The day I broke a tooth that wasn't my own.

The pristine white bathroom always gleamed. White tiles, white counter tops, white bathmats and towels, the only splashes of color that marred the still space came from the two little boys playing with their bright plastic tub toys in the large white tub.

We had a daily ritual. I would arrive at 5 to relieve the daytime sitter, sit them down to go over their homework, and then, after a bit of horsing around I would herd the two of them into their parents' bathroom for their evening bath. They were little, 6 and 3, sweet and innocent, and much too young to be self aware in front of their favorite babysitter. I had known both boys since infancy, spending countless afternoons with them while their parents worked late. I loved them like I would have loved little brothers and they, in turn, trusted me like they would have trusted a sister.

One afternoon like any other I knelt by the side of the tub, washing one child after the other, squeezing the little rubber shark to splash them with water. Giving them a bath had long since lost any nerve-wracking aspect. The caution that had governed me the first few months of the evening routine had long since given way to playful attention. I washed them, I played, but I no longer cringed when they slipped a little in the tub. I no longer watched them like hawks to make sure that they didn't drown in the couple of inches of water that I allowed.

On that one day though, that one day like every other, I'm the one who slipped up. I had successfully washed the younger brother. He sat, gleaming and dripping, at one end of the massive tub, waiting to be taken out and dried off, patient while I turned my attention to his older brother.

The bigger boy grinned up at me, brown eyes bright under his mop of curly hair, smile tugging at his mouth, oversized brand new "grown-up" incisors peeking out over his bottom lip, then he ducked out of my way when I reached over to wash him. I parried and he ducked again, and then, getting into the spirit of the game, I lunged for him, ticklers at the ready.

Just as the tips of my fingers were about to touch his side, a massive THUNK dropped my stomach into my toes. The blood curdling scream that followed did little to reassure me.

The younger brother whimpered as the older brother looked up at me, fear mingling with the tears that were pooling in his eyes. His mouth opened wide to let loose another cry and the jagged front tooth told me what my ears had failed to translate.

While leaning forward to avoid being tickled he had smashed his face against the side of the tub and broken his brand new permanent tooth cleanly in half.

You would think that the mortification would end there, with the little boy, maimed at my hand, waiting for me to comfort him and make it all better. But no, I still had to find the piece of tooth, take both children out of the tub, comfort the one whose smile I had destroyed, dry them, dress them, and finally find the telephone so I could call their mother to tell her what I had done.

Which still wouldn't have been so bad if while I was doing all this, fighting back tears and swallowing bile, the same little boy hadn't felt the need to comfort me with pats on the shoulder and sweet words of encouragement as he watched me dial her number.

Clearly the pain of breaking a tooth was nothing compared to the horror of betraying their mother's trust. The dentist magicians managed to reattach the broken part of his tooth the next morning, but I've never forgotten the sound of his face hitting the side of the tub or the knowledge that I had not only failed to protect the child who had been placed in my care, but I had been the one to hurt him.

(I have written about this family once before. Oddly enough it was to relate another mortifying story. Despite what you may imagine I did not stop watching those two boys until I moved away. I still miss them, though. Their Facebook profiles are proof that both have grown up into strapping young men and that neither bears any scars from the time they spent with me.)

This post was written in response to the first ever Write-of-Passage challenge. Write-of-Passage is a brand new Ning group created for and by writers who hope to improve their writing through constructive critiquing. Other posts on the topic of Most Embarrassing Stories are linked to below. 

Thanksgiving weekend in images

Our drive to Tahoe took a record 3.5 hours during which the children slept blissfully. We had watched the weather forecasts like hawks, hoping that the predictions for clear skies would hold true. M's little Honda is sexy and fun, but it would be no match for icy snowy roads. We were in luck and the roads were both clear of holiday travelers and snow.

Between the hours I've been working and Little L's run-in with Hand Foot & Mouth I was beyond fried by the time we packed up the car and headed to the mountains. I desperately needed up unplug and recharge. Long before we had started to gain altitude I was sleeping just as hard as the girls.

It was a perfect weekend, lots of quality family time, plenty of relaxing downtime.

We had a very class and low key Country Club dinner. No leftovers, but no cooking, which is, all in all a pretty decent trade off.

 Little girls even get to have Mac&Cheese and curly fries for Thanksgiving at the club!

  It makes them happy.

And even though it did eventually snow, we didn't let that dampen our fun. Instead we got bundled up nice and warm... 

Hats and gloves...

 Big thick jackets...

  ... and we trudged out to enjoy some of the snow.

Where we found mammoth pine-cones.

