"2010 had good stuff, but a lot of it came at a high price," a good friend said to me recently. I have to admit that as much as I've looked forward to figuring out how to flip off 2010 with two middle fingers while holding a glass of champagne at midnight, he said it best.
Each year on December 31st I naturally look back at the year. This year I couldn't help but think about the slow real estate market, my daunting job search, 2 cancer scares, and our miscarriage. But how can I say it was a bad year when we watched our son blossom from a precious baby to a healthy, independent little boy? And I did find a job, one I quite enjoy actually. Despite a negligible vitamin deficiency and maybe a cavity, I'm as healthy as can be. And my genious husband has shown the real estate market who's boss.
All in all, it was a good year. But that doesn't mean I don't think 2011 can do better. A lot better. And I'm not afraid to say it, even demand it. Last year we started off by saying that 2010 was the year we'd take charge of our lives again. When we'd stop letting the economy decide what we do with our lives. And we did.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
The Perfect Christmas
We all want it, plan for it starting in July, dream of it starting in January. The perfect Christmas. All year, whether we admit it or not, we live for that moment, for any number of reasons. It's a well deserved break from the grind, reuniting with family we haven't seen all year or longer, and a time when strangers smile at eachother and say "happy holidays" (or maybe yell obscenities at eachother over parking spaces at the mall, but I'm going for hohoho rather than bah humbug here).
My Mother is no exception. Not to the parking lot shouting, OR the annual quest for the perfect holiday season. Wait, the parking lot shouting is mostly me. Anyway, my Mother raised me, an only child, all on her own. She worked nights as a nurse, and 24 hours a day as a Mom, and Christmas was no exception. But each year, for as long as I can remember, the woman worked her butt off to make my Christmas perfect, starting in January. Christmas was the culmination of all her hard work and sacrifice all year long, and she made sure that whatever she thought I might be missing in life, she made up for it under that tree.
Most of my childhood Christmas's were spent at least in part at my Grandmother's house. Looking back, we joke about Christmas's past; how the stress of holiday prep would sometimes errupt over wrapping paper fiascos or one time, iced tea - that was a weird one. And we'd roll our eyes and snicker about how everyone would arrive late Christmas Eve with war stories from the drive to Grandmother's house and scramble to wrap all their gifts in the back bedroom of the 3 bedroom house as if it was a secret mission. And the one shared bathroom among 4 women and 7 children is a whole other blog entry. Far from perfect.
Christmas is a lot different now; still less than perfect in its own special way, and still wonderful in absolutely every way. This year, we planned a laid back Christmas Eve and Christmas day at my Mother's home, where we'd sip hot chocolate and spiked eggnog and watch Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer with my 18 month old son. With snow in the forecast, we planned to wake to a french-toast breakfast and video a giggly wide-eyed little boy rip through a huge stack of presents under the tree on Christmas morning. So far, what's actually happened is two solid days of toy store chaos, an ant outbreak in the house, and a toddler with a recurrent cold who has suddenly discovered sugary baked goods - and temper tantrums.
It occurred to me in a Christmas Carol like moment that our Christmas's have never been perfect in spite of all the planning and hard work. But the chaos and things gone awry are what make it memorable and special, each successively closer to perfect than the year before it. I wouldn't trade the ant fiasco or the wrapping paper shennanigans for Christmas at Martha Stewart's place, even with its hand made wreaths and real cranberries and perfectly orchestrated festivities. Afterall, it isn't what's under the tree, but whose standing around it.
So as I wrapped the umpteenth present tonight in the 3rd bedroom of my mother's house, I remembered with a smile the loud crazy Christmas's past. And as I watched my husband sitting next to me assembling our son's first battery powered mega toy, and heard my Mother singing bedtime lullabies to my baby boy in the next room, I couldn't have imagined a more perfect Christmas afterall.
