It’s a shame she’s not having any fun at camp
And as thrilled as I am, I’m also SO over it.
The paci princess
My daughter wasn’t the baby I expected. Oh, I knew she was going to be a girl and I knew she would one day play with Barbies. I assumed she’d have blue eyes and blonde hair. What I didn’t imagine was, as an infant, she would be nothing like my son in more ways than toys and wardrobe. I thought she’d coo and cry when wet — like he did. I assumed she’d swing when it was time to swing and sleep when it was time to sleep — like he did.
I did not think she would have colic and reflux and never nap for more than twenty minutes at a time. And I never ever thought our family would single-handed support the pacifier industry.
But we did. And we did it for more than three years. That’s right, my daughter was a Paci Princess until four months past her third birthday.
She became our paci princess almost immediately. And we were her obedient court. Paci’s in every room, diaper bag, purse, drawer and suitcase — sometimes paci’s on my fingers just in case. She was stuck on the hospital paci’s at a time when you could only order them from the manufacturer, in Boston, and on a limited budget I could only manage to get six at a time.
But those pacifiers not only soothed my daughter - they soothed our family. We knew what worked for her and made it work for us. I am a quintessential Type B mom, I go with the flow even when it throws me for a loop. I was never against pacifiers, I just never considered them. But, I sure did once I knew that a piece of silicon made her happy and helped her sleep.
Bringing the pacifier on board made my daughter reliable. She reliably carried her ba-ba, paci and baby everywhere she went. She took it out to eat and drink and eventually to talk a blue streak. She put it in her cubby at preschool, along with her Baby.
Much to the chagrin of many, we were unwilling to take the pacifier from her until she — and we — were ready. And that came one sunny, warm December day when we lived in Tucson, and she removed the paci and I saw a rash around her mouth. That was it. That night, the Paci-Fairy came and took all the pacifiers away and left a green talking Teletubby in their place.
My daughter never looked back — she only looked at that Teletubby. Luckily that was an obsession that didn’t last as long as pacifiers.
Even though my daughter dons braces, she didn’t get buck teeth from years of worhipping at the Temple of Paci Perfection. She didn’t go to kindergarten with pacis in her pocket. And now — she’s fourteen. The memory of the Paci Princess is a happy one. We smile when we look at old photos - our (my) favorite being the one where she’s asleep in the carseat, paci securely in place, and a piece of Kix cereal loosely at the tip of each nostril. That’s a keeper — added to by newer memories like that of the Pink Hair Princess.
And yes, my dedication to the parenting philosophy “whatever works,” continues.
Alone time
December 2002
The house was empty and silent, but not sad. When my ten-year-old son, seven-year-old daughter and both dogs left home embarking on their first weekend at “Dad’s house,” I thought the world would collapse and I would dissolve. I shut the door behind them - my kids, dogs and my ex-husband — and leaned my back against the closed door, the way a leading lady does in a romantic comedy when she’s just come home from meeting the guy of her dreams. I waited for tears, for a weighty sense of failure and longing for my role of irreplaceable parent. And then I waited some more, shifting my eyes from the living room to the dining room to the rug beneath my feet. I tapped my fingers on my thigh. Then I walked down the hall toward my redecorated bedroom. The bed was still neat, not a ripple in the quilt. The throw pillows were in place. The bones and squeaky toys were still in the dog bed. I plopped down and clicked on the TV. Nickelodeon. I changed the channel.
Thirteen years before I had moved from my parents house to my own with my husband, and since, had shared seven homes with a variety of familial and pet configurations. I had never ever lived alone — even for a weekend.
So far, I liked it.
To be continued…
Kvetching about review blogs
In an effort to Blog with Integrity, and not end up in violation of some advertisers policies, many mommy bloggers are removing product reviews from their main blogs and starting up separate pages and sites for these bits of important information. A hearty bunch of bloggers fell into the category of pawning off reviews as posts. Either they didn’t realize they were doing it — or they got caught. So — now — allow me to welcome you to the Review-asphere.
Woo hoo! Now I can spend all the time I’m not reading mom blogs and my other must-see categories (writing, editing, agent, publishing and Chicago blogs), reading review blogs.
Or not.
Like weeds in the cracks of my sidewalk, these cannot be stopped. Pull one out, there’s another. Spray it down, rake it away, there’s a new one in it’s place. Frankly, I have no idea who reads them all if everyone is writing them. Is there a semblance of supply and demand here? I don’t think so. If we all opened stores but no one shopped in them, what’s the point? Do they each offer something unique and special? Are these review bloggers supporting eachother? I might be a negative Nelly, but I doubt it. I think there are so many people who write one blog and don’t read and comment on others, that I can’t imagine managing multiple sites gives one more time to become part of yet another online obsession community.
