer Activity Guide for San Jose was available. I snagged one in hopes that I’d be able to redeem my camp enrollment failures. I wasn’t expecting to hit the jackpot in affordable camps.

Morning Sickness has nothing to do with Morning

When I was pregnant with my son six years ago, I didn’t have any morning sickness. I barely suffered through two weeks of a little queasiness and food aversions. It was nothing. I was always smug about the fact that pregnancy and me got along so well. Two peas in a pod were we. Sure, I felt sorry for my friends who actually had real morning sickness during their pregnancies. But I also wore a badge of pride about never getting sick.

I didn’t realize that I should have sent a bouquet of flowers and a big Thank You card to the pregnancy Gods for bestowing such luck to a working gal like me. I guess this time around the Gods Must Be Angry.

I’ve never barfed so much in my life. At first it was just a few times a week, but for the last month I have regurgitated a meal at least once day. And surprisingly, very few of my rendezvous with my bathroom toilet have been in the morning. To call it “morning” sickness is a cruel trick. It should be called “all day” sickness. Or “you never know when you’re gonna find yourself barfing” sickness. Or “there’s no rhyme or reason to this” sickness.

More than anything, I find the whole thing annoying. Between school drop off and pick-ups, my meeting schedule at work, afterschool activities, cooking dinner, and all the millions of things that we moms do on a daily basis, I just wish that my morning sickness would be consistent. If I could schedule say from 10-11am for yacking, then at least I know when to expect it and could work around it.

Instead, I’ve found myself abruptly ending conference calls, throwing up lunch in the trash can outside of my son’s class when volunteering for school, eating an expensive dinner only to find myself in the restaurant’s women’s room 20 minutes later empyting the contents of my stomach. I didn’t think it could get any worse after I ralphed into a friend’s daughter’s lunch bag on our drive up to San Francisco. But then on Mother’s Day, I was so violently sick that I actually broken capillaries around my eyes and cheeks. From a distance, I look like a teen with acne. Up close, I look like I’ve caught a nasty rash. Either way, this wasn’t exactly the present I was looking for on Mother’s Day of all days.

I’m so used to barfing that it’s become no big deal. Most of the time, you won’t even know when I’ve discreetly excused myself to find the nearest ladies room. It’s over before most people would realize I’ve gone. Long gone are the days of feeling sorry for myself or texting my spouse to bring home dinner. If the Gods Are Angry, they certainly won’t stand for a pity party, right?

Just don’t ask me about my morning sickness. Because this has nothing to do with the morning.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Let's all go to the Drive-In!

When I was a kid, my dad often took us to the Drive-In. He drove a “chester” van… you know the ones with no windows, with a seat in the back that could convert into a bed. My dad would pack up the van with all sorts of snacks, blankets, and pillows. We’d head out at dusk to get in line and get a good spot in front of the supersize screen. My dad would always let us go get an ice-cream or special treat from the concession stand. My brother and I thought we were so cool.

As an adult now, I realize why my father (a single dad) loved the Drive-In. It was CHEAP. Kids are free, the snacks didn’t have the 500% mark-up you get in the movie theater, and it was much more comfortable for all of us. My dad also says that my brother and I never made it to the second movie (all drive-in’s are double features). As soon as we both were fast asleep, my dad would just close the back doors to the van and drive on home.

When one of the latest kid movies was playing at the drive-in, my dad took my son. I had forgotten about the Drive-In on Capitol Road in San Jose. It’s home to the Flea Market during the day. I’m sure it’s probably the same place that we went when I was a kid. My son and father packed up the car with popcorn, a flashlight (to be able to walk to the bathrooms and concession stand), drinks, and candies. The two of them had such a great time that my son was talking about it for weeks after.

After hearing about how much better the Drive-In was to the traditional movie theater, I caved and went with my son and dad to see Alice in Wonderland. The boys were right. The drive-in was great. First of all, it was cheap (less than $7 per adult for a double-feature) and the kids are free. It was nice packing my own snack, most of them we already had at home so it wasn’t costing me even more money. Plus not have to smuggle them into the theater (of course, I smuggle in my own snacks! I’m not paying $4 for a pack of red vines) was a nice change too.

But the biggest thing for me was the comfort. Sitting in your car is way more comfy than sitting in a stiff theater seat. It’s ok for you to talk. You don’t have to hear the kid who’s really a scaredy-cat and constantly screams during the movie. No one is getting up and down in front of you. You can text without your screen lighting up the theater or take that call from your husband who’s currently on a business trip to Thailand. You control the volume (your car radio). When your kid does eventually fall asleep in the opening credits of the second movie, you can easily buckle them back into their carseat and head on home for the night (or in our case, over to the other screen with the adult, rated R movie).

The Drive-In is now our favorite way to go to the movies. I love that I’m creating a tradition out of an experience that I had as a child. Going to the Drive-In was so fun for me as a child and remarkably it is just as fun (if it more) as a parent too. Let’s all go the Drive-In indeed!

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Photo credit: y entonceson flickr

After hearing about how much better the Drive-In was to the traditional movie theater, I caved and went with my son and dad to see Alice in Wonderland. The boys were right. The drive-in was great. First of all, it was cheap (less than $7 per adult for a double-feature) and the kids are free. It was nice packing my own snack, most of them we already had at home so it wasn’t costing me even more money. Plus not have to smuggle them into the theater (of course, I smuggle in my own snacks! I’m not paying $4 for a pack of red vines) was a nice change too.

But the biggest thing for me was the comfort. Sitting in your car is way more comfy than sitting in a stiff theater seat. It’s ok for you to talk. You don’t have to hear the kid who’s really a scaredy-cat and constantly screams during the movie. No one is getting up and down in front of you. You can text without your screen lighting up the theater or take that call from your husband who’s currently on a business trip to Thailand. You control the volume (your car radio). When your kid does eventually fall asleep in the opening credits of the second movie, you can easily buckle them back into their carseat and head on home for the night (or in our case, over to the other screen with the adult, rated R movie).

The Drive-In is now our favorite way to go to the movies. I love that I’m creating a tradition out of an experience that I had as a child. Going to the Drive-In was so fun for me as a child and remarkably it is just as fun (if it more) as a parent too. Let’s all go the Drive-In indeed!

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Photo credit: y entonceson flickr

Do Celebrities make good role models?

Last month, I participated in a Dine and Dish video series about whether or not celebrities should be role models for our kids.  Watch the video of opinionated moms from all over the country giving their two cents about it.  And then head over to my latest post on the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog to really hear why I think the idea of the celebrity role model should be a fictional legend like a hobbit or a gremlin.

I'd love to get your opinion.  Should celebrities be role models for our kids?

Are Celebrities Good Role Models for Kids? @ Yahoo! Video

When we cancelled the cable last year, we didn’t realize at the time the bullet we’d be dodging in raising our son. No Nickelodeon. No Disney Channel. No Sponge Bob Square Pants or Hannah Montana. PBS’ Electric Company and CyberChase are pretty much the only TV my son watches during the week. We do have a regular “Family Movie Night” every Friday, allowing just about any PG movie of my son’s choosing from our local library. But when it comes to celebrities, I’m not even sure my son knows the meaning of the word.

There’s no Hannah Montana or the Jonas Brothers or those twin boys living in the hotel. I’m sure he knows who those people are – he does go to school where he picks up all sorts of stuff besides reading, writing, and arithmetic. But he doesn’t watch their shows. Or see their movies. Or get caught up in the fever of all that Disney sugary pop-culture.

My son is totally into sports (he plays at least one sport every season) and we’ve gone to many professional basketball, baseball, and hockey games. But he wouldn’t know Pablo Sandoval from Jerry Rice. He loves the sport not the player. The only name of an athlete he’s latched on to is Michael Phelps. It didn’t help that the year he joined our community’s swim team was the same year as the Summer Olympics. My son was more proud of his first trophy than Michael Phelps could have been about all his gold medals. Weeks later when the scandal broke of the swimmers recreational marijuana use, my son had already moved on to Flag Football. Not that he would know what “pot” was other than the thing mom uses to cook dinner.

With sports figures in the tabloids as much as musicians, actors, and celeb-utantes, you’d think he had caught wind of some scandal. But the truth of the matter is that we’ve never put any stock in the idea of fame. While a professional athlete may make more money in a year than Tom Cruise that person has never been the reason why we enjoy the sport. Replace Tiger Woods with another golfer and he would still watch the Masters on television.

I don’t think most celebrities make good role models. Especially these days where a sex tape and reality show make you famous. My son has excellent role models: his family, his uncles, his grandparents. There are people in the community, police officers who keep us safe, firemen who rescue us. There’s a hero in every book he reads. He has so many role models that he doesn’t even know what he’s missing. And that’s a good thing.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

My son is totally into sports (he plays at least one sport every season) and we’ve gone to many professional basketball, baseball, and hockey games. But he wouldn’t know Pablo Sandoval from Jerry Rice. He loves the sport not the player. The only name of an athlete he’s latched on to is Michael Phelps. It didn’t help that the year he joined our community’s swim team was the same year as the Summer Olympics. My son was more proud of his first trophy than Michael Phelps could have been about all his gold medals. Weeks later when the scandal broke of the swimmers recreational marijuana use, my son had already moved on to Flag Football. Not that he would know what “pot” was other than the thing mom uses to cook dinner.

With sports figures in the tabloids as much as musicians, actors, and celeb-utantes, you’d think he had caught wind of some scandal. But the truth of the matter is that we’ve never put any stock in the idea of fame. While a professional athlete may make more money in a year than Tom Cruise that person has never been the reason why we enjoy the sport. Replace Tiger Woods with another golfer and he would still watch the Masters on television.

I don’t think most celebrities make good role models. Especially these days where a sex tape and reality show make you famous. My son has excellent role models: his family, his uncles, his grandparents. There are people in the community, police officers who keep us safe, firemen who rescue us. There’s a hero in every book he reads. He has so many role models that he doesn’t even know what he’s missing. And that’s a good thing.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

BOOK IT! can Suck it!

It started last November when a flyer came home about the Book It reading program.  Like many schools in the Bay Area, ours had partnered with Pizza Hut for a reading rewards program.  If my son read for 15 minutes every day in the month, then he could get a coupon for a free personal pizza.  From the start I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of rewarding with food.  Especially bad, unhealthy food.

Let’s face it, the ultimate goal of rewarding children is to help them internalize the positive behavior.  Sure, many of us used a jelly bean or an M&M to get our toddler to pee in the potty (in our house it was stamps, stickers, and when I got really desperate, Thomas trains).  But we also know that rewarding children in the home or in the classroom does not need to involve food. 

There are big risks when rewarding with food.  The obvious is establishing potentially bad eating habits or over-eating.  But my bigger concern about rewarding reading with a high-fat, low-nutrient, fast-food pizza is that we are teaching the kids to reward themselves with food.  Which in turn connects food with mood.  And for those of us who’ve eaten a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food when our boyfriend dumped us in college know that it’s a dangerous game to establish your eating habits based on how your feeling.

By giving children empty calories as a reward for good behavior, we are saying "Here is something unhealthy for you because you behaved so well."  Or in this case, “because you read every day for 15 minutes.”  Does this make sense?

We participated that first month in November.  And then we went to a Pizza Hut with a few friends from his class the following month to redeem our prize.  Afterwards, I told my son that this was a one-shot deal.  While it was fun to have a pizza party with friends and it was even more fun to read, that we wouldn’t be coming back to Pizza Hut again. 

My son still has to read for 15 minutes a day.  That has to happen no matter what external rewards program the school offers.  Because I know that the real reward my son gets from reading is READING.  Of getting lost in a book or learning about new Stars Wars characters.  Of reading about our country’s history or the magical world of Harry Potter.  Of becoming a life-long lover of books.  Reading is the reward.  It’s the only reward that matters.   He doesn’t need a slice of pizza to figure that out.

March is National Reading Month. In honor of National Reading Month take some time to share a story with someone you love. You may very will inspire a lifelong reader!

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

By giving children empty calories as a reward for good behavior, we are saying "Here is something unhealthy for you because you behaved so well."  Or in this case, “because you read every day for 15 minutes.”  Does this make sense?

We participated that first month in November.  And then we went to a Pizza Hut with a few friends from his class the following month to redeem our prize.  Afterwards, I told my son that this was a one-shot deal.  While it was fun to have a pizza party with friends and it was even more fun to read, that we wouldn’t be coming back to Pizza Hut again. 

My son still has to read for 15 minutes a day.  That has to happen no matter what external rewards program the school offers.  Because I know that the real reward my son gets from reading is READING.  Of getting lost in a book or learning about new Stars Wars characters.  Of reading about our country’s history or the magical world of Harry Potter.  Of becoming a life-long lover of books.  Reading is the reward.  It’s the only reward that matters.   He doesn’t need a slice of pizza to figure that out.

March is National Reading Month. In honor of National Reading Month take some time to share a story with someone you love. You may very will inspire a lifelong reader!

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

An Open Letter to the San Jose Unified School District

Last year when you decided to cut 100 elementary school teachers and increase class sizes from K-3 to 30 students (that’s a 50% increase in kindergarten, if you can’t do the math), I did what I felt was the right thing for my family – I pulled my kid out of public education and placed him a private school.  Some told me that I lost my voice in public education the day I raised my white flag (and my checkbook).  But I’m still a law abiding tax payer.  I’m still a concerned citizen.  And I had still held on to the hope that, like the prodigal son, my child would return to public education when the district got its act together.

Sadly, that day hasn’t come.

Instead, San Jose Unified, you’ve continued to make cuts.  Now there is talk of more lay-offs for High School teachers and implementing ELEVEN furlough days for the entire district.  But let’s call that what it is really is.  You’ve increased class sizes to the point where kids are already falling behind and now you’re going to cut the school year by over two weeks?!?  This is beyond crazy.  It’s downright unethical, deplorable, and inexcusable.  Oh and don’t get me started in your idiotic attempt to recover some of that time by increasing the school day by 5 minutes.  FIVE MINUTES per day does not equal the same instruction time as ELEVEN DAYS.  Five minutes can easily be wasted, easily forgotten.  It can in no way, shape, or form replace eleven days of teaching.