My Mother is no exception. Not to the parking lot shouting, OR the annual quest for the perfect holiday season. Wait, the parking lot shouting is mostly me. Anyway, my Mother raised me, an only child, all on her own. She worked nights as a nurse, and 24 hours a day as a Mom, and Christmas was no exception. But each year, for as long as I can remember, the woman worked her butt off to make my Christmas perfect, starting in January. Christmas was the culmination of all her hard work and sacrifice all year long, and she made sure that whatever she thought I might be missing in life, she made up for it under that tree.
Most of my childhood Christmas's were spent at least in part at my Grandmother's house. Looking back, we joke about Christmas's past; how the stress of holiday prep would sometimes errupt over wrapping paper fiascos or one time, iced tea - that was a weird one. And we'd roll our eyes and snicker about how everyone would arrive late Christmas Eve with war stories from the drive to Grandmother's house and scramble to wrap all their gifts in the back bedroom of the 3 bedroom house as if it was a secret mission. And the one shared bathroom among 4 women and 7 children is a whole other blog entry. Far from perfect.
Christmas is a lot different now; still less than perfect in its own special way, and still wonderful in absolutely every way. This year, we planned a laid back Christmas Eve and Christmas day at my Mother's home, where we'd sip hot chocolate and spiked eggnog and watch Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer with my 18 month old son. With snow in the forecast, we planned to wake to a french-toast breakfast and video a giggly wide-eyed little boy rip through a huge stack of presents under the tree on Christmas morning. So far, what's actually happened is two solid days of toy store chaos, an ant outbreak in the house, and a toddler with a recurrent cold who has suddenly discovered sugary baked goods - and temper tantrums.
It occurred to me in a Christmas Carol like moment that our Christmas's have never been perfect in spite of all the planning and hard work. But the chaos and things gone awry are what make it memorable and special, each successively closer to perfect than the year before it. I wouldn't trade the ant fiasco or the wrapping paper shennanigans for Christmas at Martha Stewart's place, even with its hand made wreaths and real cranberries and perfectly orchestrated festivities. Afterall, it isn't what's under the tree, but whose standing around it.
So as I wrapped the umpteenth present tonight in the 3rd bedroom of my mother's house, I remembered with a smile the loud crazy Christmas's past. And as I watched my husband sitting next to me assembling our son's first battery powered mega toy, and heard my Mother singing bedtime lullabies to my baby boy in the next room, I couldn't have imagined a more perfect Christmas afterall.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Excerpt from Autumn 2008:
"Morning" sickness is said to arrive around the 6th week, so next week could be interesting (locating the barf-bag will no doubt be my first priority on next week's flight).
So far I'm really enjoying "feeling" pregnant, although so far I haven't had prominent symptoms, only mild and surprisingly numerous. Half-way through week 5, I'm feeling pretty tired, fidgety, forgetful, and what else? I get the occasional hint of nausea (mostly that feeling when your mouth suddenly fills with saliva and you need to just be still for a second), mega-bloating (I'm already employing the hair-elastic trick), and mood-swings with an added bonus of anxiety. I swear my skin is glowing, even if the extra oil that's causing it is also causing mild breakouts.
I'm "showing" already, even though all I'm showing are signs of major bloating. But it's just a reminder that something, someone is in there. Silly as it may sound, I'm pleased by the appearance of new (normal) symptoms and eagerly await more. I feel like my body was well-made for this stuff, so I don't anticipate a complicated or unpleasant experience with pregnancy. I think once I've gotten over the initial anxiety, I'll do great.
So far I'm really enjoying "feeling" pregnant, although so far I haven't had prominent symptoms, only mild and surprisingly numerous. Half-way through week 5, I'm feeling pretty tired, fidgety, forgetful, and what else? I get the occasional hint of nausea (mostly that feeling when your mouth suddenly fills with saliva and you need to just be still for a second), mega-bloating (I'm already employing the hair-elastic trick), and mood-swings with an added bonus of anxiety. I swear my skin is glowing, even if the extra oil that's causing it is also causing mild breakouts.
I'm "showing" already, even though all I'm showing are signs of major bloating. But it's just a reminder that something, someone is in there. Silly as it may sound, I'm pleased by the appearance of new (normal) symptoms and eagerly await more. I feel like my body was well-made for this stuff, so I don't anticipate a complicated or unpleasant experience with pregnancy. I think once I've gotten over the initial anxiety, I'll do great.