I’m not reading these blogs, that’s for sure. I am very leery of people who recommend things they get for free — because face it, I have no reason to trust the opinion of 99% of the blogosphere. The other 1%, well, yes. Call me crazy, I ask people I know for their thoughts, not strangers. Except for a handful of bloggers I have no idea of someone’s socio-economic status (nor do I want to know). One person’s bargain is another person’s splurge. One person’s dream vacation is another person’s nightmare. And all the green reviews out there? It’s a matter of opinion what’s good for the environment and our bodies.
And I also put much more credence in websites that offer reviews written by a myriad of contributors than a blogger who tells me what kind of cream cheese she uses on her bagels (Philly) or the best toilet paper (Target brand). I don’t mind sites that say “this is kinda cool” but I do mind sites that say “this is the best” or “this is the worst.” I also get a bit queasy at the blogger who writes that they did the laundry today, linking to washing machine, laundry detergent and clothing sites. Or, boy I was so hungry yesterday I ate this — complete with linky love.
By meeting a diverse group of bloggers in person over the past 3 1/2 years, I know that while we have blogging in common, most are very different from me. If I like your shoes I might ask you where you got them, and if I’m feeling friendly I might ask how much they cost. But I don’t go around asking everyone because we have personal senses of style, varying budgets and different sized feet. (8 1/2 wide, if you’re interested)
Here is what I do care about…
Are you reading review blogs? Do you REALLY care what people think about the zillions of products and services available out there? Where do you go for your information? Am I off the mark? Is this the next big thing (won’t be the first one I missed out on). I’m not trying to be swayed (I’m a rock) but I am trying to understand because, well, I just don’t get it.
Me? I’ll be honest, I google. I am a google goddess. When I have my facts, I ask my friends — in person or online.
I have reviewed books on my other blog, but I do it as much to remember what I read as anything else. Plus, as a writer and voracious reader, sometimes my friends ask me if I’ve read a good book lately and now I really know if I have. I only recommend books, I don’t pan a book I don’t like. But I don’t recommend a book I don’t like. That’s just me.
I have no interest in this trend - yet it’s proliferation has me curious.
Not about what bloggers are saying really — but why.
Oh, why?
I have no good title for this post
If you don’t read Metrodad, you should. He’s one of the original dad bloggers. He’s wicked smart, way beyond funny and poignant as hell. And he’s getting divorced.
Even with the online love letters he has written to his wife in the past, this does not surprise me. I’m sorry for him and his wife and their daughter and their dog. But sorry does not equal surprise. And it’s not because I have an inside scoop. It’s because I am always aware that we know merely what people want us to know. The most open book has secrets tucked away in code or behind a locked door. I didn’t know what the post would reveal, but I knew it would well well-written and meaningful because that is something you can count on when you visit Metrodad. And that’s really all I need to count on.
MD has an incredible loyal, diverse, ginormous following and his post that announces his divorce from his wife is delicate yet adamant and says something very simply that blog readers sometimes forget.
“I’m not going to delve into how closely my online “persona” is aligned with my “real-life” personality. That’s an abject lesson in futility that serves no real purpose. However, as I read through my archives to get a better understanding of that persona, I realize that there’s one important aspect of my personality that rarely surfaces in my writing; I am a deeply private person.” — Metrodad
Ditto, MD.
It’s a balance that we each need to be comfortable with as we put ourselves out there in cyberspace. I believe even those bloggers who suffer from bloggarrehea proofread, spell-check and question. Well, the responsible bloggers do that, imo. The bloggers who say they do not self-censor, are only explosive within the parameters they’ve set for their blogs. So, they’re open within specific confines - and that works for me. I in no way think I know everything about everyone I read — even the bloggers who pour their lives and loves and losses onto the virtual page. There are off-limits topics, I assume, for almost everyone, and if it’s not off-limits then maybe it’s just something they choose not to write about.
And while Metrodad writes about parenting, I hope that his blog remains the same well-rounded New Yorkerness that it has always been, and that it will become tinged, though not awash, in being single. Not that I don’t read single parent blogs - I do like some of them - but I find much more common ground in the comfortable simplicity of parent blogs that are balanced.
It’s hard to determine what makes a good story and what doesn’t — based on our personal rules. Is it what is written or how it’s written or a combination that makes for good reading? I think the latter. Although with someone like Metrodad - whatever he writes - works. And while it seems like it’s easy-peasy to get all that out — whether it’s a kid-post or a divorce-post or a food-post — I’m sure it’s a meticulous process.
And believe it or not, so is this. At least most of the time.
BlogHer ‘09 was most likely mighty fine
I don’t often post against the grain, but I stayed away from BlogHer ‘09 and here is why.