I don’t want to hear your pathetic excuses for why you think it’s necessary.  I don’t want to hear that the kids will get the same education.  I have friends in your district. I know teachers in your district.  I know the answer to fixing over-crowding in elementary school is to increase parental volunteers.  While I think that every parent should be involved in their child’s school, that isn’t always an option for working parents.  Furthermore, parent volunteers can never replace the teacher.  I’d like to think I’m a pretty great parent.  But I don’t have the skills or qualifications to teach 30 kindergartners how to read, or get 30 third graders to learn cursive.  Teachers are irreplaceable.  Cutting teachers should be the very last resort – not the fastest way to manage your budget shortfall.

I want to know how many fat cat administrators at the District Office lost their jobs when you cut 100 teachers.  I’m certain the number isn’t nearly as devastating to our children as losing their teachers, having electives cut (because come on, it’s not like the English department will face the same slaughter as the Art department), or having PE only once a week.

I know your decision on next year has not been made.  I hope that you do the right thing and listen to your community.  Because, really, haven’t the kids already sacrificed enough?

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Last year when you decided to cut 100 elementary school teachers and increase class sizes from K-3 to 30 students (that’s a 50% increase in kindergarten, if you can’t do the math), I did what I felt was the right thing for my family – I pulled my kid out of public education and placed him a private school.  Some told me that I lost my voice in public education the day I raised my white flag (and my checkbook).  But I’m still a law abiding tax payer.  I’m still a concerned citizen.  And I had still held on to the hope that, like the prodigal son, my child would return to public education when the district got its act together.

Sadly, that day hasn’t come.

Instead, San Jose Unified, you’ve continued to make cuts.  Now there is talk of more lay-offs for High School teachers and implementing ELEVEN furlough days for the entire district.  But let’s call that what it is really is.  You’ve increased class sizes to the point where kids are already falling behind and now you’re going to cut the school year by over two weeks?!?  This is beyond crazy.  It’s downright unethical, deplorable, and inexcusable.  Oh and don’t get me started in your idiotic attempt to recover some of that time by increasing the school day by 5 minutes.  FIVE MINUTES per day does not equal the same instruction time as ELEVEN DAYS.  Five minutes can easily be wasted, easily forgotten.  It can in no way, shape, or form replace eleven days of teaching.

I don’t want to hear your pathetic excuses for why you think it’s necessary.  I don’t want to hear that the kids will get the same education.  I have friends in your district. I know teachers in your district.  I know the answer to fixing over-crowding in elementary school is to increase parental volunteers.  While I think that every parent should be involved in their child’s school, that isn’t always an option for working parents.  Furthermore, parent volunteers can never replace the teacher.  I’d like to think I’m a pretty great parent.  But I don’t have the skills or qualifications to teach 30 kindergartners how to read, or get 30 third graders to learn cursive.  Teachers are irreplaceable.  Cutting teachers should be the very last resort – not the fastest way to manage your budget shortfall.

I want to know how many fat cat administrators at the District Office lost their jobs when you cut 100 teachers.  I’m certain the number isn’t nearly as devastating to our children as losing their teachers, having electives cut (because come on, it’s not like the English department will face the same slaughter as the Art department), or having PE only once a week.

I know your decision on next year has not been made.  I hope that you do the right thing and listen to your community.  Because, really, haven’t the kids already sacrificed enough?

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Addiction

Three weeks ago I decided to quit cold turkey.  Some people, especially my close family members, knew of my addiction.  It was serious and it was starting to affect my health and even some of my relationships.  I knew the detox would be tough, the journey to stay sober would be harder, and the temptation to go back to my old ways would always be there.  But I wasn’t really prepared to get clean and sober from my coffee addiction.

Yes, I am a caffeine addict.  My preferred method of receiving my drug is coffee.  It doesn’t have to be fancy gourmet blends or expensive lattes.  With a little cream and a half-packet of Splenda, I’ll take my coffee any way I can get it.  I drink anywhere from 4 to 8 cups in a given day.  In the afternoons, I often grab a Diet Coke to get one last caffeine fix.  On the weekends, I fix up Chai made with caffeine-laced black tea.  I can’t get enough of the stuff.

Coffee has wrecked my sleep.  I’ve slept horribly for years.  Each morning, I stumble to my small percolator to get my first fix.  My family knows not to mess with me until I’m halfway through my first cup.  It’s like a self-fulfilled prophecy each and every day.  I drink so much coffee that I can’t sleep only to convince myself that I need more coffee because I got a horrible night’s rest.  Without it I’m irritable, short-fused, and unpredictable.  With it I’m jittery, bogged down with serious indigestion, and always looking for my next fix.

Coffee has wrecked my body.  I stopped eating breakfast in college.  I didn’t need it when my belly was full from all the liquid caffeine.  With a half a pot of coffee consumed by 10am, I didn’t realize that I was starving my body of real food, wrecking havoc on my metabolism.  All those years of not being able to resist an evening snack are understood… not enough calories during the day mean too many calories consumed at night. 

The only other time I detoxed from coffee was when I was pregnant with my son six years ago.  Even then, I could never really cut out caffeine for good.  I still had to have one cup of joe in the morning. But the moment my son was born, I was back to drinking to good stuff.  I couldn’t keep away.  I couldn’t resist the smell, the taste, the feeling that I can finally think straight. 

Three weeks ago, my beloved percolator broke. Instead of replacing it, I decided once and for all to break my caffeine addiction.  No coffee.  No soda.  No Red-Bull or Starbucks.  No energy drinks.  Zero, zip, zilch. Three weeks ago, I embarked on the hardest journey of my life.  This is harder than cramming for finals, or dealing with my first heartbreak.  This is harder than childbirth.  I am more tired, frustrated, and in a fog now than I was in those first few weeks as a new mother. 

I’ve searched for a support group.  I could really use an AA version for Coffee Addicts.  Sure there are lots of people who say they’ll give up coffee as a New Year’s Resolution.  Most of those fools have already gone back to their coffee-drinking ways.  I’m in this for the long haul.  Maybe one day I’ll be able to have just one cup and be normal.  I doubt it.  Alcoholics can’t stop at one drink.  I’m not sure I can stop at one cup. 

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Photo credit: Ana Garza

Coffee has wrecked my sleep.  I’ve slept horribly for years.  Each morning, I stumble to my small percolator to get my first fix.  My family knows not to mess with me until I’m halfway through my first cup.  It’s like a self-fulfilled prophecy each and every day.  I drink so much coffee that I can’t sleep only to convince myself that I need more coffee because I got a horrible night’s rest.  Without it I’m irritable, short-fused, and unpredictable.  With it I’m jittery, bogged down with serious indigestion, and always looking for my next fix.

Coffee has wrecked my body.  I stopped eating breakfast in college.  I didn’t need it when my belly was full from all the liquid caffeine.  With a half a pot of coffee consumed by 10am, I didn’t realize that I was starving my body of real food, wrecking havoc on my metabolism.  All those years of not being able to resist an evening snack are understood… not enough calories during the day mean too many calories consumed at night. 

The only other time I detoxed from coffee was when I was pregnant with my son six years ago.  Even then, I could never really cut out caffeine for good.  I still had to have one cup of joe in the morning. But the moment my son was born, I was back to drinking to good stuff.  I couldn’t keep away.  I couldn’t resist the smell, the taste, the feeling that I can finally think straight. 

Three weeks ago, my beloved percolator broke. Instead of replacing it, I decided once and for all to break my caffeine addiction.  No coffee.  No soda.  No Red-Bull or Starbucks.  No energy drinks.  Zero, zip, zilch. Three weeks ago, I embarked on the hardest journey of my life.  This is harder than cramming for finals, or dealing with my first heartbreak.  This is harder than childbirth.  I am more tired, frustrated, and in a fog now than I was in those first few weeks as a new mother. 

I’ve searched for a support group.  I could really use an AA version for Coffee Addicts.  Sure there are lots of people who say they’ll give up coffee as a New Year’s Resolution.  Most of those fools have already gone back to their coffee-drinking ways.  I’m in this for the long haul.  Maybe one day I’ll be able to have just one cup and be normal.  I doubt it.  Alcoholics can’t stop at one drink.  I’m not sure I can stop at one cup. 

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Photo credit: Ana Garza

Bait and Switch

This post is inspired by See Mom Run by Beth Feldman, a compilation of funny parenting stories by bloggers and writers, and the latest book choice for the Silicon Valley Moms Blog book club.

It was my first, real, Parent Teacher Night.  Sure, D’s preschool had a Parent Meeting in the Fall where the teachers talked a little about what happens in their class.  But this Parent Teacher Night was the big leagues.  My baby was no longer a baby.  He was a kindergartner.  An opinionated, independent, backpack toting Kindergartner.  And I was the mom in a new land.  A private school that we only toured twice before signing up.  A private school that cost more than my first year of college tuition.  A private school that had way more parents driving luxury vehicles than parents like us who sacrificed to send out son there.

Darius had survived the first two weeks of school.  I was still feeling like a strange man in a new world.  Navigating drop off and pick up, learning the intense homework schedule.  Between the afterschool clubs, the school uniform policy, and a parent handbook that was thicker than a college freshman textbook, I felt like I had more to learn than my son did.

So there I was on Parent Teacher Night.  I knew this was my opportunity to finally size-up my son’s teachers.  But I also knew this was the teacher’s night to size-up the parents.  So I tried to dress nice, but not too nice.  I squished my child-bearing hips into a chair fit for a five year old.  And I waited for the teachers to tell all about their class.  His teachers talked about what the kids would be learning and how to organize the homework folder. But shortly into their presentation is when the sales pitch for parent volunteers began. 

It doesn't matter how good you've been, you're not getting it kid

When I attended his class Holiday Party, I moved around the room to see all the work displayed from floor to ceiling.  There were glittery poinsettias, construction paper dreidels, and reindeer’s antlers made from their own hands.  And tucked away into the far side of the room, where most parents still hadn’t ventured, was handwritten letters to Santa.  All of the letters started the same way, “Dear Santa, I’ve been a very good boy/girl.”  I’m guessing the teachers gave the children some examples of what to write next.  Some said they were nice to their little brother or sister.  Some said they picked up their toys. Others said they listened to their parents. But that was the end of the similarity.  What came after was the wish list. After all, one doesn’t write to Santa to ask for World Peace. It’s all about the toys.

I was getting quite a chuckle from the list of toys requested by the class. There were dolls, what I think was supposed to be a zhu zhu pet, superheroes, and even a request for a new bike.  But then I came to my son’s paper.  Darius wrote, clear as day, “I want a DS.” As in a Nintendo DS. 

It shouldn’t surprise me that he went big this year with the list.  After all, Santa has always brought him what he wanted. But those wants then weren’t as expensive as the wants of today.  Then it was a football helmet or a Lego Star Wars set.  It wasn’t a toy that costs over $150. This year he had originally told me that he was asking Santa for Bakugans.  And you know Santa already finished his shopping and bought those darn plastic thingamabobs and has them well hidden at the top of the closet waiting for Christmas morning. Santa isn’t buying a DS.  No way in hell.

Sure, there’s a lucky 5 year old in his class who already owns a DS.  One whose mother lets him play the darned thing before school, much to the horror of the rest of the moms who’d rather see our active boys run off some energy on the playground than huddled on the bench watching James play his DS.  We already have the educational version of a DS – the Leapster. Wouldn’t you know, Santa has also brought a new Star Wars Leapster game for his stocking. 

I know lots of people, adults included, who are the lucky owners of a Nintendo DS.  In fact, I have a new DS game wrapped under the tree for my 13 year old godson.  He received the gift of the DS last year when he was twelve; a far more appropriate age for a handheld toy that is easily break-able, lose-able, and steal-able.  There’s a lot of responsibility that comes with a DS.  Responsibility that I’m sure my 5 year old cannot achieve.  At least not without me constantly keeping track of the thing.  And frankly, I have enough to keep track of already.

So yesterday, I broke the news to my son.  I told him that I saw his very nice letter to Santa.  And that I read it.  And that while getting a DS would be very exciting, that Santa wouldn’t be bringing it into our house for Christmas.  Mom wouldn’t allow it because it isn’t an appropriate gift for his age.  And that when he’s 10 we can discuss it again. He seemed a little disappointed until I told him that I was sure that Santa would be bringing some special presents for my good boy.  His eyes brightened, his smiled widened, and he shouted,

“Like an Xbox 360?!?!”

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Third grade

In third grade, I learned how to make Wonton Soup, aced timed tests for multiplication tables, and was very mean to a boy named Jason who said he liked me.  I often jumped rope with my friends during recess, ate the same lunch nearly every day (peanut butter sandwich, granny smith apple, grape juice), and was allowed to wear earrings for the first time in a school photo. 

I had two teachers in third grade.  I loved Mrs. Godmoore.  She was lovely.  Everything a third grade teacher should be: kind but firm, loving but still distant, encouraging but disciplined.  In third grade, I would have done anything for Mrs. Godmoore.  Then there was her teaching partner, Mrs. Weiner.  I hated Mrs. Weiner.  She was evil.  Everything a third grade teacher shouldn’t be.  She humiliated children, yelled a lot, and never seemed pleased.  I often thought that Mrs. Weiner hated children. I could never understand why someone who hated children would choose to be around them all day long.

I'll turn off the sprinklers before I'll take a 5 minute shower

My kindergartner came home last week with a ton of information about water conservation.  Apparently there had been a school assembly or something with folks from the water company.  He was so excited to share his new knowledge about how to use less water.  Don’t water our lawn every day!  We only water 3 times a week.  Don’t run the dishwasher until it is full!  Go look in the sink to see that we don’t always run the dishwasher even after it is full.  Take a 5 minute shower! Cough Cough… a what?