Worried about the snow in the trees...

and pulled out daddy's sled from when he was a kid...

  

And then someone took her gloves off and discovered that snow isn't just soft, white, and fluffy. It's also very, very cold.

We made it home safe and sound despite the snow on the roads, pulling in late last night after another pleasantly sleepy drive. Even before we left I had plenty to be thankful for, I'm just glad I had a low key, stress free weekend to enjoy it all.

Grateful for so much

Even before I took on the Tiny Prints Gratitude Challenge I was already very focused on appreciating the good things in my life rather than lamenting the things I didn't have. I haven't stopped. (And not just because that ended so fortuitously.)

I love how pausing and thinking about the things I'm grateful for can turn a bad moment or even a bad day around. Even on a good day it doesn't hurt to 'Take note and give thanks.'

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving here in the U.S. In honor of it and the upcoming holiday season I challenge you to take the 21 day Gratitude Challenge. (Or the 7 day one if you just don't think you can maintain that level of positive thinking.) It might not result in you snagging the coolest job evah, but it might change your outlook on your day to day life. And frankly that's nothing to sneeze at.

We're heading to Tahoe to spend the weekend with part of M's family and you can bet that I'm going to make them all share a few things they're grateful for. It's good for the soul and it sparks awesome conversations. Before I go I'm leaving you with a few of the things I'm grateful for and an inspiring video to get you started on your quest.

I'm grateful for...
- My husband, who is the most understanding and supportive man I could ever have hoped to snag.
- My kids, who, even when they are sick or grumpy, are loving, funny, and sweet.
- My sisters. I don't see them often enough, but I feel their love despite the distance.
- My parents, also too far to hug, but never too far to appreciate!
- My friends, virtual, real, far, near. Love them all, need them all.
- My life. It's not what I would have imagined for myself, but nothing I had dreamed of touches a candle to it.

I wish you all a fabulous, loving, and fun Thanksgiving. (Yes, even if you aren't in the US.)

It's not just a mommy blog.

I've never been one to bristle at being called a mommy blogger. In fact, I've always been quite proud of it. What's there not to be proud of?

I'm a mommy and I'm proud of that.

I'm a blogger and I'm proud of that.

And I blog about being a mommy quite often. Therefore clearly I am a mommy blogger. And I'm proud of it.

Yet, today I took some mild offense when someone I was chatting with online asked me if I was "just" a mommy blogger. (And no, she did not say "just," I inferred it. And yes, I know that she did not mean it pejoratively, she meant it in a good way. Because she is a good person who understands what mommy blogging entails. And I'm not just saying that because she reads my blog. Ahem.)

When I saw those words in my IM message box I bristled. I love my blog, but I do so much more than just blog. Or rather blogging is so much more than just the blog. There's the social media component, the promotional component, the PR component, the research, the editing, the photography, and everything else that goes into it. It's a full time job that few of us have 8 hours a day to dedicate to. We do it at night and in the minutes between everything else that takes up our energy and our attention. We pour our hearts and our souls into this little editing window. We share our hopes and our fears with the world. And we do it for a million different reasons - to hear ourselves think, to lend some meaning to our days, to reach out to friends, family, or people who might be sharing similar experiences.

A mommy who blogs about her kids and her family life is by definition a mommy blogger, but she's never just a mommy blogger.

Hand Foot and Mouth Hell

I don't want to whine. I know it could be way worse. Blah blah blah. But man does this Hand Foot and Mouth deal deserve some nasty strychnine laced insults.

Here's what I've been dealing with since Saturday morning:

- a hungry little girl who can't eat because she has sores all over the inside of her mouth. She throws herself at food and then wails piteously as soon as she takes a bite. Then she buries her face in my shoulder and sobs before picking her head up again and trying another bite. It's torture.

- a tired little girl who falls asleep only to be woken up by what I assume are shooting pains from the diaper rash that has turned her skin to mush. She bounces and jerks in my arms, trying to get herself away from her wet diaper. Then she howls through diaper changes, kicking me the whole time, and only settles down long after I've replaced her wet diaper with a dry clean one. She goes back to sleep sobbing softly. Half the time she won't let me put her back in her crib. She's spent quite a bit of time sleeping in my arms these last three days. It makes it hard to work, or even type.

- a cranky little girl who doesn't want to do anything that doesn't involve touching me, being in my arms, or being draped across my chest. She's heavy. And sweet. But heavy.

- a little girl who knows when her medicine is wearing off and who begs for her next dose and then falls into a sad little heaving heap when I tell her she can't have it yet. I call her my little Motrin addict. She's cute when she grabs the cup and gulps it down. Except, you know, that it's not cute.