Don’t forget to ogle my cute dog and cute shoe while you’re reading.
Jumping through hoops
There was a time in my life when it was important for me to be part of the in-crowd, to have certain clothes and particular accessories, to read specific books or magazines and go to the right places to see and be seen. I did not want to miss out. I cared what people thought of what I had and where I was and how I behaved. I never followed anyone off a cliff, but at the appropriate time in my life all that integral to my existence. I think that was called high school.
Not any more.
What I do and where I go and what I have is done for me. I like nice things and have enough of them, but they are not used or worn to impress anyone — nor are the bargain basement items obtained for shock value.
I know adults who drink to get drunk, I do not. I’d rather stay away from that be around it at this point in my life. I know people who use illegal drugs and I stay away from that too — not really understanding the appeal and having no need to fit in to that niche.
Perhaps the forced separatism I experience because I’m a single mom has not only made me able to fix toilets in a single bound, but it has made me realize that actions and acquisitions are not the stuff that friendships are made of. If I have to do more than be kind and honest and generous to be your friend, I’ll pass. If I have to have certain things to be in your closed circle, then I’ll make one of my own.
It baffles me that adults — both men and women — strive to fit their square pegs into round holes. I guess it’s human nature to want to be like everyone around you, and to use metaphoric camouflage to do so. But I have found that if you look hard enough there are always people with whom you mesh in one way or another - however and whomever you happen to be for real.
Even in uncomfortable situations I am comfortable in my own skin. I don’t mean that I don’t think about what I’ll wear or say or whether I’ll be an outcast or the center of attention, but the outcome will be what it will be. I’m polite and certainly look for welcoming eyes when I’m in a room full of strangers. I do not force myself to be who I’m not. I cannot be coerced into something I don’t want to do or somewhere I don’t want to go. Ask anyone who has tried.
The appeal of running circles around myself to fit into a group holds no appeal for me — frankly the thought of it exhausts me. I watch with a sad sense of wonder when I see women elbowing their way into a group or obsessing over how to fit in.
I’ve come a long way since jumping through hoops in high school in the ’80’s - and maybe even college and the ’90’s. Maybe my marriage, divorce, kids, moves around the country, jobs and lifelong friends have enabled me to step back from it all and watch without being part of of the rigmarole. Maybe I have the secret ingredient for self-actualization. Maybe I am fully evolved. (Yeah, that sounds good.)
Or maybe I’m just too tired to jump.
My love/hate relationship with overnight camp
I dropped off my almost-fourteen year old daughter at overnight camp today. She’s the one kneeling in the green shirt you can sort of see and the blue hair you cannot really see at all.
It’s not a difficult drive if you’re talking logistics. I wind my way to the highway for fifteen minutes and make a right. I drive about 100 miles or so and make a right off the highway, and then less than ten minutes later I make a right into camp.
But if you’re talking something else…it’s much more than three right turns and straight on til the middle of August.
I love that when my daughter was ten she wanted to go away to a camp where she knew no one.
I love that she had the wherewithal to do something brave.
I love that she wanted to go back.
I love that she can rock climb, canoe, sail and shower with cold water.
I love that she loves to get dirty.
I love that she wanted to go to the four week camp and that she wanted to go back again.
I love that she met her friends today with big hugs and how everyone commented how she cut her hair, and not that it was streaked with blue, although I’m sure that story will come later.
I love that she meets girls and counselors from all over the world and from Chicago suburbs.
I love many of the girls are Jewish even though it’s not a Jewish camp, because she doesn’t have a lot of Jewish friends at home.
I love that she takes the teddy bear she named after the Jonas Brothers.
I love that she took the same sundress for socials that she took last year, but all brand new socks still attached with those annoying plastic tags.
I love that she takes fishing every year as one of her activities.
I love the smile I see when she turns to leave with her old friends.
I love that she told me not to forget to write her every day.
I love being able to give her this experience - one I never wanted and still don’t want.
I love sending her packages and seeing photos on the camp website.
I love that she loves camp.
But I love and hate that she is gone for four weeks.
When bloggers stop talking do you stop listening?
I’m fundamentally opposed to writing frequent blog posts about blogging. They’re mighty popular, I’ll admit, and sometimes the topic at hand forces me to chime in.
Welcome to one of those times.
Lately there’s a lot of scuttlebutt in the blogosphere about promotion and PR, blogging with integrity and what I like to call blogging without benefits. I can attest to the fact that many bloggers prefer to pass off pitches as blog posts — which is different from sites and blogs dedicated to reviews. I have never sought an opinion on anything other than a book from a blog — but that’s just me. Many bloggers love love love review sites and don’t care that the blogger writing the reviews has probably gotten goodies for free. (I have reviewed books here and twice I’ve received books for free). I have a few coupons sitting next to me on my desk, waiting for me to try a food product and then give away coupons. And I’ll do that eventually — clearly stating that my post is a review. No smoke and mirrors. Straight-up simple blogging.