A five-minute shower.  Probably sounds pretty easy for a guy.  But for a woman, it’s hard.  Beyond hard.  It’s damn near impossible. And believe me I know.  Not only did my son get the talk on reducing our water consumption, he also got a timer to put in the shower  that beeps LOUDLY at you when you’ve gone over the 5 minute mark.  It’s as if it shouting at you that you are a bad person and destroying the environment with every second you stay in the shower.  Or maybe that’s just how I feel about it.

Over this past week, I’ve raced through the shower trying to get in under 5 minutes.  I’ve even turned off the water while I’m lathering up shampoo or letting my conditioner sit for minute.  You’ve only got 5 minutes of water before your son comes in shouting “IT’S BEEPING, MOM.  GET OUT THE SHOWER NOW.  YOU’RE WASTING WATER!” You can’t waste those precious minutes. 

I’ve never once made it less than 5 minutes.  I haven’t shaved in a week – that’s too much water wasted!  I gave up on brushing my teeth in the shower – one of my favorite things to do to really feel fresh and clean.  Not one second spent enjoying the hot water pounding on my back.  A hot shower is no longer relaxing.  All I can think how a hot shower is selfish.  It’s a hostile action to our environment.  It’s downright horrible.

This morning, I turned to my spouse and told him that he wasn’t allowed to shower today.  When he asked why, I told him frankly “Because this momma needs 10 minutes and I’m not gonna feel guilty about it.” Somebody has to sacrifice and this time it ain't gonna be me!

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Over this past week, I’ve raced through the shower trying to get in under 5 minutes.  I’ve even turned off the water while I’m lathering up shampoo or letting my conditioner sit for minute.  You’ve only got 5 minutes of water before your son comes in shouting “IT’S BEEPING, MOM.  GET OUT THE SHOWER NOW.  YOU’RE WASTING WATER!” You can’t waste those precious minutes. 

I’ve never once made it less than 5 minutes.  I haven’t shaved in a week – that’s too much water wasted!  I gave up on brushing my teeth in the shower – one of my favorite things to do to really feel fresh and clean.  Not one second spent enjoying the hot water pounding on my back.  A hot shower is no longer relaxing.  All I can think how a hot shower is selfish.  It’s a hostile action to our environment.  It’s downright horrible.

This morning, I turned to my spouse and told him that he wasn’t allowed to shower today.  When he asked why, I told him frankly “Because this momma needs 10 minutes and I’m not gonna feel guilty about it.” Somebody has to sacrifice and this time it ain't gonna be me!

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

The good, the fabulous, and the "I wish I could afford it"

I've been writing for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog for over three years.  I will always give Jill credit for igniting a passion for writing inside of me that I never knew existed.  As one of the original writers, I will always feel like I own a little piece of the blog's success and I will always feel like I owe the blog a lot of my own success.  So color me happy when 50 Silicon Valley bloggers got together to have the ultimate swag party.  As I walked out with my arms heavy from all the swag, after what felt like three very short hours, I knew that once again Jill and her team hit it out of the park.

The party was so professional.  Each blogger was giving a card with each vendor.  As you went around to each booth, you didn't have to worry about a vendor running out of goodies or feel rushed to get through it all.  If you've ever been to a BlogHer conference, you know the adrenaline rush you get when walking into the sponsor rooms.  There's not enough swag to go around.  So people get pushy.  And rude.  And downright horrible.  It was more than refreshing to be in a forum where you are talking to people who want to show you their product without all that competitive bullshit.  It was awesome.  

Remembering my Grandfathers on Veteran's Day

Both of my Grandpa's were military men.  Both grew up dirt poor in the rural South.  Both knew what it felt like to go hungry.  Both felt the military was the only option to pull themselves out of deep poverty.

My mom's dad, Skip, was a career Navy man. He enlisted in the Navy when he was just 17.  He loved everything about the Navy - even boot-camp.  I remember my Grandpa saying that it was the first time in his life that he felt like home.  Three square meals a day, a cot to sleep on, and money in his pocket.  He felt like he hit the jackpot. My Grandpa and Grandma lived all over the world during my Grandpa's 20 year service.  All of his four children where conceived or born overseas.

My dad's dad, Woody, was a Marine. Woody was an MP in the Marines.  His job was to pull drunk guys out of bars when they didn't make it back to the base in time for curfew. He survived Malaria twice and was a tough as tough could come.  In fact, he never disciplined his children for fear that he would forget they were just kids and not insubordinate Marines.

For my Grandpas, the military was the only option.  Neither had finished high school.  Neither had any hopes of college - that was for rich boys.  In the military, they learned skills that landed them real jobs when they retired from actively serving their country.  When I look back at the legacy they've left behind, their years in the military changed their lives and the lives of their children and their children's children. 

Both of my Grandfathers have passed, but their stories remain alive in their wives and their children.  Neither ever served on the front lines of war, but knew many of the men who did.  They both talked somberly of those that gave up their lives for the freedom of this nation and the freedom of those on foreign soil. Both had a deep love for America, their families, and God. None of the men in my family have served in the military since my Grandfathers. After living through more than one war, my grandfathers didn't want their children to fight in one. 

As a child listening to their stories of war, I am sure that they left out the gory details and talked of romantic memories about their military days.  As an adult, I realize now all of the details that they didn't share, stories that would never be re-told, the demons and nightmares being omitted to save a little girl from the real atrocities of war.

On Veteran's Day, I light a candle to Skip and Woody.  I light another for the men currently serving in the war on Iraq and Afghanistan.  And I light a third for Peace. 

Original post for the nSilicon Valley Mom's Blog

My child is getting the H1N1 vaccine, why isn't yours?

I wouldn’t consider myself pro-vaccine.  Sure, my son was stuck in his chubby little thigh right on schedule.  But, honestly, I never considered any other options.  If The Vaccine Book had come out while I was pregnant, I would have chosen to slow-vax my son.  He’d eventually got all his shots, but it wouldn’t have been at 3-5 in one sitting.  Instead the book arrived in stores when I was a mother to a toddler who was already more than half way through the rigors of inoculations.  While it certainly made me feel better about the choice we made to vaccinate accordingly to the traditional schedule, it also made me realize that I probably should have done a lot more research before I blindly trusted my pediatrician. 

Considering that I vaccinated my son against many life-threatening illnesses… illnesses that killed some of my own ancestry when they were children, I never understood why I took such a hard stance against the flu shot.  I’ve, personally, only received the seasonal flu shot twice in my life.  The year I was pregnant and the year I was a mother to a newborn.  My son Darius had the flu shot only once when he was 6 months old.  I didn’t even bother to take in him for the recommended second dose hoping that my continued breastfeeding during the flu season would keep him safe.

Yet nearly five years after his one and only flu shot, I am pulling my son out of school 30 minutes early to drive to our pediatrician’s office to get the H1N1 vaccine. 

With H1N1 already causing more deaths in children than the regular seasonal flu (and we haven’t even hit the real cold and flu season), I’m surprised at how many parents are opting out of the vaccine.  One mother in my son’s class said that she was “pro-germs” and would take the risk of her children getting the virus naturally before she’d give them the shot.  I was shocked!  At least a third of the children who’ve died of H1N1 were healthy children before they contracted the virus.  I’m all for building a child’s immunity to common colds, but I’m not sure I can be pro-germ when kids are the most vulnerable to this virus.

There have been two reported cases of H1N1 at my son’s school.  One was a child in the kindergarten class next to my son.  I want to do everything that I can to protect my son.  We’ve amped up our hand-washing, have had lots of talks about how germs are not for sharing, and are keeping a watchful eye to make sure our son stays healthy.  Add to it that my son has contact with many family members who are considered to have compromised immune systems.  I couldn’t take the risk of my son exposing them when they are a high-risk category as well.  It’s not about panic or pandemonium.  Rather, I want to take precautions when we can to make sure that we protect the health of our family.

Lucky for my son, our pediatrician is only doing the flu mist for now.  I don’t have to go back on my word of not having to get any more shots after we finished our round of boosters for Kindergarten.  I’ll be getting the seasonal flu shot this year as well. I know it won’t lessen the risk of getting H1N1, but my son will see how shots are really no big deal when I roll up my shirt sleeve and take the shot in stride. 

You can bet I’m gonna ask for a lollypop too.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Second Harvest Food Bank

Every year my company holds a Volunteer Week.  The company does a fantastic job of proactively identifying volunteer opportunities throughout the year for those who are civic-service minded.  But then in late September, they do a big push to get every employee across the nation to volunteer in their community. There’s an entire website to connect volunteers with projects .  In the Bay Area alone, there were over 25 projects for employees to sign-up.

I picked the one closest to my home.  I’ll admit that I was a little disappointed that it meant that I’d lose three hours on a Saturday morning.  Yes, I was being selfish with my time.  I’m a busy working mom with weekends that can be more stressful than my meeting schedule.  I’d much rather have found a community service project that was in the morning during the week… might as well kill two birds with one stone and get a break from work while serving my community.  But alas, I picked convenience of the local over my desire to play hooky at work.

And on last Saturday, I showed up to the Second Harvest Food Bank with 20 other employees of my company to bag produce for needy families in my community.

In three hours, our group of twenty bagged over 750 3-lb bags of carrots.  These carrots weren’t like the carrots you’d see stacked all perfectly in Whole Foods.  These carrots were broken in half or triple the size of a carrot you’d see in the store.  The food bank has a deal with local farmers to buy the carrots that wouldn’t be “sell-able” in a regular grocery store.   Whatever carrots were deemed un-safe for human consumption, we threw into a bin that went to a local pig farmer.  No carrot went to waste that day.

At the end of the three hours, I felt like I had really accomplished something for my community.  Until I heard that our 750 bags wouldn’t even survive a few hours at a local food pantry.  Second Harvest Food Bank serves over 200,000 Bay Area families every MONTH.  That’s over 6500 families a day.  Our Team Leader told us that with the economy in bad shape, they see more and more families each week.  There are people in our community who have to pick paying rent over buying groceries.  That there are children who go hungry on the weekends as their only meal is the free lunch they get at school.  It was heartbreaking.

Suddenly that one grocery bag of food I brought to donate seemed like a pathetic attempt to show my support for my community.  I was thrilled when I learned that Second Harvest has partnered with companies and local farmers to make donations stretch even farther.  For a $15.00 donation, Second Harvest can buy 350 pounds of fresh fruits and vegetables.  At my local Farmer’s Market, that would buy 7 pounds of peaches. 

So I’ve marked it in my calendar to regularly go shopping for my community at the Second Harvest website.  I can make a single monetary donation that Second Harvest uses as they see fit.  Or I can virtually shop, knowing exactly what my dollars are buying and how far those dollars are stretching to feed my community.  It still may not be enough. But by spending a mere three hours at the Second Harvest Food Bank, I realized that there is so much more than I can be doing.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

In three hours, our group of twenty bagged over 750 3-lb bags of carrots.  These carrots weren’t like the carrots you’d see stacked all perfectly in Whole Foods.  These carrots were broken in half or triple the size of a carrot you’d see in the store.  The food bank has a deal with local farmers to buy the carrots that wouldn’t be “sell-able” in a regular grocery store.   Whatever carrots were deemed un-safe for human consumption, we threw into a bin that went to a local pig farmer.  No carrot went to waste that day.

At the end of the three hours, I felt like I had really accomplished something for my community.  Until I heard that our 750 bags wouldn’t even survive a few hours at a local food pantry.  Second Harvest Food Bank serves over 200,000 Bay Area families every MONTH.  That’s over 6500 families a day.  Our Team Leader told us that with the economy in bad shape, they see more and more families each week.  There are people in our community who have to pick paying rent over buying groceries.  That there are children who go hungry on the weekends as their only meal is the free lunch they get at school.  It was heartbreaking.

Suddenly that one grocery bag of food I brought to donate seemed like a pathetic attempt to show my support for my community.  I was thrilled when I learned that Second Harvest has partnered with companies and local farmers to make donations stretch even farther.  For a $15.00 donation, Second Harvest can buy 350 pounds of fresh fruits and vegetables.  At my local Farmer’s Market, that would buy 7 pounds of peaches. 

So I’ve marked it in my calendar to regularly go shopping for my community at the Second Harvest website.  I can make a single monetary donation that Second Harvest uses as they see fit.  Or I can virtually shop, knowing exactly what my dollars are buying and how far those dollars are stretching to feed my community.  It still may not be enough. But by spending a mere three hours at the Second Harvest Food Bank, I realized that there is so much more than I can be doing.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

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

One Working Mom's take on the Healthcare Bill

It's true... I love my job... and my employer paid benefits.  That perk of being gainfully employed and having access to high-quality healthcare is probably the #1 reason that I will always continue to work.  Earlier this year, I considered going part-time when my son starts kindergarten next week.  I did all my research about how many hours I could reduce before my healthcare benefits at work would change. I wasn't about to give up those valuable bennies.

I'm know I'm one of the lucky ones.  Not only do I have health insurance for me and my family, the company I work for subsidizes that insurance so that it is affordable to me.  My premium and co-pays are low.  I've never had to decide between paying for health insurance or paying the rent.  I've never been denied insurance based on a pre-existing condition clause or have to appeal when my claim has been denied.

But do you really think that the government can fix all that?  Do you really think all the problems are going to be solved with this bill?  Because if you do, I'd like a hit from the crack pipe you're smoking.

Yes, our country needs to make sure that everyone has access to insurance.  Yes, people shouldn't be denied from insurance or made to pay through the nose for it.  Yes, caps on maximums need to be raised or remove all together.  Yes, we need affordable, accessible, non-bureaucratic insurance. 

But I do not believe that this all gets solved by our government taking over our whole healthcare system? Can you name one department the government runs well?  Education? FAIL.  Medicare? FAIL.  Social Security? FAIL.   

Instead of having the government take over healthcare, it should be finding a way to work with what we already have to make ensure that everyone has affordable access.  Because really? Do we another huge government social program? I don't think so.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Yes, our country needs to make sure that everyone has access to insurance.  Yes, people shouldn't be denied from insurance or made to pay through the nose for it.  Yes, caps on maximums need to be raised or remove all together.  Yes, we need affordable, accessible, non-bureaucratic insurance. 