Hope and Laughter
I'm going through a tough time right now and it's something I've chosen not to expose here because of how painful and personal it is. But as a means of hoping and laughing through this tough time, I looked back on some posts from an old blog about my last pregnancy. There are few non-pregnancy-related topics sprinkled in and I thought they were fun, so I wanted to share them here over the next several days. I hope they put a smile on your face the way they do on mine.
Monday, October 25, 2010
I think my kid is adorable but
It's possible I am just a cynic. A big stick in the mud, Debbie Downer, etc. Or it's possible I have worked in the advertising business too long and know all the tricky little maneuvers used by marketers to snag your email address, attention, loyalty, or (insert other means of pilfering the precious little money your daycare provider hasn't usurped). I'm talking about the cutest baby contest, Gerber Baby contest, Gap Model Call, and other gimmicky, if not creepy, contests swarming the internet as we approach the (what a coincidence) holiday season.
Don't get me wrong. My kid is cute. I am his mother, so I am allowed to make such brazen statements without a shread of modesty or guilt. Of course I'm tempted to enter one of the thousand adorable candids of my toddler that are lying around on my hard drive. I mean, what if he won? How would I parent a child star differently and avoid all the mistakes of every Dina Lohan cautionary tale in Hollywood? Should I rethink a little light cosmetic surgery in case I end up in People? But as I navigate to the special section of the Gap site for contest details, I couldn't help but notice how orchestrated it all is.
There are thousands of pictures on the site representing the thousands of parents who, after facing a momentary temptation, yielded to said temptation, gave in and hit the Submit button. As a marekter I know the value to the Gap of all the people who visited the contest page and spent hours deciding between the picture of little Dexter eating peas in his Gap jeans or the one where his t-shirt says GAP across the front. The value equates to something like the cost of umpteen web designers, a 7-8 figure agency retainer, countless executive salaries, a champagne launch party, and you get the idea. So the "models" must be paid well right?
Of course. The prize is a gift card. A GIFT CARD! Albeit a $1000 gift card, but how long is that going to last with a toddler who outgrows a pair of shoes practically every week? I'd rather have the cash to pay for diapers, but I looked into it, there isn't a cash option and the Gap doesn't sell diapers - yet. I couldn't help but wonder, is this how Kate Moss embarked on her career as a model? Or Cindy Crawford, although it does seem to be how some supermodels' careers end. Rooms to Go? Really, Cindy? Really?
And don't even get me started on the creepy factor. My kid's Grandparents have to use a password to see my son's online photos. I'm just not comfortable putting his picture in what amounts to an online catalogue for the world to see. If he chooses a public life at some point, I'll happily support it. But I can't make that decision for him when he isn't yet capable of deciding what to eat for breakfast. Besides, it's my job to protect him from pedophiles, creeps, and of course, marketers. For now my son's modeling career will have to remain limited to opportune snaps of him eating peas in whatever brand of jeans fits him today.
Don't get me wrong. My kid is cute. I am his mother, so I am allowed to make such brazen statements without a shread of modesty or guilt. Of course I'm tempted to enter one of the thousand adorable candids of my toddler that are lying around on my hard drive. I mean, what if he won? How would I parent a child star differently and avoid all the mistakes of every Dina Lohan cautionary tale in Hollywood? Should I rethink a little light cosmetic surgery in case I end up in People? But as I navigate to the special section of the Gap site for contest details, I couldn't help but notice how orchestrated it all is.
There are thousands of pictures on the site representing the thousands of parents who, after facing a momentary temptation, yielded to said temptation, gave in and hit the Submit button. As a marekter I know the value to the Gap of all the people who visited the contest page and spent hours deciding between the picture of little Dexter eating peas in his Gap jeans or the one where his t-shirt says GAP across the front. The value equates to something like the cost of umpteen web designers, a 7-8 figure agency retainer, countless executive salaries, a champagne launch party, and you get the idea. So the "models" must be paid well right?
