My neighbor brought these flowers over to me yesterday. Just because.
Our children play together every day. For hours on end they are together. When the front door to my house opens and slams shut I can be assured that at least one of her children will be behind my own. The names of her children roll off my tongue when I am handing out snacks. I have given them bandages, hugs, laughed with them, laughed at them.
Her two youngest and my two youngest are inseparable. The four musketeers. They all learned to ride their bikes at the same time. They go back and forth from house to house like a little gang.
When there are arguments, as there always are with children, I reprimand everyone equally.
She does the same with my children.
We have shared bottles of wine sitting on beach chairs in our driveways. Watching all of our collective children play kickball under the streetlights at 11pm.
Earlier this week two of our older children got into a fight. Children who are old enough to know better. It doesn’t really matter what caused the fight. My son punched her son and left him crying.
I was completely mortified. And embarassed. And all of those other things that you feel when your kid is the one who was wrong. So very, very wrong. I felt like his behavior was a reflection on me, on my parenting skills, or lack there of.
I hadn’t hung out with her and her family in a few weeks prior to the hitting incident. I was feeling like I was a pest. You know that feeling when you are always the one initiating the conversations, or bringing over the wine, or suggesting a get-together. And so I just sort of stopped. I thought I had done something, though I didn’t know what, that had made her not want to be friends. And dear Lord just writing that makes me sound like I am twelve years old or pathetic. When do those insecurities end?
Yesterday when she brought over the flowers she apologized to me. She said she had been sufferring through some bad depression and had gone to the doctor and had her medication changed and finally after all these weeks she was feeling like things were going to be okay again. She was finally leaving the house.
Turns out not everything is always about me. Huh. Who would have thought. Good thing I spent all that time feeling sorry for myself. I should have been the one bringing her flowers.
It reminded me of that quote Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. No ones life is easy. It only appears that way from the outside.
I tell my kids all the time to choose kindness. It is probably about time I apply those same words to the voices in my own head. To be kind to myself.
I hope all of you have friends who call you up laughing. Never saying a word, just laughing until you both are crying. Friends who just get you. Friends who will buy you a cherry chapstick because you lost yours. Friends who make you laugh so much you have to walk away before your pee yourself.
I hardly take any photos at BlogHer. Probably because I am too busy talking to people and drinking free wine. And laughing. The laughing is what interferes with the photo taking the most, all that shaking makes blurry photos.
This photo makes me smile. It was from the Suave party at The Wit. I mention those two things because they are examples of things done right. The party was low key. A beautiful bar with free drinks and fabulous appetizers. There was no swag handed out at all. The party itself was the swag. How refreshing not to have feel guilty about throwing good things away or trying to jam stuff into your suitcase.
The Suave representatives did not try to make us talk about their products or pitch us anything. But honestly, I do buy Suave shampoo because it costs $1 a bottle and my children are fond of pouring shampoo down the drain. Probably not the sort of PR that they would be looking for, but it is the truth. I am cheap.
Photo shamelessly stolen from Metalia. See that woman sitting next to me? That is Kristen. I adore her. I had never met her before this weekend, neither had Susan though she works with her. Our first day in Chicago we invited her to our hotel room to share our 4 bottles of Two Buck Chuck and hummus with chips. After that we forced her to go everywhere with us.
She sent me the first text message when I arrived home:
Not ONE WAITER has come by with a tray of food. And I’m having to pour my own wine.
I know. It is such a let down.
Our waitress realized I was not eating any of the food she asked what wrong. I told her about the whole gluten free thing she brought the chef out who made me special food. Fabulously delicious food.
I am not sure what Susan was saying that was so shocking to Sarah and Metalia. But please note Metalia’s bedazzled iPhone cover. It is has pushed right past tackiness into a class of awesome all by itself.
The laughter. I should have abs of steel, but see the avocado and wine mentions. (Danielle and the PORN! skirt.)
I don’t want anyone to think that Blogher was not a worthwhile experience. It was. The conversations with smart people. Not having to explain what a blog is, or why you chose to write one. People with whom you connect, even though your lives could not be more different. The sessions, this one in particular:
and I am not just saying that because I adore and respect every single one of these women and count them among my friends. The genesis of this panel was a comment Stefania made during a panel on which I was speaking in 2007.
I know I have already posted this salad before, but in keeping with my habit I ate this 4 times while in Chicago. The fifth time I went to the restaurant I had guacomole and chips. Apparently I require avocado in every things that I eat.