But I do not believe that this all gets solved by our government taking over our whole healthcare system? Can you name one department the government runs well?  Education? FAIL.  Medicare? FAIL.  Social Security? FAIL.   

Instead of having the government take over healthcare, it should be finding a way to work with what we already have to make ensure that everyone has affordable access.  Because really? Do we another huge government social program? I don't think so.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

HELP! We canceled the Cable!

  The conversation started months ago.  Maybe even years.  My cost-cutting spouse wanted to cut the cable.  I told him he was crazy! Abso-friggin-lutely crazy!  Television was my escape from the daily grind.  If I had a bad day at work, there was always the comfort of a classic movie on OnDemand brighten my mood.  If I was feeling bad about myself, there was always some jackass on insert-the-name-here Reality Show that proved I was smarter than that guy.  If I needed a break or wanted to cook dinner without interruption, there was always some educational programming that could buy me at least 20 minutes. 

Cable was my security blanket.  An expensive security blanket, but one that I was not willing to give up. 

Or so I thought.

When the economy started to show signs of collapse, my spouse convinced me to reduce our costs.  Digital cable was converted to basic cable.  It cost just $15 a month to have about 40 channels.  Sure, a third of them were in Spanish or some version of QVC, but surely he couldn't argue with just fifteen dollars a month.  Even Mr. Cheapskate could appreciate that, right? 

Well, when the digital conversion finally took place in June, we lost another third of our channels to digital cable.  We were down to just the local channels plus a few extras.  I was upset about paying more for less.  But at the price we were paying, it didn't seem like enough to change or cancel it.  Even knowing that we get very little more than what a pair of bunny ears and digital converter box would supply. 

After weeks of having to hear about how we aren't getting the value from the price we are paying, I finally did it.  I agreed and canceled the cable.  No more America Idol.  No more Big Brother.  No more Desperate Housewives.  No more Lifetime movies.  We are going to the end of the year before we go the bunny-ear route.  Living without TV for a while would be good for us all.

At least I still have the internet.  There's no way we're cutting out that.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Party

Well, when the digital conversion finally took place in June, we lost another third of our channels to digital cable.  We were down to just the local channels plus a few extras.  I was upset about paying more for less.  But at the price we were paying, it didn't seem like enough to change or cancel it.  Even knowing that we get very little more than what a pair of bunny ears and digital converter box would supply. 

After weeks of having to hear about how we aren't getting the value from the price we are paying, I finally did it.  I agreed and canceled the cable.  No more America Idol.  No more Big Brother.  No more Desperate Housewives.  No more Lifetime movies.  We are going to the end of the year before we go the bunny-ear route.  Living without TV for a while would be good for us all.

At least I still have the internet.  There's no way we're cutting out that.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Party

Lesson from my Grandmother

I just returned from a week long trip visiting my Grandmother in Arkansas with my son and my dad. For every meal, there was four generations eating, drinking, and enjoying one's company.   Every day I asked my Grandmother for a recipe for one of her famous desserts or prodded her to tell stories from when she was a child.  Since I only make it out to visit her every four years I realized that this could very well be the last time I see her alive and I wanted to soak up all that she was willing to teach me.

My Grandmother, Louise, is an 89 year old woman.  Raised on a working farm in rural Arkansas, she still rises before the sun.  She's been growing tomatoes her whole life and can make a Blue Ribbon berry cobbler without having to follow a recipe.  She's tough and sweet.  She's buried two of her four children and her husband. She hates asking for help but generously gives it.  She's survived the real Depression and has been known to hide money in a tin can in her closet. 

I've always thought of my Grandmother as a picture-perfect 1950s housewife.  She can rise at dawn to make biscuits and gravy from scratch, she still irons all of her clothes, and is the best baker in our family.  My Grandmother stills keeps the same housecleaning schedule that she created for herself when she married my Grandfather at the tender age of 17.  It's simple enough, every day has one major task plus light dusting and vacuuming.  Her house always looks perfect.  And she's never complained about how much work is involved in raising four children, keeping a tidy home, and cooking every meal without any help from anything in a box or can. 

In my Grandmother's presence, I've always felt more than less-than-perfect.  Sure, my full-time job is one in Corporate America and not one as the ultimate homemaker.  I have a cleaning service; partly because I'm too busy to do it myself but mainly because I'm just too lazy to do it myself.  I pride myself on making a healthy dinner nearly every night of the week, but have been known to refuse any request for breakfast that doesn't involve pouring milk over a bowl of cereal.  The only time I'm baking is when I'm using a Betty Crocker cake mix for my son's birthday. 

How did my Grandmother ever have time to do everything she did?  More importantly, how was she ever able to find joy in what has always felt like agony to me?

One evening when she was showing me how to roll out dough for Fried Pies (a true Southern treat), I knocked over a cup of flour on the kitchen floor.  Already feeling like a failure in the kitchen, my eyes started to well up with tears.  I started to wipe up my mess as before the cloud of flour even had a chance to settle.  I apologized and told her than I could never be as good of a baker as she.

My Grandmother bent over and started to help me wipe up the mess.  And then she did something I never expected.  She laughed.  Looking at me straight in the eye she said "You can spend your whole life wiping up and you'd never even have a bowl of beans to show for it."

I couldn't believe my ears!  My Grandmother was giving me permission to be messy.  Or at least, creative license to define cleanliness.  I realized that my Grandmother had spent the majority of her life taking care of other people and cleaning up after her children.  She has clocked thousands (maybe even hundreds of thousands) of hours in the kitchen.  But that still didn't stop her from growing old or save her daughter from Crone's disease or prevent a husband from dying before you had a chance to really grow old together. 

It reminded me of the famous John Lennon quote "life happens when you're busy making plans."  Only, in my Grandmother's case, she was busy making pies. 

I know that my Grandmother doesn't have any regrets about how she lived her life.  She loved her family and loved taking care of them.  I even found out that she's never felt accomplished as a baker.  With every recipe we made, she would tell stories of how her mother could always do it better. 

When the week was over, I regretted not booking a longer trip.  I felt like my Grandmother had so much more to teach me.  I felt guilty for never taking the time to really get to know her before.  Every time she pulled out a recipe, I asked if I could help.  I would ask question after question.  Part of me wanted to be able to do like she can.  But a bigger part of me just didn't want her to stop talking, stop telling stories, or stop teaching me. 

I've been home for three days now.  My luggage sits, half unpacked, on the living room floor.  The dirty clothes are practically begging to be washed.  My kitchen sink sits full of last night's dishes.  I'm sure if my Grandmother saw my home, she'd be appalled out how I keep house.  But thanks to her, I've never been more proud of my mess.  My Grandmother taught me that it isn't about how I keep my home, but about how I love the people who are in it. 

Life happens when you're busy making pies.  And I don't want to miss one moment of it. 

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

My Mom is... Nice

Those were the words written on my Mother's Day card, an art project from my son's preschool class.  "My mom is" was written by the teacher and my son had filled in the word "nice."

The card has sat on my desk ever since the Mother's Day Breakfast his school hosted for it's moms.  Every time I look at it, I think "Really?  This is what he thinks of me? That I'm nice?"

Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled that my kid didn't say something embarrassing like the one mom who had to walk around with a "Mom is a... cougar" card.  We'll never know if her son was referring to her fierceness or her preference in men. 

But Nice?  I'm nice? 

For one, I yell.  Like all the time.  Part of it is my naturally loud voice that can often sound like I'm yelling when I've  just raised my voice.  Part of it is from growing up in a household where holding a conversation in two separate rooms is common - and requires everyone to shout.  Part of it is because I'm a yeller.  There, I said it.  I'm not shouting curse words or saying mean things to my kid.  But it is certainly easy for me to shout "GO GO GO" to get him in the car for school in the morning.

Plus, I'm not one of those totally rationale, always calm moms that I seem to see everywhere.  Patience is my weakness; or rather, my lack of patience is a weakness.  It's not uncommon for me to lose it.  Not "somebody call CPS this mom is a lunatic" lose it, but "never talk to mom before she's had her morning cup of coffee" lose it.  

But there I look at the card where my son has described me, above all else, as nice.  I chuckled when I saw the card the first time and I still chuckle every time I see it.  This morning, I asked my son what he meant by "My mom is... nice."  He got quiet for a minute and then said

"You help me make my bed.  And when I'm sick you stay home with me.  And you smell good."

So there you go, I guess I am nice after all.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

It takes a village

Around this time last year, I spent a week in San Francisco on business.  Even though I live in Silicon Valley, my manager and I agreed that the commute was too much for the long hours I was going to work so I booked a week a four-star hotel in the city and went on my merry way. 

I am a Bay Area native and have heard new reports practically my whole life about the "homeless problem" in San Francisco.  When I was newly licensed driver, my dad took me to the city to make sure that I didn't get lost and end up in a bad neighborhood.  Every time I have come to San Francisco, I have seen people living on the streets.  But something about this business trip made me more aware of the issue.  Instead of seeing well dressed financial folks and wide-eyed tourists, I could not take my eyes off the people of the streets.

In fact, my week in San Francisco has haunted me ever since.

I watched a disabled veteran get into a scuffle with a gawking tourist.  I saw men older than my father sleep on the street.  For all the women dressed in glamorous clothes as they power walk to their high-profile job, there was as many homeless women wearing the only clothes they own.  There was more than one man in a wheelchair and a woman asking for money with a baby on her hip.  An elderly man was drinking from a brown paper bag while he sat on the steps of a church. 

My heart raced when I walked down a street where a group of homeless are clustered.  I am not used to this.  It's uncomfortable.  I was afraid.  When did they become the enemy?  Something to be feared instead of someone to save?

Most of the time, I walked by and ignored them.  Ignoring them feels wrong.  I know that I shouldn't just keeping walking, avoiding eye contact, staring at my feet.  I cannot pretend that they don't exist.  But walking with my head held high, smiling, or saying hello didn't feel right either.  I felt like a fake.  A phony.  A jerk.

These men and women need more than a friendly smile.  They need access to so much more than I can provide.  Health-care for their ailing bodies and minds.  Access to detox and drug rehab.  Training to land a job.  Counseling to make sure that they don't land back on the streets.  Full bellies and a roof over their heads.  They need a lucky break, a second chance, a miracle.

During college, I took a Community Studies course that required volunteering at a local Soup Kitchen.  I remember going to meet the regular volunteers who were there day in and day out.  They didn't seem so pleased that the folks from the ivory tower were coming in for a day to get a little college credit.  The leader put me in charge of serving the soup - Split Pea.  One ladle of soup per bowl, I remember, was the order.  Any more than that and we wouldn't be able to serve everyone.  A restaurant had sent over the leftover salad from a salad bar; today the first 75 people would get a small salad too. 

I filled over 300 bowls of soup that afternoon.  The volunteers pulled out boxes of stale, cold pizza (another donation).  We didn't feed everybody that day.  Those who were fed still left hungry. The one meal that some of them counted on wasn't enough.  But it was better than nothing. 

I only went to the Soup Kitchen during that semester.  When the class was over, so was my obligation.  I fulfilled my course requirement and my life continued unchanged.  Now all these years later, I feel more changed by the memory as I walked the streets of San Francisco.  It's taken me over ten years to learn the lesson of my Community Studies course. 

It takes a village.  A whole village.  And while some may do more than others, we all a responsibility to our tribes.  Last time I checked, ignoring a problem never actually makes the problem go away.

So I started volunteering at a Soup Kitchen.  I'm still trying to figure out how to use my talents to make a difference.  Until then, I'll be dishing out soup once a week to people who need so much more.  And I'll be involving my son.  Instead of teaching him the "bad parts" of the city to avoid, he'll be learning that is where you start.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Most of the time, I walked by and ignored them.  Ignoring them feels wrong.  I know that I shouldn't just keeping walking, avoiding eye contact, staring at my feet.  I cannot pretend that they don't exist.  But walking with my head held high, smiling, or saying hello didn't feel right either.  I felt like a fake.  A phony.  A jerk.

These men and women need more than a friendly smile.  They need access to so much more than I can provide.  Health-care for their ailing bodies and minds.  Access to detox and drug rehab.  Training to land a job.  Counseling to make sure that they don't land back on the streets.  Full bellies and a roof over their heads.  They need a lucky break, a second chance, a miracle.

During college, I took a Community Studies course that required volunteering at a local Soup Kitchen.  I remember going to meet the regular volunteers who were there day in and day out.  They didn't seem so pleased that the folks from the ivory tower were coming in for a day to get a little college credit.  The leader put me in charge of serving the soup - Split Pea.  One ladle of soup per bowl, I remember, was the order.  Any more than that and we wouldn't be able to serve everyone.  A restaurant had sent over the leftover salad from a salad bar; today the first 75 people would get a small salad too. 

I filled over 300 bowls of soup that afternoon.  The volunteers pulled out boxes of stale, cold pizza (another donation).  We didn't feed everybody that day.  Those who were fed still left hungry. The one meal that some of them counted on wasn't enough.  But it was better than nothing. 

I only went to the Soup Kitchen during that semester.  When the class was over, so was my obligation.  I fulfilled my course requirement and my life continued unchanged.  Now all these years later, I feel more changed by the memory as I walked the streets of San Francisco.  It's taken me over ten years to learn the lesson of my Community Studies course. 

It takes a village.  A whole village.  And while some may do more than others, we all a responsibility to our tribes.  Last time I checked, ignoring a problem never actually makes the problem go away.

So I started volunteering at a Soup Kitchen.  I'm still trying to figure out how to use my talents to make a difference.  Until then, I'll be dishing out soup once a week to people who need so much more.  And I'll be involving my son.  Instead of teaching him the "bad parts" of the city to avoid, he'll be learning that is where you start.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Are you passionate about your job?

I am a Project Manager.  Well, my official title is "Senior Initiative Manager" because instead of managing projects I manage large cross-organizational initiatives that are designed to improve the company's back-office operations.