- a little girl with nasty looking blisters all over her hands. They don't seem to bother more than her sense of propriety. She points them out with awe, showing me all her "booboos," then she goes back to ignoring them. I have to fight the urge to touch them and check on them every two seconds.  

It is not a dangerous life threatening illness. Technically it's no worse than a cold. The symptoms are just different and oh so much more challenging.

According to the pediatrician day 3 is the worst, and that was either yesterday or today, so we can hope to see some improvement soon. Maybe she'll sleep a bit better tonight. Maybe she'll be able to eat some of her yogurt in the morning. Maybe I'll be able to go back to work and let her go play with her friends again, instead of being bored at home with me.

I hope.

Loss of personal space - the hardest part of parenting

Forget the whole concept of a room of her own. Not that it wouldn't me amazing to have one. Four walls encapsulating a space all my own. My things. My books.

But that's a pipe dream. And frankly I don't need that much.

No. Some days all I really want is just a foot of my own. A one foot radius all around me, that is all mine.

I gave that up the day C was born. One could even argue that I gave that up the day I got pregnant with her.

Most of the time I don't mind always having someone hanging off of me, or having two little people not understand that my body isn't their personal playground. Even when I'm in the bathroom. Or when Little L peers down my shirt to make remarks about my chest. It's part of the game.

But then there are weekends like this one. Which started with a splat Friday night as we were loading up the car to head to the beach. I was putting on Little L's her shoes when she started to throw up. Then she threw up some more, and then some more. Crying hysterically the whole time.

Much to everyone's chagrin I pulled the plug on the weekend trip and I got busy cleaning up the child and the mess she had made. Just to be thorough I also took her temperature and instantly started worrying that she might have gotten Swine despite all my heroic efforts at getting her vaccinated.

Of course the next morning I checked in with the pediatrician's office before discovering the massive blister on the side of her tongue. Blister that, in conjunction with a rapidly developing diaper rash, screamed Hand, Foot, and Mouth.

In all my innocence I thought that a small blister or two and a bit of a fever were all we'd have to contend with for the weekend. I did not expect endless whining, no sleeping, and the torture of having to feed a starving child who screamed every time food was placed in her blistered mouth.

It was a long weekend.

She spent the weekend in my arms or hanging on my leg begging to be picked up. And it would have been OK if by Sunday afternoon C wasn't echoing her whine for whine.

And even that might have been OK, if C hadn't somehow managed to erase all the progress I had made on the Nintendo DS game which was all I was able to do all day while holding and cuddling a restlessly sleeping toddler. And I realize that it is absurd be be annoyed, or even upset by something so trivial as a video game score that has been erased, but at the end of this weekend where I was nothing more than an extension of my sick toddler, it was almost more than I could take.

So I grabbed my car keys, waved a hasty goodbye, and ran to the grocery store where I stocked up on rice pudding.

Yes, rice pudding. I might not have a room of my own, or even a foot of my own, but at least I know I have rice pudding neither kid likes. Rice pudding of my own. It's what I've been reduced to.

Sharing my book. Baring my soul.

Sitting in my favorite Starbucks this morning, sipping my usual coffee - half caf drip, I finished the first round of edits on my novel.

I thought I'd have to fit in a few more editing sessions, but I whipped through the last pages and suddenly I was at the end and shutting the heavy binder I've been lugging everywhere with me for the last two months. I've lived in fear of losing it, of forgetting it somewhere. I hated the thought of having to start all those edits again, of losing those notes.

And suddenly, that binder which had been priceless moments before, was instantly worthless.

And all of a sudden, the excuse I'd been giving to people for months was moot.

I no longer had edits to enter. I could send out the book to the first round of readers.

I sat there, coffee seekers milling around me, listening to a Jazz album playing softly from speakers cunningly hidden around the room. I watched a little boy drink his milk with intense concentration. And I ignored the massive file on my computer.

My book.

My novel.

The book that was now ready to be shared.

I had this flashback to that last moment before I had to let my children be born. That last instant when they were all mine and no one else knew them. I hated having to share either with the world. Hated having to hear people's judgment of them.

But with C and Little L I had no choice. It was let them be born or let them die and that was definitely not an option. Technically I could have left the book on my hard drive and kept it to myself. It didn't have a placenta that would eventually disintegrate, depriving it of nourishment.

I sat there a little longer. Spotted the man who comes in at 11 every day, fresh Sudoku puzzle printed out, paper in the other. He ordered his regular cup of coffee and sat down, nodding and smiling at me on his way to his favorite corner table. I smiled and nodded back.