Of course. The prize is a gift card. A GIFT CARD! Albeit a $1000 gift card, but how long is that going to last with a toddler who outgrows a pair of shoes practically every week? I'd rather have the cash to pay for diapers, but I looked into it, there isn't a cash option and the Gap doesn't sell diapers - yet. I couldn't help but wonder, is this how Kate Moss embarked on her career as a model? Or Cindy Crawford, although it does seem to be how some supermodels' careers end. Rooms to Go? Really, Cindy? Really?
And don't even get me started on the creepy factor. My kid's Grandparents have to use a password to see my son's online photos. I'm just not comfortable putting his picture in what amounts to an online catalogue for the world to see. If he chooses a public life at some point, I'll happily support it. But I can't make that decision for him when he isn't yet capable of deciding what to eat for breakfast. Besides, it's my job to protect him from pedophiles, creeps, and of course, marketers. For now my son's modeling career will have to remain limited to opportune snaps of him eating peas in whatever brand of jeans fits him today.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
About time
Okay, sorry. It has been forever. And so busy. I have a lot of projects going on at the moment, including getting into some freelance article writing, getting my first children's book published, and going back to work at least part time. And of course all the while I am focused on my darling son and keeping his ever-growing imagination entertained and sense of mischief within safe limits.
My son turned one recently and this was an exciting and tricky milestone. There was of course a party, a big noisy stampede of kids and grownups through a freshly painted house - and a course of happy birthday from 80 or so people that may or may not have scared the bejeezus out of my little birthday boy. He did really well with it all - the chaos, the new faces. In fact he entertained like a pro, using his newly polished walking skills to bound from one packed room to another introducing himself like a gentleman and offering to freshen drinks. Okay maybe not quite, but he did seem to understand that it was all for him, and was rather pleased with himself for it. There was also some sadness and tearful reminiscing - on my part mostly, I'll admit.
After the party ended and all our family waved goodbye from the bottom of our sloped driveway, I realized he would never turn one again; never be swaddled or fall asleep next to me on an activity mat looking up at the bottom of a stuffed elephant. I must have replayed every single memory of his first year in my head over the next few days. I like to keep them from gathering dust in the cluttered attic that is my brain. I thought about his first cry and the moment he was placed in my arms for the first time. I thought about our naps together and night time feedings, and those first nervous car rides; the first time he rolled over, crawled, and took his first steps. I will miss those days.
But I have so much to look forward to. Every day a new facet of his personality glimmers. Being with him is like eating ice cream in a sunshine-warmed car, or the first swim of Summer. And watching him grow and helping him thrive in every way is the project of a lifetime.
My son turned one recently and this was an exciting and tricky milestone. There was of course a party, a big noisy stampede of kids and grownups through a freshly painted house - and a course of happy birthday from 80 or so people that may or may not have scared the bejeezus out of my little birthday boy. He did really well with it all - the chaos, the new faces. In fact he entertained like a pro, using his newly polished walking skills to bound from one packed room to another introducing himself like a gentleman and offering to freshen drinks. Okay maybe not quite, but he did seem to understand that it was all for him, and was rather pleased with himself for it. There was also some sadness and tearful reminiscing - on my part mostly, I'll admit.
After the party ended and all our family waved goodbye from the bottom of our sloped driveway, I realized he would never turn one again; never be swaddled or fall asleep next to me on an activity mat looking up at the bottom of a stuffed elephant. I must have replayed every single memory of his first year in my head over the next few days. I like to keep them from gathering dust in the cluttered attic that is my brain. I thought about his first cry and the moment he was placed in my arms for the first time. I thought about our naps together and night time feedings, and those first nervous car rides; the first time he rolled over, crawled, and took his first steps. I will miss those days.