Are you totally lost yet?  Because that sentence is the sentence I practically read verbatim whenever anyone asks me what I do for a living.  And somewhere between "Initiative Manager" and "cross-organizational," I can see a person's eyes gloss over and a look of confusion start to build. 

Explaining my job is difficult.  There aren't a lot of people that run the type of projects I run.  My job is equal parts Sales Ops, IT Systems, and Process Improvement.  In a nutshell, I find gaps in a process that make booking a sale or renewing a contract more difficult than it should be and then I rally the right people to make changes.

One part cheerleader, one part mother hen, one part squeaky wheel.

That's my job.  Seriously.  I just wrote the same on my resume.

And while I appreciate my job and find it rewarding when we finally make progress, this isn't a job I am passionate about. There is no passion in Project Management. 

Unless you are managing the project that cures cancer or executes a mission to Mars.  But when my job is to find a way to automate a process that credits future invoices, there is nothing passionate about it.  Sure, I may save the company some money and make sure that we don't overstate revenue or have unsatisfied customers.  But its a thankless job. My name will never go down in the history books for increasing employee productivity. 

When I hear about people who are quitting their jobs (even in this economy) to pursue their real passions, I get a little jealous.  Okay, maybe a lot jealous.  I think it would be absolutely awesome to get paid to do a job that I love.  If only, I knew what I *love* to do for a living.   I'm jealous that someone figured out how to turn a passion into a career.  Or at least quit the corporate world to figure it out.

For me, passions have never been work-related.  I want the freedom to pursue my passions without having to focus on monetary gains.  I don't want the things that feed my soul to be tied to making my mortgage payment.  I don't want to muddy the waters of my life with the nitty-gritty of a business.

I don't need to be passionate about my job.  Don't get me wrong, I am damn good at what I do.  My job fits all my strengths.  But passionate about my job?  Never.  And that's a strength too.  I'm keeping the best part of myself to myself.  I'm investing in my personal capital.  And I feel very lucky to have a job that I do well and am successful in my professional field. 

While I may not have a job that makes money from my passions, I certainly have a job that funds my passions.  And for me, that is the best of both worlds.

This post was inspired by the May edition of the Silicon Valley Mom's Group Book Club, Comfort Food, by Kate Jacobs where the power of food brings people together and teaches the joys of savoring every bite... of life.

Don't forget to wear sunscreen

My dad has been battling skin cancer for the last two years.  What started as a reddish patch the size of a quarter on his collar bone has led to tests and biopsies that revealed just beneath the surface basal cell carcinoma covering his entire chest.  He has more on his forehead and a couple on his bald spot too (not that he'll admit to those).   His dermatologist has prescribed a smart cream to kill the cancer cells as there are more cancer cells than normal skin cells on the right side of his chest.  An operation would be a physical nightmare. 

When I was growing up, my dad put sunscreen on us kids.  Our fair Irish skin would burn so easily.  In fact my brother had 2nd degree burns and blisters on his shoulders after a swimming all day at the Cabana Club with no sunscreen.  My parents never made that mistake again. 

While my dad was diligent about making sure we didn't burn, he never put on sunscreen himself.  Unless coconut oil and Tropicana SPF 4 counts as protection. 

My dad liked being dark.  He would laugh and cringe when I'd end up lathering his back with aloe after an all day excursion to the beach.  It was as if the sunburn was a badge of honor.  It's no wonder my dad has skin cancer now in his late 50s (he turns 60 this summer). 

I look at my dad now, a cancer survivor, learning how to be sun safe for the first time in his life.  He keeps sunscreen at home and at work.  He wears a hat when we go out.  We recently bought him a swim shirt to wear when we head to the beach or the pool.  He's dealing with the painful consequence of his fun-in-the-sun days of his youth and adulthood. 

Something that could have been entirely avoided with a little sunscreen.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Working Mommas, Don't Forget to Network

One of the perks of working for a large software company in Silicon Valley is having a large network at my fingertips. Sure, it is also difficult at times to figure out who's who.  But overall, creating a large network in my day-to-day environment gives me an advantage in the workplace.  I have a group of people that I can go to bat for in helping them achieve their goals and I can call on them to assist me in acheiving mine.

In this economy, building and maintaining your network is more important than ever.  Any successful corporate mogul will tell you that you don't get to the top level by merely giving 100%.  Companies aren't paying their employees to be perfect.  They pay you for your skills and the value you bring to the company.  That value isn't just your performance.  It's a winning combination of what and who you know.

I've seen, first hand, too many working mothers think that by cutting out the social time at work that they'll get more work done.  You may feel like you accomplished more in that day since you cut out lunches and stopped going to weekly happy hour.  Investing your "social capital" at work can get you a lot further than just pounding the keystrokes at your cubical.

I realize that this is easier said than done.  The mommy guilt of spending even more time away from home can rear its ugly head.  And that feeling can be overwhelming.  By making a few changes in how you go about your professional life can reap major rewards.  The more people you know, the more opportunities you can make.

Start saying yes.  You don't have to attend every happy hour or accept every lunch.  But if your VP plans an outing for the team, make sure you attend.  Casually invite your manager to lunch one day. If there is a lunch for a new hire or a soon-to-be ex-worker, do your darndest to make it.  Stop complaining about yet another social event outside of work hours.  Instead start saying "Let me check my calendar."  And then work with your spouse, friends, or babysitter, to get the time to be able to attend. Pick the outings that are strategic (ie. managers, executives, people of interest in attendance).  And don't forget to work the room when you do attend. 

Investing in your social capital does not mean making friends.  In other words, work is not an opportunity to find a new BFF.  Women often are great at having close, high-touch, long-term relationships.  Your work network need not be filled confidantes and bitch-buddies.  A professional network is still founded on professionalism.  Among the things to keep to yourself are: details of an illness, your marital problems, your financial problems, details of your vacation, involvement with what your child is selling from school. Whatever you share will be included in your reputation - whether it's work related or not. So keep the details to yourself.  Or share it with your real-life BFF.  After all, you were hired to work.  Not to use your boss as a free therapist.

It is naive to think that all that matters in your career is your work performance.  In fact, it’s harmful to operate accordingly. Ditch the illusion.  The office is a place where perception can be as important as results. The quicker you act accordingly, the sooner you’ll see success.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Good-bye pajamas, Hello working-from-home

Late last year I started a new role at the software company where I work.  The role was a global one requiring early morning conference calls with London and late night calls with India or Hong Kong.  I didn't mind the change in the schedule beause the job came with one special perk.  I could work from home as much as I wanted.  Being on a global team meant crazy hours, but those hours were flexible and fit perfectly into my busy life a working mom.

So I've been working from home.  A lot.  As in practically every day.  Ever since I became a mom nearly five years ago, I've demanded to have a flexible work schedule.  I've always negotiated for working from home days and a core schedule where I got to decide whether to start early or stay late. But I've never worked from home more than I've worked in the office.  And the transition was tougher than I imagined.

We all know that working from home has its benefits.  I can have dinner on the table when the rest of my brood arrives home.  And I don't have to eat cafeteria food.  I never miss a UPS delivery.  Oh and I can work all day long in my pajamas.

Would you pay alimony to your husband?

  Since entering the workforce, I have always made more money than my college sweetheart turned domestic partner.  From the beginning my mate has taken more risks with his career while I steadily climbed the ladder in the same field. From taking a two-year break to pursue a dream (that eventually went flop) to juggling a full-time job while getting his MBA, he’s never cared too much about how much money he made.  I think that will change for him once he tries to get an ROI on his Santa Clara University graduate degree.  But I also know that if I ever asked him to become "Mr. Mom", he’d jump at the chance. 

When I read the new trend for men to claim alimony from their high powered wives during a divorce, I was intrigued.  Well, intrigued isn’t the right word.  My gut reaction was shock and a little disbelief.  I always thought of alimony as out-of-date and should never be used.  But when I started to really think about why I was so turned off by the idea of men asking for alimony, I realized just how biased I really was...

The feminist in me saw alimony as valid for wives that helped their husbands get ahead.  But guys who want it are deadbeats who aren’t willing to get a real job.  Harsh, I know. 

I personally have a few women in my professional network that have stay-at-home husbands who play the role of domestic CEO while the “little lady” pursues an executive career.  The trend may be higher here in Silicon Valley where some of the dads may be “retiring” after making a pretty penny with start-ups and acquisitions that never seem to stop.  

If one partner gives up his or her dream to help the other person achieve theirs, why wouldn't alimony be an option?   Both men and women have been able to ask for alimony in a divorce since the 70s. If you ask your spouse to stay-at-home with the kids, aren't you realizing the potential risk of alimony if ever your marriage ends?   Does it really matter if the spouse that stays home is a man or a woman?

The law says that it doesn't matter.  So why does public opinion say otherwise? 

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Legos: Great Product, Useless Packaging

  My son has morphed into a serious Lego-lover.  He practically plays exclusively with the big bin of Lego at his preschool.  For Christmas last year, he's Number One request to Santa was for a Star Wars Lego set.  A lucky boy, not only did he get the Annakin Skywalker's fighter plane but he also received four other lego sets from friends and family.  The kid couldn't have been happier. 

I didn't mind spending hours as the co-engineer in the putting together the spaceship, the garbage truck, or the rescue helicopter.  One set was 445 pieces and I swear I only cursed in head when I saw the high volume of teeny tiny pieces.  I had to pull out my reading glasses for a couple of steps to figure out what really changed in their universal (read: no words) installation diagrams.

But what got under my skin wasn't the seemingly endless amount of pieces.  It was their terrible packaging.  Sure they come in nice sturdy cardboard boxes with graphic pictures.  But as soon as you open that box filled with teeny pieces, there is no turning back. 

The natural organizer in me wonders why Legos can't make the boxes like puzzle boxes - you know, ones with both a top and a bottom.  Or a plastic container like they have for Duplos and other products.  While my son loves putting his Legos together, I hate when those sets start to come apart.

For now, I am saying a little prayer every time we pull out the Legos.  I wish that I didn't have to store them in ziploc bags and hope to god we don't lose the instructions or mix up two sets together.   It's hard enough putting together hundreds of Lego pieces.  It's damn near impossible to keep track of them. 

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Food Fight

Dinner is the only meal in which I require everyone to sit down at the table.  It’s an important tradition from my childhood.  As a busy working mom, dinnertime is the time to reconnect with my family.  We talk about our day, about current events, about really anything.  When I get home from a day at the office, I quickly get a wholesome meal on the table so that we can spend time as together as a family.

Yet dinnertime at my house is rapidly reaching Code Red status.  What was once a pleasant meal has turned into a power struggle of epic porportions. 

No, my son isn’t refusing to eat dinner.  No, he isn’t exihibiting any bad manners.  In fact, my son will eat everything you put on his plate.

Only it takes him over 90 minutes to finish.  The battle I face every night is to get my son stay focused to eat dinner in a reasonable amount of time.   

The problem isn’t the amount of food on his plate.  The problem isn’t that he didn’t want to eat it.  The problem is the amount of time he wants to finish.  Maybe he thinks his bedtime will be extended if he takes longer (it won’t).  Maybe he thinks he’ll get extra attention from us if he stays at the table longer (he doesn’t).  Maybe he’s just an absent-minded kid who overactive imagination gets in the way of his ability to pick up his fork and chew (maybe).

I’m not serving 7 course meals here.  Sure, we sit at the table for 45 minutes every night to enjoy the meal and each other’s company.  By the time the rest of us are done, my son hasn’t even made a dent in his plate. 

At first, I thought I’d combat the problem with leaving him at the dinner table… alone.  I figured my incredibly social child would be motivated to eat if he knew that the rest of us got to do fun stuff.  My spouse and I would play cards or board games, two things every four year old loves, to get him thinking that if he just finished his dinner then he’d get to do something fun too. 

Yeah, all he did was shout to us from the dinner table.  This time it took him over two hours to finish. 

So I changed it up and went with the timer approach.  One the rest of us were finished, I set the timer for 15 minutes.  I explained that once the timer went off, dinner would be done, the he would be done regardless of how much was left on his plate, and the kitchen would be closed. 

When the timer went off, my son was still nowhere near finished.  And thirty minutes later started complaining about being hungry again.  Which lasted until he went to bed. 

You’d think he’d learn his lesson, right?

Naw.  We repeated this for an entire week.  We finish, timer on, son doesn’t eat, then complains of being hungry until he whines himself to sleep. 

What was once a pleasant part of my day that I looked forward to while at work was quickly becoming a nightmare that I dreaded. 

So last night, in sheer frustration, I changed my tactic for the final time.  When the timer went off, my son would go straight to bed.  No books.  No time with mom and dad.  This way I wouldn’t have to hear “But I’m still hungry” whines for an hour and he would realize that I mean business. 

When the timer went off, my son had only eaten four bites of food (yes, I counted).  He teared up a little, but didn’t cry.  And then walked with his head in shame to his bedroom.  Where he lay in his bed, in the dark, for 15 minutes before he fell asleep. 

Who knows if he was just really tired or notice the firey resolve in my eyes and decided that resistance was futile.  But I’m hoping that tonight I don’t have to pull out the timer. 

Or maybe I should move dinner to 4 and bedtime to 6pm? 

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Insider, Outsider

My son is bi-racial.  White mother.  Indian father.  At four, there are already two cultural identities forming.  One is the Irish-boy, Christian identity.  The other is the Indian-boy,  Zoroastrian identity.  He has is everyday clothes and his Indian clothes for cultural events.  He celebrates Christmas and attends Novjotes of older Zoroastrian children. 

He is an insider and an outsider in both communities.  He can blend into both.  He's looks white.  He understands Gujarati.  My son is what is means to be diverse.  He has two religions, two languages, two cultures, two names, two identities.  He thrives in both worlds. 

Yet on the outside, my son looks white.  He got his fair skin and brown hair from his momma.  If only looking skin deep, you'd never know his diverse roots. 