“You know I hate asking about gluten free food. It has become such a fad. I feel like a trendy asshole.”
One night I walked in on Susan in the bathroom and she was rubbing deodorant on her feet. I looked at her our of the corner of my eye for a minute while I was putting on my lipstick.
“Do you have a foot sweating problem or something?” I asked.
After she recovered from laughing she revealed to me that the deodorant prevents your shoes from chafing.
I immediately kicked off my black heels and rubbed my deodorant all over the places my shoes were already pinching. I did pause for a moment before I did the second foot to see if she was just messing with me. I am happy to report that I wore those 3″ peep toe heels the entire evening and had no problems at all.
The next night Heather and I were in my room getting ready to head out somewhere when she said her feet hurt. I helpfully told her about what Susan had said. She was skeptical but since she had gotten approximately 5 million sticks of deodorant as swag she decided to try it. Now, let me say I did not notice what sort of shoes she was wearing, nor did I watch her do it.
(I am laughing so hard remembering this that my children think I am having convulsions)
We leave the hotel room and are walking down the hallway when Heather says, “I don’t know about this. I think I was expecting a miracle or something.”
“Really? I thought it worked well.”
“My feet feel all slippery.”
For the first time I look down at her feet and realize she is wearing thong sandals. I stop in the hallway and grab her arm.
“Did you rub the deodorant on the bottom of your feet?”
“Well, yes. That’s where my feet hurt. Isn’t that what you said to do?”
It was then that I fell over right there in the hallway I was laughing so hard.
Once we both recovered I said, “At least your feet won’t smell bad, right?”
I realize I am a party pooper by not wearing my McDonald’s hat, but it kept falling over my eyes. And that was interfering with my wine drinking.
At one point during the party Yvonne handed me the tray of burgers so she could photograph the security that was coming to break up the party. There is a photo somewhere I saw of of Metalia and I with the burgers that neither of us could eat. (It was Ali’s photo, link here. God, too funny.) We were saying that next year at BlogHer they should serve Kosher, gluten-free, vegan food to kill three birds with one stone. But then the more we thought about we realized that would probably just be cardboard.
Equally funny was when a bunch of men showed up at the party. When one of them said it was his bachelor party I was all, wow I am so sorry you have such lame friends that they couldn’t even plan you a party of YOUR OWN. You know, one with naked girls, or gambling, or something.
The MamaPop party was the best party of the entire weekend. It was awesome, like a wedding but without that pesky bride and groom. Make sure you read this post that Tracy wrote about Blogher, especially the last paragraph. Spot on.
I know I am leaving lots of stuff out. And forgetting to mention people that I had fun with. And suddenly I am going to be all, Oh NOOOOO, I can not believe I forgot to mention that person. I loooove them. So if I forgot to mention you, please do not be offended. I have just… run out of words.
It is 1:30am. I have just entered that deep, deep sleep. I am in a comfortable bed after having slept in the most UNcomfortable hotel bed ever.
I am awaken by my 10 yr old son.
Mom? Mom? MOM?!
What?
I threw up.
I try to sound sympathetic and kind, but really I am thinking more about not opening my eyes.
Oh, honey I am so sorry you are sick. Go back to sleep. You will feel better in the morning.
I do not need to know if you have thrown up. For the love of god let me sleep. You are 10 years old, you can flush the toilet and tell me all about it in the morning. Preferably after I have had my coffee. Now don’t let my bedroom door hit you in the…
I threw up on the rug.
Note: All rugs in this rental house are white.
I sit up in bed.
Why did you do that?
Ummmm, I tried to get to the bathroom but I didn’t make it.
I get up, somewhat begrudgingly, and walk to the kitchen to get cleaning supplies. I softly murmur words of comfort, mostly to myself. This child has never thrown up on the floor. Ever. It is sort of his claim to fame in our family. I rummage through the cabinets. I am out of paper towels. What kind of mother runs out of paper towels I wonder. I grab a box of cleaning wipes instead.
I optimistically take the bottle of spot cleaner up with me. You know the stuff that you spray on those little stains on the carpet, like when you are walking through the room carrying your coffee and a little bit sloshes over the top of your mug. Not that it has ever happened to me.
I imagine that I will clean it up. Clean the rug. And in 10, maybe 15 minutes, order will be restored to my life and I will be back in that comfortable bed. Asleep. You would think that after all these years I would learn.
Why is your bedroom light on? We should turn that off before you wake up your brother.
He is awake.
What is he doing?
Sitting on his bed. He can’t leave the room.
What?