For the most part I blog because I like to write and tell stories. I also like connecting with other bloggers — I’ve met a great many of you – sometimes blogging just seems like a great way to keep in touch. I also blog because I am a writer with stories and essays in newspapers and magazines — and writers want to be read. I like having readers, figuring out what appeals to the masses and what doesn’t. That being said, back in the day, I tried writing only what readers wanted. I don’t have to tell you that didn’t work out well for me, do I? I have to write my own stories in a way that appeals to me. If you like it too, we all win.
I also have to read what appeals to me. And while that varies on a daily basis, the thread throughout the blogs I read — be they mom blogs, single mom blogs, writing blogs, publishing blogs or my elusive category of “regular” blogs — is that they don’t seem to have an ulterior motive. They mostly tell stories and make me laugh or think. There’s no hidden agenda in telling a story of any kind — if all you want to do is inform and entertain — and if in the long (or short) term that gets you a big readership - or a book deal - or a movie deal - or free stuff — I say Good For You.
But…so many times recently I’ve gone to a blog and even without any peddling of goods on an internet soapbox, the blog has become vapid. I jostle the laptop hoping words with meaning will drift down from top of the monitor and intersperse themselves with what’s in front of me. I think all I’ve gotten from that action is a sticky space bar and the occasionally errant “e”.
I just want a story. Short, preferably (I have a 17 year old vying for the laptop) - yet the topic can be complex. Or…pictures of your kids in goofy boots, even. That’s a story. The mess with your ex. That’s a story. The whole oh-my-god-what-shoes-am-I-going-to-wear-to-BlogHer. In July, in the blogosphere, that’s a story. After a few tries on many of these blogs where I see little effort in what in on the menu, I stop visiting for a while, just the way you’d stop going back to a restaurant that once served thick, juicy prime beef hamburgers and then offered you a thin patty on a defrosted bun.
When I think a blogger has nothing to say, I stop listening. I’m not always ready to go back even if I see new posts are ripe and ready for picking. The trust is gone. I gave my time, my comments and most likely, a modicum of affection. The blogger has done the old bait-and-switch — luring me in with lovely stories or funny lines — and then twirling around and offering a grocery list or a daily diary or a come-buy-this-or-shop-here.
Of course there are times when even good, healthy blogs die — and that accounts for some of the thinner posts and the change in mood. But the gung-ho bloggers who worked so hard to get and keep our attention — well, some of them I fear, are taking their readers for granted, assuming traffic will remain as if it’s rush hour on the Dan Ryan (for my fellow Chicagoans).
So sometimes I start searching for a new blog or head back to old favorites that never let me down. (I can say old favorite because I have been blogging since BF, BT and even BB — that’s — Before Facebook, Before Twitter and Before BlogHer).
The one thing these blogs have in common (and I heart many blogs) is that they are consistent. They are consistent in voice and in quality of content — even if the blog is not always consistent in subject matter or point of view. Even if the blogger veers off to one side or another, I’m confident that he or she will find their way back, bring it all together, or if not, that the story is good enough to warrant the diversion.
In a online world where technology allows us to send messages about anything to anyone anywhere — consistency and reliability should be a mainstay. It doesn’t mean don’t Twitter. It doesn’t mean leave your iPhone at home during BlogHer (and no, I won’t be there, but it’s a theme nonetheless) it just means if you have something good going on your blog — give your readers some credit — and don’t screw it up.
What’s your favorite time of day?
Mine is early morning, even though this morning I woke up panicked, jumped out of bed and went into my son’s room telling him he was late for summer school which starts at 8 o’clock.
“It’s ten of eight,” I said. “I think.” His digital clock still blinked from the last time we lost power. A month ago. His cell phone is his lifeline and his clock. I had no way to know what time it really was, although half-asleep I reasoned it must be later than it should be.
“It’s ten of six,” he grumbled.
He went back to sleep and I let out the dogs and made a pot of French Vanilla coffee. I took the laptop into bed, checked emails and Facebook, lest anyone have an event or status or new uploaded photo I hadn’t seen since 10:30 last night.
I read some news, checked the weather (it’s 57 degrees here) and did a bit of research.
It’s the only time of day when I’m awake and the kids are asleep — you know how relaxing that is when the kids are little? You put them to bed at seven or eight or even nine and you have the rest of the night to yourself? Kiss that puppy goodbye when your kids get older. That flipped around for me when high school started and the late-gene kicked in for my son.
Now my “rest of the night to myself” comes before dawn — or at least before 7am.