And so we try harder at enriching him in his Indian culture.  I cook Indian food twice a week, we attend temple services whenever they are offered, and we force encourage his grandparents to speak to him in their native tongue (I am even trying to learn the language so we can speak it at home). 

Still, there is privilege in being a "white man."  My son won't have ever be profiled by the police because of the the color of his skin.  He won't be paid lower wages at work for doing the same job as a woman of color.   He won't be a statistic in the achievement gap.

Yes, my son is part Caucasian.  But he is so much more than that.  I don't want my son to be defined by the color of his skin.  We are all so much more than the color of our skin, the name our parents gave us, or the religion that we practice.  My son, by birthright , is diverse.  He does not fall into a single stereotypical bucket.  I wonder what diversity will mean for my child as he becomes a grown man.  As he embraces his two cultures, his two religions, his two worlds... I can only hope that he sees just how similar they really are. 

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

My son is bi-racial.  White mother.  Indian father.  At four, there are already two cultural identities forming.  One is the Irish-boy, Christian identity.  The other is the Indian-boy,  Zoroastrian identity.  He has is everyday clothes and his Indian clothes for cultural events.  He celebrates Christmas and attends Novjotes of older Zoroastrian children. 

He is an insider and an outsider in both communities.  He can blend into both.  He's looks white.  He understands Gujarati.  My son is what is means to be diverse.  He has two religions, two languages, two cultures, two names, two identities.  He thrives in both worlds. 

Yet on the outside, my son looks white.  He got his fair skin and brown hair from his momma.  If only looking skin deep, you'd never know his diverse roots. 

And so we try harder at enriching him in his Indian culture.  I cook Indian food twice a week, we attend temple services whenever they are offered, and we force encourage his grandparents to speak to him in their native tongue (I am even trying to learn the language so we can speak it at home). 

Still, there is privilege in being a "white man."  My son won't have ever be profiled by the police because of the the color of his skin.  He won't be paid lower wages at work for doing the same job as a woman of color.   He won't be a statistic in the achievement gap.

Yes, my son is part Caucasian.  But he is so much more than that.  I don't want my son to be defined by the color of his skin.  We are all so much more than the color of our skin, the name our parents gave us, or the religion that we practice.  My son, by birthright , is diverse.  He does not fall into a single stereotypical bucket.  I wonder what diversity will mean for my child as he becomes a grown man.  As he embraces his two cultures, his two religions, his two worlds... I can only hope that he sees just how similar they really are. 

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

This is How You Connect with Mommy Bloggers

On Sunday night, I attended a special event for Silicon Valley Mom's Group.  Yes, I've said it before and I'll say it again, SV Moms is the BEST community to be included in (and no, it isn't just because of the fun events and the awesome swag).  This event was put on by LeapFrog. 

Except for one request to get us to check out their new community site, there was no product pushing.  Sure, LeapFrog had a slew of products in the back of room - everything from Fridge Farm to Leapsters to Tag Reading System to the brand new Didj.  But that wasn't the focus of the night.  LeapFrog recognized that they way to reach moms (and we all know we control the spending in nearly every household) was to SHOW us WHY LeapFrog CARES about EDUCATION.

Instead, LeapFrog invited Dr. Anne Cunnigham lead a discussion on the importance of reading.  I twittered some of the big points of the night, but the gist of the talk was about exposing your child to rich language to improve their reading skills.  What that means for pre-K kids and younger is reading at least 30 minutes a day with a variety of books.  And if you're thinking "there is no way my three year old will still for 30 minutes." No worries.  Dr. Cunnigham suggested books on CD in the car or background at home, reading to them while the kids play, and getting older kids to read to the younger kids (double whammy, people!).  If you have older kids, read to your kids  one or two grade-levels ahead of them.  That way, they continue to get exposed to new words. 

We had a great discussion talking about everything from kids who started reading early, to bilingual kids who seem to be falling behind their single-language friends (don't worry, they will catch up), to the importance of the 3rd grade.  I didn't even know the 3rd grade was important.  But apparently (and this was backed-up  by the two 3rd grade teachers in the room), Third Grade is when reading curriculum moves away from phonics and focuses on vocabulary.  Children who haven't been exposed to a diverse vocabulary can easily fall behind.  As early as the fourth grade, children basically decide if they will be lifeline readers based on their confidence level in reading.  So the more you expose your kids to rich vocabulary, the better readers they will become. 

And this is where LeapFrog comes into play.  Without ever pushing a product down our throats, we learned about the importance of reading.   LeapFrog is committed to creating products that challenge kids to read in a fun, interactive way.  For me, the night wasn't about the products.  It wasn't about LeapFrog.  It was about getting a group of moms together to discuss a topic that is important to us (educating our children)... and just so happens to be important to LeapFrog. 

At the end of the discussion, LeapFrog passed out goody bags for all the moms with toys appropriate to the ages of our children.  How cool is that?  I asked more questions about products and was more willing to give my opinion on products we already owned (like the fab Word Whammer) because I knew that the night wasn't about selling us on LeapFrog.  It was about showing us LeapFrog's passion for getting children exposed to reading skills. 

When I arrived home, I was giddy with excitement about the new LeapFrog toys that "Santa" will be bringing to our house this year.  I know that Darius is going to love them.  Now if only I can hold out until then.  We were a LeapFrog family before this event, but we are for sure die-hard supporters now. 

No more TOYS!!!

  “Do NOT throw those toys down onto the ground!  You’ll break it” I said to my son in frustration.  It was the third time he decided to throw down the special Transformers his grandpa had brought back from an international trip (my son’s specific request was for Bumblebee – and wouldn’t you know Grandpa just happened to find a toy store in France that had it).  The Transformers were supposed to be the ones to duking it out in an epic battle – but the pavement seemed to be winning the war.

“It’s okay, mom” he nonchalantly replied.  “”If it breaks, you’ll buy me another one at the store.”

Uh, excuse me? what did you just say? back up it up, buster!  My four year old son thinks that it is perfectly acceptable to trash his toys because he knows more are coming?  When did this kid put that reasoning together?  We aren’t at the store buying toys left and right.

According to Pamela Paul’s book, Parenting Inc., an expose on the 1.7 Trillion dollar industry geared towards parenting (and all that crap we need to go with it), I shouldn’t be surprised.  In her research she found that the average kid gets seventy (yes 7-0) new toys a year.  And before you start to think “I don’t buy my kid 70 toys a year.  That’s outrageous!” Start counting all those toys from birthday parties, holidays, trips to Nana’s house, rewards for not crying at the dentist, mommy-guilt toys from your two week business trip, the hand-me downs from across the street that you really didn’t want but took anyway because you wanted to be polite. 

Ok, maybe those last two were just me – but still.  You get the picture.  You may not be buying all those toys, but that toy bin always is overflowing.

It’s no wonder my kid thinks in terms of an endless supply of toys!  I turned to my son and said nonchalantly back “This is a good as it gets, bud.  Break it and there will be no more toys.”

Does my child NEED 70 new toys a year?  No, not at all.  The kid can play for two days straight with a sheet tied around his neck like a super hero’s cape.  He certainly doesn’t need any more toys.  He can do just fine with a stick and a ball. 

And so we spent this last weekend, cleaning out the play room.  The rarely-played with toys that were still in good condition were packed up and sent to a local women’s shelter.  More were posted on Freecycle.  A neighbor’s little girl inherited our play kitchen.  The once-beloved toys were put in storage as keepsakes.  It was a play-room make-over.

My son helped decide which toys were staying and which would be donated. Sure we kept lots of things… including the cheap McDonald’s Happy Meal Toys that my son practically threw his body on to protect them from the donation bag.  We kept the wooden train set and his seemingly endless set of hot wheels.

Still, no longer were the baskets and bins overflowing with toys.  Everything had a place.  When we were done, I was pleased with the result. 

And I quickly sent out an email to my family about no more toys this Christmas.  Less is more.  Especially when it comes to toys.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Riding "It" Out

When the dot-com bubble burst in Silicon Valley back in lates 90s, I was a recent college grad.  I hoped that my entry-level salary and my passion to get the job done would keep me employed while nearly every start-up failed and companies were reducing their workforce.  I not only survived but received a promotion just weeks after the company reduced its staff by 10 percent.

This time it is more than just a high-tech bubble that has burst.  What once looked like just a real estate slump has turned into a major economic crisis.  Instead of worrying only about whether or not I will continue to be employed, I’ve watched my retirement, my home’s value, and my child’s college fund all significantly depreciate in just two weeks.  While my instinct has told me to pull out, to get out, to start saving my cash under the mattress… I am mostly doing nothing. 

Sure we are saving more and spending less.  But in the scheme of things, we are riding out the storm.

We have never been major spenders in our household.  Saving always seemed to play into our personal strengths.  We save for our retirement that's still 30+ years away, began saving for our child's college education before he was even born, and saved until we had 20% to put down on our home purchase.  And we are continuing to save even more.  While once happy with a 6 month "rainy day" fund, we now feel like we need to increase that to at least 12 months.  Who knows how long the economy will tank.  Who knows how much is the "safe" amount to have saved.   We can't rely on anyone but ourselves. 

Our house is still our home.  We were never planning on selling this house.  It is our home.  Yes on paper, our home as depreciated nearly $100,000 since we bought it in 2007.  Since we don’t have plans to sell and can still afford our mortgage, we are just making the payments like we did before this economic crisis.  The list of home improvement projects is still in the top desk drawer, waiting for a more prosperous economy to begin any new work.

Our retirement is still our retirement.  We can’t retire for another 30 years or more anyways, so I haven’t even bothered to look too closely at what has been “lost.”  Even though we are young, we don’t aggressively invest in risky stocks.  And we are hopeful that it will bounce back.  No pulling out our retirement into cash.  Actually, my financial analyst spouse thinks this is THE TIME to invest.  You can get lots of high-quality stocks at a discount price.  As my financial analyst for a hubby says “I’ve got the stomach to buy stocks right now.”

In this economic crunch, there is no way I am spending extra money on toys.  We've agreed to only fund the basics in our household: pay the mortage, buy food, and keep all other purchases to a minimum.  I'm shopping only the clearance racks for winter clothes.  I'm changing brands at the grocery store to "whatever is the cheapest price." I'm quite certain that, no matter how many times he tells me otherwise, a light saber is not something that my son needs to sustain his life.

Christmas will be smaller this year, but Santa will still be coming.  I’ve already put away some of the “freebies” you get while being a blogger to beef up the Christmas stash.  This year, we don’t plan on buying much for the holidays.  I doubt my son will notice the difference.  Instead of the onslaught of presents from friends and family, we’ve already asked for them to either keep their money for their own families or consider adopting a family in need that won’t get a Christmas otherwise.  Christmas doesn't need to be over the top, even during better times.

All in all, we are slowing down our spending, not stopping it.  We are thinking smarter about where and how we invest.  And we are praying that we both have continued employment during these trying times.   Trying not to buy-in to the media hype and determine what is best for our family will be the most important thing we do this year.  Oh yeah... And vote for a new President.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog.

Standing up for Working Mothers, Including Sarah Palin

Last Saturday night, I attended a family function with my very conservative, very Republican extended family.  I often make jokes about how I love them despite this fatal character flaw.  And they often make a similar joke about me.  The truth is, we simply don’t agree on nearly every aspect of politics and on many other issues.  We probably won’t ever agree.  Since they can’t change my mind and I can’t change theirs, politics rarely comes up.

When the election came up during a conversation on the economy, I kept my mouth shut.  I know my family will vote for McCain-Palin.  My family knows I will vote for Obama-Biden.  I’m glad that I live in a Blue State where I worry a little less about my family’s vote.  I kept myself out of the conversation until the only other Liberal in my family made a comment about whether or not Sarah Palin can handle the job with her young family.  I couldn’t stay silent any longer.

Can we stop judging Palin for being a working mother?  Really, the fact that she has children, even young children, has nothing to do with anything.  I know that she herself has brought up her working-mother status in numerous speeches.  I think that being a working mother is nothing to be ashamed of.  I’m glad that she has brought to the surface the juggle that all working parents face each and every day.

Yes, I can relate to Sarah Palin.  We are both working mothers.  She works in the old-boys club of Government.  I work in the old-boys club of Corporate America. 
I am glad that a woman is still in this race.  For the first time (historians, please correct me if I am wrong), we have a woman running for an executive office who still has babies and toddlers underfoot.  Being a working mom, I think that is exciting and validating.

I have fought against maternal profiling in the workplace.  I’ve heard story after story of women being passed up on promotions, on high-profile accounts, on assignments that require travel just because they are mothers.  I’ve seen women be perceived as being a slacker or singletons refer to us as “breeders” in the workplace.  I’ve been asked to “talk to my husband” before I book my travel arrangements and grilled on my child-care arrangements.  I’ve had people assume that I don’t want to go to the office party that is after-hours because I’d rather be with my family. 

I am sick of people questioning whether or not she can do the job with a special needs child.  I am sick of people assuming she won’t have any time for her children if she makes it into the White House.

Let Sarah Palin decide what is right for her family.  And let the people of America decide what is best for America.  I obviously won’t be voting for Palin.  My decision is based on the issues and candidate’s the platform.  It has nothing to do with her status as a working mother. 

Original Post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Photo credit: Official Website of Governor Sarah Palin

Considerate Commuting

Cross-Posted from the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog...

Bay Area Commuters, can we chat for a minute?  I’ve noticed that since the majority of you have returned from summer vacation you’ve forgotten a thing or two about commuting on the worst freeways in California.  I’m not holding it against you that you weren’t around with me this summer.  In fact, summer is my favorite time of the school year.  Less cars, less traffic, less time to commute to work.  But now that we are all back to school, let’s review how to be a considerate commuter.

The Art of Merging
On-coming Commuters, you cannot expect to merge when you are going 25 miles an hour on a freeway with a 65mph speed limit.  Get up to speed as quick as you can.  You scare the sh*t out of us drivers already on the road. And while we are at it, don’t be trying to cut all the way to the front of the lane by driving on the side of the road.  It is unsafe, illegal, and annoying.