I threw up in my bedroom.
I thought you threw up in the hallway.
I did.
This is not going to be good.
*****
All parents have the vomit stories. Before last night my war story was from 1999 and involved my oldest son leaning over the top bunk and throwing up on his brother who was asleep below him. It was so horrifying that I remember standing there surveying the scene by the light of the lava lamp they used as a night light, not knowing where to even begin. We might just have to move, I had thought.
Finally I decided to wake the child in the lower bunk with the words that are now infamous in our family, “Wake up, sweetie, and whatever you do… do not open your mouth.”
Usually you don’t wake up covered in other people’s vomit until at least college.
*****
I get to the top of the stairs and round the corner toward his bedroom. It is a grisly scene. Think violent murder only replace the blood with vomit. I am having strong regrets about the hotdogs, french fries and ketchup that I served for dinner.
I wish that I could say I was rendered speechless. Because that is probably what better mothers would do.
HOLY SHIT! DID YOU SHAKE YOUR HEAD LIKE A DOG WHILE THROWING UP?!?
WHAT IS THAT ON THE WALL? DEAR GOD, NOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
AND THE DOOR??
AND, AND, AND THE LAUNDRY PILE?
I survey the pile of clothes. There aren’t too many. Maybe I could just throw them all away.
I look down at the box of wipes in one hand and the tiny spray bottle in the other. I am completely unprepared.
I think I need a shovel.
I definitely need a shovel.
I hold my breath and try not to dry heave. My nose burns. My mouth is involuntarily filling with saliva. It is gross. I tell myself to swallow. Swallow. Swallow, dammit. I breathe into my own armpit.
After an hour I wave my wipe in defeat. This is a job that calls for professionals. I cover the areas of the rug that are affected with three large white bath towels. I instruct the children to walk on the towels.
In the morning. I will deal with it in the morning.
*****
I bring the clothes outside to the yard on the side of my house. I lay them out of the grass and turn the hose on full blast.
Two men come with their gigantic steam cleaner. They survey the damage. They laugh.
Want me to spray that wall a little while I am at it?
Oh please, YES.
What had he eaten?
Hotdogs, french fries, and lots of ketchup.
The nod their heads in unison.
They get to work. A few minutes later I hear them guffaw.
He got the back of the door too.
Ewwww, I only saw the front of the door. He must have been opening the door while…
My voice trails off. It is too gross.
I write them a check and they hand me a receipt. VOMIT CLEAN-UP is written in all caps.
The carpet is clean. We shall speak of this no more.
We especially shall not speak of the irony that is me writing the most mommybloggingest post EVER after having written in the last post that I am not one. Whatever.
In Which I Piss Off Lots of People and Do Not Care
July 26, 2009
I am not a mommyblogger. I have never definied myself that way in the past, though others have. As if the very act of pushing a baby out of your vagina automatically makes “mommying” be the sole thing that defines you.
I have been writing and deleting the same few sentences over and over again. Trying to encapsulate this weekend at BlogHer.
From the bloggers who thought it was perfectly acceptable to to get in your face, interrupt your conversations, and tell you who sponsored them to come to the event. No one cares.
to the bloggers who stampeded the parties and hotel rooms grabbing bags of swag with no regard to other people (INCLUDING A BABY WHO WAS ELBOWED IN THE HEAD!),
to the people who started the Nikon hates babies bruhaha because a mother with a small baby was not permitted into a party that Nikon was holding at a bar. Because it is the policy of the bar (something to do with the liquor license I believe, but I could be wrong. Also, it doesn’t really matter why the bar didn’t want a baby there.) Nikon doesn’t hate babies. Nikon probably didn’t think that anyone was going to bring their infant to a crowded noisy invite only party at a bar.
I am not being all judgy here, either, honestly I am not. I really do not care what anyone does or doesn’t do with their own children and babies. (People I happen to like and respect very much brought their babies and handled it with grace.) But you are not entitled to anything. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that you are.
To all of those people I say, “Shame on you!”
Shame on you for once again bringing the entire community into a negative light. That we are a bunch of silly women with nothing more important to do than get our panties all tied up in a knot.
Shame on you.
*****
I didn’t come home with bags and bags of swag. Not that I wouldn’t have liked a couple of the things that were being given away. But there was no way that I was going to associate myself with people who had such a feeling of entitlement and complete disregard for other people, not to mention behaving in a completely unprofessional manner A little tip here… if you want to be treated as a professional, you have to behave like one.