But I have so much to look forward to. Every day a new facet of his personality glimmers. Being with him is like eating ice cream in a sunshine-warmed car, or the first swim of Summer. And watching him grow and helping him thrive in every way is the project of a lifetime.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
"Made in" Voyage
For those of you who know me, you will be happy to find that today's post is one of my familiar unbridled rants. For those of you who do not, brace yourselves. I'm well known for climbing onto the soap box, building my house there, and now that I'm a parent, joining taking over the local PTA (because the bitch who currently runs it screwed up last year's bake sale something godawful).
Today's rant is brought to you by the made in China label affixed to virtually every product we buy nowadays. I subscribe to an email feed from the CSPC (Consumer Product Safety Commission) which alerts consumers to recalled children's products. If you are a parent, you need to be on this list. https://www.cpsc.gov/cpsclist.aspx I receive at least one notice weekly of a recalled children's product and I'd say 90% of the products mentioned are manufactured in China. We've all heard the news, but it's worse than most of us realize. The latest points to the use of Cadmium which has been used in place of the dreaded lead, but is just as toxic. Kudos to Wal-mart for it's voluntary mass recall of these products.
I'm no expert, but double-u-t-f?! What gives? After hearing this news I promptly weeded out half of my son's toy bin into a newly fashioned "recall bin." This bin is full of toys and other gear manufactured in China and is now at the top of the danger (big skull and cross-bones) list ahead of the clorox bottle and the cat litter tray. Okay, maybe that's a bit extreme and as a marketer, I'm willing to concede a margin of media spin in these stories (I've never wanted to buy Made in the USA more no matter how untrendy it is). But on the other hand, I've come to an incredibly important conclusion as a new parent: No one but NO ONE can protect your child the way that you as his parent can because frankly no one else gives a damn about him. Certainly not China and realistically certainly not insert just about any toy/baby gear manufacturer here. Being a parent is about more than just having all the right gear and the right advice. It's a whole new level of instinct and yeah I'm saying it, distrust. It's about thinking twice and reading the fine print, and then asking a gazillion questions and having some jackass at the toy depot look at you like you're mad. And that's okay. While he's on his ciggy break out back laughing about the crazy bitch asking if the stuffed giraffe is BPA free, I'll be skulking over to the diaper aisle to gingerly pry open the box and read the label affixed to the unmentionable area of my child's would-be new cuddly friend to find it's DAMNIT - Made in China.
Today's rant is brought to you by the made in China label affixed to virtually every product we buy nowadays. I subscribe to an email feed from the CSPC (Consumer Product Safety Commission) which alerts consumers to recalled children's products. If you are a parent, you need to be on this list. https://www.cpsc.gov/cpsclist.aspx I receive at least one notice weekly of a recalled children's product and I'd say 90% of the products mentioned are manufactured in China. We've all heard the news, but it's worse than most of us realize. The latest points to the use of Cadmium which has been used in place of the dreaded lead, but is just as toxic. Kudos to Wal-mart for it's voluntary mass recall of these products.
I'm no expert, but double-u-t-f?! What gives? After hearing this news I promptly weeded out half of my son's toy bin into a newly fashioned "recall bin." This bin is full of toys and other gear manufactured in China and is now at the top of the danger (big skull and cross-bones) list ahead of the clorox bottle and the cat litter tray. Okay, maybe that's a bit extreme and as a marketer, I'm willing to concede a margin of media spin in these stories (I've never wanted to buy Made in the USA more no matter how untrendy it is). But on the other hand, I've come to an incredibly important conclusion as a new parent: No one but NO ONE can protect your child the way that you as his parent can because frankly no one else gives a damn about him. Certainly not China and realistically certainly not insert just about any toy/baby gear manufacturer here. Being a parent is about more than just having all the right gear and the right advice. It's a whole new level of instinct and yeah I'm saying it, distrust. It's about thinking twice and reading the fine print, and then asking a gazillion questions and having some jackass at the toy depot look at you like you're mad. And that's okay. While he's on his ciggy break out back laughing about the crazy bitch asking if the stuffed giraffe is BPA free, I'll be skulking over to the diaper aisle to gingerly pry open the box and read the label affixed to the unmentionable area of my child's would-be new cuddly friend to find it's DAMNIT - Made in China.
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