Drivers on the Road, please give those who are merging onto the freeway a little room.  Really, it is not a race.  You don’t have to snub the competition.  Give yourself some good karma and let another car in.  But you don’t have to let every single car in.  If you let five cars in a row in front of you, you will actually get bad karma from all the drivers who haven’t moved behind you. 

The Carpool Lane
Drivers of the Carpool Lane, last time I checked you were still bound by the same speed limit laws.  So slow down a little.  I know the excitement you feel when getting to pass all those suckers other drivers who don’t have a carpool buddy.  But riding on my a$$ when I am going the speed limit is excessive. With power comes responsibility, so take a chill pill and don’t let the power of the carpool lane get to you. 

Keep it Clean
Real people with real feelings are driving behind the wheel. These people are mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers. Yes, you may think that they are all royal idiots but really you don't have to scream, curse, give the birdie or embody the a$$hole you are calling the other driver. Take a deep breath, listen to the smooth jazz station, put some aromatherapy bath salts in your car.

And if you truly can't stop from being the terror on the freeway... take the train.

Original Post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog.

My Dirty Little Secret

My palms are getting sweaty, my breath is becoming shallow, and my eyes dart from side to side.  I quickly walk up to the merchandise and pick one off the shelf and bury it under the other groceries in my cart.  When I check out, I refuse to make eye contact with the checker.  I am embarrassed.  When I get home, I quickly stuff the goods into the top drawer of my dresser.  I take a deep breath. 

I’m a 30-something mother who is mortified to buy *gasp* condoms. 

It’s like I’m a teenager again - doing something that I know I’m NOT supposed to be doing.  I am an adult in a loving committed relationship.  I’m not seventeen.  I’ve been having sex for all of my adult life and yet buying condoms still invokes a sense of shame in me.  I am mortified every time I buy condoms.

For reasons that I know my spouse would kill me for sharing, condoms remain our only form of birth control.  Yes I know that they aren’t effective as the pill the IUD or just about any other form of birth control, it is our only choice.  Since we are still on the fence as to whether or not our son will remain an only child, permanent solutions are not an option for us. 

And so it remains that every time we are out of condoms, I get feelings of shame and embarrassment at the store when buying condoms.  I feel as if I have to justify the purchase to other shoppers in the grocery store.  “I am married.  Buying condoms when you are married is not a sin. I am NOT A SLUT.  I am a mom who really doesn’t want any more babies right now.” 

My spouse thinks we should buy them at Costco - you know, get the super giant pack that way we don’t have to pick them up as frequently.  Have you ever paid attention to how many people check out your groceries at Costco?  First there is the checker, then the person that moves your items from one cart to another, then the person at the door who checks your receipt.  God forbid the door-person can’t see the super box of condoms and pokes around for it in the cart.  Or I have to return an item on the receipt that has CONDOMS printed on it. 

A friend of mine told me I could buy 'em online.  Apparently the same companies that sell other adult items also carry contraceptives.  I was told that the condoms would even be shipped in a discreet package - I suppose the same sort of packing one would expect when purchasing adult videos.  But to buy them online and then see a brown paper package on our front step just feels sleazy.  Besides, don't we all know what is inside of discreet packaging anyways?  Now my postman would be thinking that we dabbled in more serious stuff than just buying condoms.  I don't think I'd ever be able to talk to my postman again - and I'm guessing his Christmas tip would be larger than usual to pay off the guilt I'd be feeling for making him deliver the goods.

So I'll guess I'll be sticking to the store where I'll continue to turn red, shuffle my feet, and act like a naughty teenager who's buying...hee hee.. condoms. And trying really damn hard to be grown-up about it.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

My palms are getting sweaty, my breath is becoming shallow, and my eyes dart from side to side.  I quickly walk up to the merchandise and pick one off the shelf and bury it under the other groceries in my cart.  When I check out, I refuse to make eye contact with the checker.  I am embarrassed.  When I get home, I quickly stuff the goods into the top drawer of my dresser.  I take a deep breath. 

I’m a 30-something mother who is mortified to buy *gasp* condoms. 

It’s like I’m a teenager again - doing something that I know I’m NOT supposed to be doing.  I am an adult in a loving committed relationship.  I’m not seventeen.  I’ve been having sex for all of my adult life and yet buying condoms still invokes a sense of shame in me.  I am mortified every time I buy condoms.

For reasons that I know my spouse would kill me for sharing, condoms remain our only form of birth control.  Yes I know that they aren’t effective as the pill the IUD or just about any other form of birth control, it is our only choice.  Since we are still on the fence as to whether or not our son will remain an only child, permanent solutions are not an option for us. 

And so it remains that every time we are out of condoms, I get feelings of shame and embarrassment at the store when buying condoms.  I feel as if I have to justify the purchase to other shoppers in the grocery store.  “I am married.  Buying condoms when you are married is not a sin. I am NOT A SLUT.  I am a mom who really doesn’t want any more babies right now.” 

My spouse thinks we should buy them at Costco - you know, get the super giant pack that way we don’t have to pick them up as frequently.  Have you ever paid attention to how many people check out your groceries at Costco?  First there is the checker, then the person that moves your items from one cart to another, then the person at the door who checks your receipt.  God forbid the door-person can’t see the super box of condoms and pokes around for it in the cart.  Or I have to return an item on the receipt that has CONDOMS printed on it. 

A friend of mine told me I could buy 'em online.  Apparently the same companies that sell other adult items also carry contraceptives.  I was told that the condoms would even be shipped in a discreet package - I suppose the same sort of packing one would expect when purchasing adult videos.  But to buy them online and then see a brown paper package on our front step just feels sleazy.  Besides, don't we all know what is inside of discreet packaging anyways?  Now my postman would be thinking that we dabbled in more serious stuff than just buying condoms.  I don't think I'd ever be able to talk to my postman again - and I'm guessing his Christmas tip would be larger than usual to pay off the guilt I'd be feeling for making him deliver the goods.

So I'll guess I'll be sticking to the store where I'll continue to turn red, shuffle my feet, and act like a naughty teenager who's buying...hee hee.. condoms. And trying really damn hard to be grown-up about it.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

It's time for glasses

I’m officially getting old.  Or spending way too much time in front of the computer.  For the last month that it has been non-stop 10+ hours each day in front of my laptop while finishing my project.  I have a feeling that those long hours did a doozie on my eyes.  By the end each day, it felt like my eyes were twitching. I’d tear up on the drive home, my eyes not used to having to look at distances.  I didn’t want to admit that my perfect 20/20 vision is no longer perfect.

I’ve always been known as the “eagle eyes” of the family.  My mom and brother have terrible vision - my bro has been wearing glasses since he was in the second grade.  But my eyes....  My eyes were perfect!  I could see farther than most.  My parents would have me read long distances on the freeway - I was always the first in the car to read a sign.  I took pride in my perfect vision and was pleased when I passed on my supreme vision to my son. 

But working in high-tech for the last 8 years where I spend ample time in front of my computer has slowly worn away at my perfect vision.

When I went to get a check-up (my first vision test as an adult), the eye doctor told me that I have an astigmatism.  He explained that my eyes are having trouble focusing.  While my vision is still technically 20/20, my eyes would be more comfortable in front of the computer wearing a pair of reading glasses. 

Since I didn’t need a real prescription and I only need to wear the glasses when I’m sitting in front of my computer screen, he suggested an over the counter pair of reading glasses.  It would save me money since having 20/20 vision I’ve always elected out of vision coverage at work.  I guess I’ll have to re-think that one in the future.

On Saturday, I went to get reading glasses.  I found really cute pairs in the lowest prescription for only $2.99.  I bought four pairs: one for the house, one for the office, one in my laptop bag, and one spare.  While I may be wearing glasses at work now, at least I can still be fashionable. 

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

I’m officially getting old.  Or spending way too much time in front of the computer.  For the last month that it has been non-stop 10+ hours each day in front of my laptop while finishing my project.  I have a feeling that those long hours did a doozie on my eyes.  By the end each day, it felt like my eyes were twitching. I’d tear up on the drive home, my eyes not used to having to look at distances.  I didn’t want to admit that my perfect 20/20 vision is no longer perfect.

I’ve always been known as the “eagle eyes” of the family.  My mom and brother have terrible vision - my bro has been wearing glasses since he was in the second grade.  But my eyes....  My eyes were perfect!  I could see farther than most.  My parents would have me read long distances on the freeway - I was always the first in the car to read a sign.  I took pride in my perfect vision and was pleased when I passed on my supreme vision to my son. 

But working in high-tech for the last 8 years where I spend ample time in front of my computer has slowly worn away at my perfect vision.

When I went to get a check-up (my first vision test as an adult), the eye doctor told me that I have an astigmatism.  He explained that my eyes are having trouble focusing.  While my vision is still technically 20/20, my eyes would be more comfortable in front of the computer wearing a pair of reading glasses. 

Since I didn’t need a real prescription and I only need to wear the glasses when I’m sitting in front of my computer screen, he suggested an over the counter pair of reading glasses.  It would save me money since having 20/20 vision I’ve always elected out of vision coverage at work.  I guess I’ll have to re-think that one in the future.

On Saturday, I went to get reading glasses.  I found really cute pairs in the lowest prescription for only $2.99.  I bought four pairs: one for the house, one for the office, one in my laptop bag, and one spare.  While I may be wearing glasses at work now, at least I can still be fashionable. 

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Dear Baskin Robbins,

Dear Baskin Robbins (an un-love letter),

Last night we made the trek to our local ice cream shop, Baskin Robbins.  The whole family walked over to enjoy a nice cold treat on a hot day.  When we arrived the place was packed.  It felt like our entire community had the same thought as us at the same time.  So we patiently awaited our turn for an employee who is probably closer to my son’s age than to mine scoop up our favorite flavors. 

My son was so excited about getting his kid-scoop of Chocolate. Once we ordered and paid for our summer treats, we looked for a place to sit.  The store was highly air-conditioned and it felt great.  And everyone who was in line before us took advantage of that cool air too.  Not a single table or chair was to be had.  But that was ok.  We figured we would just sit outside and forget about the heat while we licked away our cones. 

Our local BR doesn’t have outside seating.  So we sat in tables at the sandwich shop two doors down.  Not a mere five minutes from paying for our treats, sitting down and enjoying them, my son accidentally dropped his chocolate kid scoop on the ground.

Being a long-time Baskin Robbins customer, I figured dropping of the cone would be NO BIG DEAL.  After all, hasn’t every kid dropped an ice cream cone before?  Accidents happen.  I scooped up the dirty ice cream, scooped my son up into my arms, and said “That’s ok.  I’m sure we can just get you another one.”

Apparently I was dead wrong.

When I went back into the store and politely explained to the pimply-faced teenager that my son had accidentally dropped his cone on the ground and we had just bought and was it possible to get a replacement scoop, the gruff teen explained that BR’s policy is that you only get a replacement scoop if you are physically in the store when the accident happens. Once you leave the store, apparently you forfeit your right to a replacement scoop.   

I explained that while I understood the policy and we would have loved to stay in the store but there were not any tables available in the store at the time of our purchase.  And so we walked a mere 15 feet away and my four year old has a little accident.  Couldn't BR can’t show a little sympathy and give the kid a replacement scoop?

The teen was adamant that this was their policy and that if I wanted another scoop I'd have to fork over the cash for another one. 

Give the kid a break!  The whole family got scoops of ice cream.  It’s not like there is a conspiracy here.  We didn’t gobble down the scoop and then claim it fell on the ground to get another one for free.  It’s a little kid.  How much can that extra scoop cost?  And if you are willing to give it if we are in the store, then really why can’t we get it after the leaving the store for five frickin’ minutes?  It just doesn’t make sense to me. 

I was this close to digging our dirty scoop out of the trash and dumping it on the floor of the store.  But I decided against it.  I certainly don’t hold the teen accountable for the stupid policy.  But I don’t agree with it.  The great thing about blogging is that we get to share our great experiences and our not-so-great ones with the internet community. 

Patrons of Baskin Robbins can consider yourselves warned:  If you are going to drop your ice cream, make sure you do inside the walls of store.

For a company that has been in business for over 60 years, it doesn’t seem to me to be a good business practice to piss off your customers.  Especially when its a mommy-blogger.

Originally posted at the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Google Behaving Badly

Given that Google is chalk full of Googlaires – the employees that struck it rich when the company when public – perhaps co-founder Sergey Brin thinks it’s time to take back some of the employees cold hard cash.  Google is increasing their onsite daycare costs by 75%.  Employees who were paying $1400 a month in infant care will now pay almost $2500 a month; well over what is considered the market rate.

Perhaps Brin is testing out the economic theory of supply and demand that he learned while studying at Stanford.  Increase the cost to elitist proportions and see how the demand changes.  And it sounds like Google parents are deciding that onsite daycare is no longer a benefit but a burden.  The wait list at the Kinderplex has already dropped by more than 50%. 

Yes, the Kinderplex is a state of the art facility with only the newest toys, the highest educated teachers, and the Reggio Emilia preschool philosophy.  But I am sure most parents would agree that not all kids need all this “extra” stuff to be successful.  Give a preschooler plenty of time to run around, access to building blocks, and a nurturing environment to foster creativity and self-esteem.  The rest is fluff. 

If I was a Google parent, I would have fah-reaked out when I found out that I would be paying more in day care than I pay on my mortgage.  Google is known for its fantastic perks – the free organic lunches, imported bottles of water, and unlimited supply of snacks.  But when it comes to affordable, accessible day care?  Well, that is clearly a luxury at Google. 

Google – It’s time for a Time Out, kiddo.  Your decision to pass the buck to your working parents was the wrong one.  You still have time to make it right.   

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Given that Google is chalk full of Googlaires – the employees that struck it rich when the company when public – perhaps co-founder Sergey Brin thinks it’s time to take back some of the employees cold hard cash.  Google is increasing their onsite daycare costs by 75%.  Employees who were paying $1400 a month in infant care will now pay almost $2500 a month; well over what is considered the market rate.