I didn’t go there with the intention of getting free stuff. I went to sit in on panels, to maybe learn a few things, to catch up with old friends, to become re-inspired to hone my writing skills and be a better writer.
Instead I went home thinking that no one had better ever associate me with “mommyblogging” again.
I am not really sure how the past few years of blogging have devolved so far. How as a community we seem to have moved away from good writing to product grabbing, endorsements, and money, money, money. What happened to the story-telling? What is up with the sex toys at a professional conference? Isn’t this a professional conference? Or is it girls gone wild meets Black Friday bargain hunters? To quote my lovely friend Susan, “Professional development and dildos do not go together. Unless you are a porn star. The End.”
I have talked to many, many, many, many, many many friends about this over the past year. When will all of this end?
This past weekend, Susan, Melissa and I were sitting in our hotel room.
“I think that in the end good writing will win out. It has to, right?”
“I used to think that too. Now I am not so sure anymore.”
We all breathed deep sighs and shrugged.
*****
I don’t want to think about SEO when I write titles to my blog posts.
I don’t want to insert words in my posts to make them more SEO friendly.
I don’t want to know what my readers want me to write about. It is my life. I don’t take requests like a DJ.
I began writing this blog as a way of sharing my story. My unique story of raising my children. I never thought anyone else would really read it aside from a few friends. I thought that one day I could point to it and my children would have a glimpse of what my life was like at this point in time. A glimpse of what their lives were like.
And you know what? All of you have stories to tell. They are all unique and fascinating in their own ways. I believe that good writing transcends our differences. I believe in all of you to write and tell your stories in your own voice. Don’t be distracted. Tell your story. That the reason marketers were interested in us in the first place. Focus on that. Please.
*****
Now I am going to make dinner for my kids. I am going to listen to them LOUDLY talk to me about the past few days when I was away from them. At one point I will wonder where the the waiter is with the tray of appetizers and wine refills. That would make motherhood so much easier, wouldn’t it? But then my ears will start to bleed from all the talking and I will be distracted.
Tomorrow will come and I will take photos like I do everyday. And then I will write something. Then I will do laundry, and cook, or clean, or any of the other millions of mundane tasks that I do everyday. I will swear too much, lose my patience, sigh loudly when my train of thought is interrupted for the hundredth time in an hour, but I will also laugh a lot. Probably more than most people. (At least that is what I tell myself. Shhhh, don’t spoil the illusion, it is what keeps me going)
At the end of the day I can hold my head up high because I never elbowed a baby in the head to get a purple vibrator.
Updated to add: Both Susan and Kristen have written about the same thing. Great minds and all. And so have Kelly and Liz.
Last night I was in bed and ASLEEP at 9:45pm. Yes, I really am that lame.
My excuse is that I was up at 3am to catch my flight from Austin, so really I had been awake for a long time.
It had nothing at all to do with the Two Buck Chuck and the best margarita I have ever had.
*****
Yesterday morning I woke up at 3am, which is more like a time one should be going to bed rather than getting up for the day. I was worried about driving myself to the airport. Turns out I was right to be worried. Apparently my Australian GPS lady was drunk because she kept telling me to turn left when I needed to turn right and she told me to go north when I clearly needed to go south, or whatever. I am not sure what direction I needed to travel in. Because THAT IS WHY I HAVE A GPS.
I ended up calling Rob at 4am and waking him up. Which was super nice of me since we had decided I would drive myself to the airport so he didn’t have to wake up early. He told me how to get there and while I was still on the phone with him, after he told me no less than 10 times what exit to get off, I missed it. That was fun.
I made it to the airport on time and snapped this photo of the parking lot so that I would remember where I had parked. Yes, that photo will be extremely helpful. I look forward to searching near every lightpost in every long term parking lot.
The flight was uneventful. My suitcase made it to the airport with me. So that was good.
Then I bought a coffee and set out to go to the terminal where Susan’s flight was arriving. Months ago we had coordinated our flights to arrive at roughly the same time. And so I began a trek that led me through the bowels of the airport. It was dark and isolated and on more than one ocassion as I dragged my heavy assed suitcase behind me I thought if someone were to kill me right now no one would ever know.
I finally arrived at the shuttle place, which I somehow had managed to walk to the entire other side of the airport, UNDERGROUND(!!) to get to the stop. I looked at the map. And was all, “Huh, that’s weird. Why isn’t Southwest on the map?”
I stood there for a few minutes, confused. Thinking the name Southwest would just appear for me. A shuttle came and left. And then another. I still stood there looking at the map. Finally an airport employee came over to me and asked if I needed help.
“Um, I can’t seem to find Southwest on the map?”
“That is because Southwest doesn’t fly into this airport.”
“No. It does. I am meeting my friend and she is flying Southwest…”
“Southwest flies into the OTHER airport, honey.” Oh yes, he did. And as offended as I was, I totally deserved it because the next question I asked was where the shuttles were to go to the hotel. And he asked, “Which hotel?”
I DID NOT KNOW. People, this is why I travel with Susan. She is all organized. I call her my social coordinator. I think she may even have a spreadsheet of everything that is going on. It is what she is good at. I am good at, uh, other things.
He directed me to go back to the very area from where I came. Only he showed me a different way to get there that did not require any underground walking and I was grateful. Imagine that the ariport was a big clock. I walked from 12 all the way around to 10 underground. I completed the circle from 10 to 12 and now feel that I have fully experienced the airport. It was like my own private tour! All before 9:30am!
I made it to the hotel. Met Susan. Then went out to lunch and ate a huge salad with enough bacon to cancel out any of the health benefits of salad. But after my morning I totally deserved the bacon.
I probably should be packing since I am leaving for Chicago eaaaarrrrrrrrllllly tomorrow morning. But I just really can not get motivated to pack. Nothing in my closet seems suitcase worthy.
After living on the face of the sun for the past couple of months Chicago weather sounds positively frigid. A parka, I told Susan, I need a parka! And she agrees with me since she also lives on the face of the sun. That is how you will recognize us there. We will be bundled up. You will be wearing summer clothing.
If you are at BlogHer come up and say hi. I promise I don’t bite. Much.
This has made me laugh every single time I have watched it. Do you remember how much fun it was to blow bubbles when you were a kid, with no regard for it sticking to your face or in your hair.
So, Chris, what do you do all week? You know in between eating bon-bons and having facials.
I present things I have written elsewhere this week:
Project to do with your kids to kill some daylight hours and have fun.
Do you let you kids quit activities? Or do you make them follow through no matter what?
Is summer break from school an antiquated idea? Is year round school the way to go?
Co-Ed dorm rooms, not buildings or floors of buildings, actual rooms. Yea or nay?
I will say my daughter is never going away to college, ever. Until she is 30 or so. I have lived with plenty of men (boys?) during my college and grad school years, people who happened to be of the opposite gender. But that was in a HOUSE where we each had our own bedrooms and personal space. And somehow sharing a small room is different. Or maybe I am just a big fat hypocrite who tells me kids to do what I say, not what I do (did). And you know what? Turns out I am perfectly okay with that.
This is a wine list for people who know nothing about wine, don’t really care to know anything technical about wine, and are cheap. I had joked to Susan that I was going to title the post “Cheap Wine for People Who Swallow” (you know as opposed to people who go to wine tastings and spit out the perfectly good wine. Quelle horreur!!!). But somehow I did not think that was the SEO I was going for.
Hosting a Progressive Dinner Party.
It is like a potluck dinner, expect the food does not travel.
Last night my oldest son played his final games of the season. Bringing to a close the long, long season that we have been in the throes of since we arrived in Texas way back in February. Has it really been that long? It both seems like a lifetime ago and like yesterday.
“What are we going to do with ourselves now?” my oldest son asked.
I think that we will find something to do. You know for this couple of weeks we have until football season starts
Some of you might be under the mistaken impression that the above photos accurately depict what baseball season is like. It is not.
This is more accurate:
And this:
Because God knows their hands will not instantly dry as soon as they walk out into the fiery inferno also known as the outdoors.
And this:
Because running on the bleachers is way more fun than running on the ground. It also ranks up there with jumping from bench to bench, hanging upside down from the railing, and standing in front of people blocking their view.
“You make a better door than a window!”
“I knoooooow!”
Also fun, the empty threat of NEVER BRINGING YOU TO A BASEBALL GAME EVER EVER AGAIN if you don’t stop acting up and whining for snack bar food. because I am NOT buying you anything from the snackbar. Got it?
Oh, fine just go buy candy. I don’t care anymore. In fact go buy some crack too while you are at it. My will to live is even fading fast.
Make it last. I’m not buying you anything else. I might even mean it this time. That’s the thing about inconsistent parenting, you never know when I am serious. So don’t take anymore chances with your luck.
That doesn’t look like making it last to me, Mister.
We have a little while to eat some fiber and get some vegetables back into our diet before we begin eating our body weight in sugar and processed meats once again.