Perhaps Brin is testing out the economic theory of supply and demand that he learned while studying at Stanford.  Increase the cost to elitist proportions and see how the demand changes.  And it sounds like Google parents are deciding that onsite daycare is no longer a benefit but a burden.  The wait list at the Kinderplex has already dropped by more than 50%. 

Yes, the Kinderplex is a state of the art facility with only the newest toys, the highest educated teachers, and the Reggio Emilia preschool philosophy.  But I am sure most parents would agree that not all kids need all this “extra” stuff to be successful.  Give a preschooler plenty of time to run around, access to building blocks, and a nurturing environment to foster creativity and self-esteem.  The rest is fluff. 

If I was a Google parent, I would have fah-reaked out when I found out that I would be paying more in day care than I pay on my mortgage.  Google is known for its fantastic perks – the free organic lunches, imported bottles of water, and unlimited supply of snacks.  But when it comes to affordable, accessible day care?  Well, that is clearly a luxury at Google. 

Google – It’s time for a Time Out, kiddo.  Your decision to pass the buck to your working parents was the wrong one.  You still have time to make it right.   

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

Carpooling is Saving Money, the Environment… and my Marriage

When I started a new job in January that was less than a mile from my spouse’s office, he suggested that we start carpooling.  Gas prices were increasing and we were trying to find alternative ways to reduce our carbon footprint.  I wasn’t at all interesting in carpooling.  It seemed like a big hassle just for saving a few dollars at the pump.  It would require both of us to be cooperative, synchronize our schedules, and be understanding when one of us needed to come in early or stay a little later.  In other words, it seemed near impossible to me. 

Seeing how enthusiastic my spouse was over the notion of getting to use the carpool lane, I started to come around to the idea.  When he offered to do all the driving, I decided to give it a trial run.  Our goal was to carpool three or more days a week.  I honestly thought that we wouldn’t make it past a month before we’d be back to driving separately. 

The first month was like a honeymoon period.  I was in a new role at a new company.  While I was getting up to speed on the projects I would be managing and learning the lay of the land, it was easy to come in at 8:30 and leave by 5:00pm.   Carpooling was dreamy during the first month.  Literally.  I often took a cat nap on the way home from the office. My spouse was at the wheel and I was relaxing.  We carpooled nearly every day – saving over 50% on our gas bill.  We felt pretty smug about ourselves.

The second month was a rude awakening from our dreamy first month.  I was now knee-deep in my projects and having to spend lots of time on the phone with folks in London and Beijing.  It made for many early morning calls and late afternoon calls.  Too often those 4pm calls would often run over and my spouse would be waiting outside for me to wrap up my important meetings.  It made for some tense moments driving home.   By the end of the month, neither of us was committed to carpooling any more.  However, we had both become accustomed to the smooth sailing in the commuter lane and agreed to stick with for another month.  We didn’t reduce our gas bill as much as the first month but we had reduced our commute time by 40% when we stuck together.

By the third month, I was beyond ready to throw in the towel.  The constant communication about schedules, who had to be in early, who had to be in late, who was willing to take calls from home so the other could sleep in till 8.  I had never been so involved in my spouse’s work or he in mine.  We’d always been those people that rarely brought work home with us.  And now it felt like work was never leaving.   There were times after a hard day at the office where I just didn’t want to see my spouse at 5pm.  I didn’t want to have to talk about anything.  I’d try to take my afternoon siesta but would be interrupted about what was for dinner or what was the plan for tomorrow.  Carpooling was officially no longer a dream and was quickly turning into a nightmare. 

Then something divine happened in the fourth month.  Talking was no longer a burden.  We started to share about our work days, help each other through work conflicts, revel in each other’s successes.  I’d make him laugh with stories about the upcoming acquisition.  On nights when I’d walk to the car frazzled and fried, my spouse wouldn’t object to dinner that subsisted of turkey sandwiches and carrot sticks.   We started to hold hands during the commute and give each other a brief kiss before we departed ways in the morning.  Communicating and commuting were no longer a hassle.  Both became fun.

We are now in our sixth month of carpooling at least four days a week together.  Our weekly gas bill is under $50 – not bad considering gas prices are skyrocketing each and every day.  But more importantly, we managed to re-connect with each other.  Just the other morning as he pulled into the parking lot of my office building, he leaned over and said “I like spending this extra time with you” before giving me a kiss good-bye.

When I started carpooling I was in it for the money and the environment.  I’m sticking to it because of the changes it has made in my relationship with my spouse.  Who knew carpooling was good for the soul!

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

The second month was a rude awakening from our dreamy first month.  I was now knee-deep in my projects and having to spend lots of time on the phone with folks in London and Beijing.  It made for many early morning calls and late afternoon calls.  Too often those 4pm calls would often run over and my spouse would be waiting outside for me to wrap up my important meetings.  It made for some tense moments driving home.   By the end of the month, neither of us was committed to carpooling any more.  However, we had both become accustomed to the smooth sailing in the commuter lane and agreed to stick with for another month.  We didn’t reduce our gas bill as much as the first month but we had reduced our commute time by 40% when we stuck together.

By the third month, I was beyond ready to throw in the towel.  The constant communication about schedules, who had to be in early, who had to be in late, who was willing to take calls from home so the other could sleep in till 8.  I had never been so involved in my spouse’s work or he in mine.  We’d always been those people that rarely brought work home with us.  And now it felt like work was never leaving.   There were times after a hard day at the office where I just didn’t want to see my spouse at 5pm.  I didn’t want to have to talk about anything.  I’d try to take my afternoon siesta but would be interrupted about what was for dinner or what was the plan for tomorrow.  Carpooling was officially no longer a dream and was quickly turning into a nightmare. 

Then something divine happened in the fourth month.  Talking was no longer a burden.  We started to share about our work days, help each other through work conflicts, revel in each other’s successes.  I’d make him laugh with stories about the upcoming acquisition.  On nights when I’d walk to the car frazzled and fried, my spouse wouldn’t object to dinner that subsisted of turkey sandwiches and carrot sticks.   We started to hold hands during the commute and give each other a brief kiss before we departed ways in the morning.  Communicating and commuting were no longer a hassle.  Both became fun.

We are now in our sixth month of carpooling at least four days a week together.  Our weekly gas bill is under $50 – not bad considering gas prices are skyrocketing each and every day.  But more importantly, we managed to re-connect with each other.  Just the other morning as he pulled into the parking lot of my office building, he leaned over and said “I like spending this extra time with you” before giving me a kiss good-bye.

When I started carpooling I was in it for the money and the environment.  I’m sticking to it because of the changes it has made in my relationship with my spouse.  Who knew carpooling was good for the soul!

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

New meaning to the word "Homecoming"

When I walked in the door after a 10-day trip away from my family, the first thing my spouse said to me after a kiss hello was “We’re out of bread.”

With a grocery store within walking distance of our house, a fully stocked fridge upon my departure, and ten days away from my family, really?  That’s the first thing you want to say?  How about a “honey, how was your trip?” or “Supplies are low, but I’ll run up to store tonight for you – you’ve been traveling for 15 hours.”

I know being the parent who gets left behind while the other spouse is traveling, isn’t easy.  It’s hard to be the one that has to hold down the fort.  But good grief is it really that hard to go to the store to pick up a few items?!?

Before I can get worked up over it, I suddenly remember that time when I called him from the airport to remind him to stop at the store for a gallon of milk on the way home (totally forgetting to ask how his trip was first).  Parenting sometimes doesn't bring out the best in us.  And no buts about it, being the parent that stays is WAY harder than being that parent that goes. 

I know that my spouse didn’t intend for the bread comment to be so blatant.  He was merely stating a fact.  When I checked the fridge and pantry, we were out of more than just bread.  We were out of everything!  No eggs, no milk, no fruit, no meat.  What had they been living on?  I suppose they brought new meaning to the bachelor pad - one dad and his four year old living alone for ten days.  I half expected to see our microfiber couch replaced for one in black leather. 

Since I do the majority of the cooking (his specialty is micro-waved hotdogs.  seriously.), I don’t even want to think of what they’ve been eating since I been away.  As far as I could tell, they’d been living on cheese sticks and saltine crackers for the last couple of days – that’s all that seemed to be left.  I looked at him and laughed.  I knew that he missed me.  A lot.  And his stomach missed me too. 

We made a family trip to the grocery store and stocked up once again on all the basics.  After our shopping trip, daddy cooked dinner.  It was hotdogs.  And they tasted mighty fine. 

Tonight I’ll be cooking my first meal since I’ve returned.  Sometimes homecomings don’t go as planned.  Still, I’m happy to be home.  Even if there are still dirty socks scattered all over...

Original post to the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

When I walked in the door after a 10-day trip away from my family, the first thing my spouse said to me after a kiss hello was “We’re out of bread.”

With a grocery store within walking distance of our house, a fully stocked fridge upon my departure, and ten days away from my family, really?  That’s the first thing you want to say?  How about a “honey, how was your trip?” or “Supplies are low, but I’ll run up to store tonight for you – you’ve been traveling for 15 hours.”

I know being the parent who gets left behind while the other spouse is traveling, isn’t easy.  It’s hard to be the one that has to hold down the fort.  But good grief is it really that hard to go to the store to pick up a few items?!?

Before I can get worked up over it, I suddenly remember that time when I called him from the airport to remind him to stop at the store for a gallon of milk on the way home (totally forgetting to ask how his trip was first).  Parenting sometimes doesn't bring out the best in us.  And no buts about it, being the parent that stays is WAY harder than being that parent that goes. 

I know that my spouse didn’t intend for the bread comment to be so blatant.  He was merely stating a fact.  When I checked the fridge and pantry, we were out of more than just bread.  We were out of everything!  No eggs, no milk, no fruit, no meat.  What had they been living on?  I suppose they brought new meaning to the bachelor pad - one dad and his four year old living alone for ten days.  I half expected to see our microfiber couch replaced for one in black leather. 

Since I do the majority of the cooking (his specialty is micro-waved hotdogs.  seriously.), I don’t even want to think of what they’ve been eating since I been away.  As far as I could tell, they’d been living on cheese sticks and saltine crackers for the last couple of days – that’s all that seemed to be left.  I looked at him and laughed.  I knew that he missed me.  A lot.  And his stomach missed me too. 

We made a family trip to the grocery store and stocked up once again on all the basics.  After our shopping trip, daddy cooked dinner.  It was hotdogs.  And they tasted mighty fine. 

Tonight I’ll be cooking my first meal since I’ve returned.  Sometimes homecomings don’t go as planned.  Still, I’m happy to be home.  Even if there are still dirty socks scattered all over...

Original post to the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog

A love letter

Dear Elmo,

Children across America (and the world) love you.  Your sweet voice, your adorable laugh, your innocence, the fact that you are little just like them.  Kids love you.  My son loves you. And I love you too.

But that’s not why am I writing.  This isn’t your typical thank you letter.  What I really want to thank you for is giving me back my sex life.  I know it sounds a little creepy that I’d be thanking a pint-sized red monster from world renowned educational children's show.  I don’t mean any disrespect. 

But you see, Elmo, you captivate my son.  If you are on the TV, then he’s stuck on the couch like glue.  He won’t get up – the kid won’t even move a finger.  He’ll stare into your big eyes and stay still until the show is over.  And that gives this working mother a little time to “work it” with her working man.  We get time to be together and not worry about our little monster accidentally coming into our room.  We can be together in a way that adults are to be together when kids aren’t asking for more juice, another snack, or pound on the door and ask why mommy locked it.  And we don’t have to wait until a certain someone is fast asleep either.  Just pop in an Elmo’s World video (doesn’t matter that he’s seen it a hundred times) and we get 30 minutes of adult paradise. 

I heart you, Elmo.  For more reasons that you can imagine.  You just keep on being you.  And I’ll keep on being with daddy during Elmo’s World. 

Originally posted at the Silicon Valley Moms Blog

But you see, Elmo, you captivate my son.  If you are on the TV, then he’s stuck on the couch like glue.  He won’t get up – the kid won’t even move a finger.  He’ll stare into your big eyes and stay still until the show is over.  And that gives this working mother a little time to “work it” with her working man.  We get time to be together and not worry about our little monster accidentally coming into our room.  We can be together in a way that adults are to be together when kids aren’t asking for more juice, another snack, or pound on the door and ask why mommy locked it.  And we don’t have to wait until a certain someone is fast asleep either.  Just pop in an Elmo’s World video (doesn’t matter that he’s seen it a hundred times) and we get 30 minutes of adult paradise. 

I heart you, Elmo.  For more reasons that you can imagine.  You just keep on being you.  And I’ll keep on being with daddy during Elmo’s World. 

Originally posted at the Silicon Valley Moms Blog

10 lessons learned at the YMCA

My son has been enrolled in the youth sports program at the YMCA for almost a year.  We've played soccer, basketball, and t-ball.  The YMCA is a great place and has a fantastic program for kids.  These are the lessons I've learned from watching from the sidelines.

10. There will always be a “Competi-Mommy” or a “Competi-Daddy” that just cannot get over the fact that these are just four years old playing and must make sure that their child is the star.

9. Teaching your kid to share the ball with his teammate but not the other team is harder than you think.

8.  By having all-girls teams, the co-ed teams become dominated by boys.  And that sort of defeats the

purpose of having a co-ed team, now doesn’t it?

7. No matter how nice the parents are during the game, they all turn into a**holes when trying to get the best parking place

6. The biggest motivating factor to get kids to perform is the snack and juice box at the end of the game.

5. Be on-time for the team picture.

4. Watching 4 years olds try to do jumping jacks is funniest thing you’ll ever watch in your life

3. There will always be one kid on each team that is more aggressive than the others.  If you can’t figure out which kid it is, then chances are it is your kid.

2. Keep your eye on the ball.  Or you may end up with the ball in your eye.

1. Its all about having fun.  So lighten up (read #10 again).