Then I opened an email window and typed in two addresses. I added a quick note and attached the file. And I sent it off before I could change my mind.

I didn't carry this book in my womb for nine months, I carried it in my head and in my heart for two years. I could have let it sit in my computer forever, it would never have withered, never have died. But it would also never have grown. And considering the energy and emotion that I've poured into it, that would have been a shame.

Tonight I watched M sit curled up in an armchair, my big black binder on his lap, as he read the first pages of the novel. I studied his face - was that a smile? a frown? I looked up at every twitch, or shift. He won't believe me, but I bit my tongue time and time again, resisting the urge to keep asking, "Is it good? Do you like it?" After a while the intensity of my observation must have gotten to him because he got up and went to read in the kitchen.

Which is where later I finally broke down and begged for feedback.

"It's.... it's good." He answered, looking up from the page he was reading, hesitating to say more. I waited. And then he rushed on. Comments, critiques, advice. Useful stuff, some I suspected, some that came as a bit of a surprise.

I had expected to feel some resentment, like I did the first time others were able to hold and care for my babies, but instead I felt nothing but elation as I jumped into the conversation about how I could make my book better.

I thought that writing a great passage was the ultimate high. I had no clue that it is nothing compared to the thrill of sharing that passage with someone and seeing the passion it has created in their eyes.

Kissing, licking, and nibbling our way to tasting new foods

"RabiOly! RabiOly!"

The chant from the back seat made me smile. My two girls demanding something they'd never had before, that was a first for sure. But hey, I'm not one to be begged. And there wasn't really much else for dinner at home. So we'd try the mini-raviolis from Trader Joes. Noodles are noodles after all.

I wasn't too worried about C. This morning she gave me a whole shpiel about how it was bizarre that her friends at school kept saying they didn't like something without even trying it. I know that tomorrow she'll be back to turning up her nose at anything that doesn't look exactly like one of the foods on her "approved list," but today I had a feeling she'd still be on her "I try anything kick."

Little L was another issue.

She'll get caught up in her sister's excitement over something without really taking the consequences into account. Playing 'bed time,' running through the cold sprinklers naked, and yes, trying raviolis for the first time.

That is, until I actually place the raviolis in front of her.

"I no liiiiike that! I don't want it!" Look of sheer disgust on her face, warning signs of a massive tantrum in her face. It had all the makings of a disastrous dinner hour.

I resisted the urge to demand that she eat, knowing full well that it would backfire. Instead I sat down at the table with a fun catalog filled with bright holiday decorations and toys to try to distract her.

I had a faint hope that I'd be able to sneak in a bite here or there, something which always worked with C at her age. But Little L is savvy to her mother's tricks. So I had to pull my other ace out of my sleeve. Usually it's what I lead with, but I was a bit off my game tonight. Lack of sleep does that to me.

"Hey? Goose? This teeny tiny ravioli is just a baby and he's a bit sad. Can you give him a kiss? Just a little kiss, not a big one!" She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, but my impeccable acting skills swayed her and she leaned in a bit. When she hesitated I egged her on until her pouty lips connected with the tiny ravioli and gave it a tiny kiss. 

It's all about making that first contact. Once her lips have touched the offending food, it only takes a tiny nudge to get her to lick it. And once she's licked it it's just another tiny step to taking a nibble or a real bite. And usually once one bite has been taken, we're golden.

I've seen people throw me odd looks in restaurants when I beg my baby to kiss her food. To be sure, it's an odd request. But what do I care? My kid is trying new foods and sometimes she even likes it, as the "Mmmmms" that followed the first nibble all the way to the emptying of her bowl tonight can attest.

*********
Need a little humor today? Over at the Tiny Prints blog we're poking fun at the silly things parents say that truly shows the world that they're parents. "You know you're a parent when..." I'd love to know what it was you said!

Prayers for Anissa - a hopefully someday friend

Part of my new job at Tiny Prints involves Internet research. I spend a lot of my time blog hopping, discovering new blogs, visiting old favorites, checking out friends of those favorites, and then moving on to the next.

Today I discovered a blog I'd never seen before. It was funny, well written, and had compelling posts. It was a family blog, like many of the ones I see daily. I logged all the details in the spreadsheet I'm compiling and moved on to the next one.

I had no clue that the blogger was well known and loved by many of my own blogging and social media friends.

I had no idea that less than an hour later I'd not only know more about her than I ever expected to know, but that I would have created a special Tweetdeck* search window dedicated to her.

While I was reading her blog for the first time, getting to know her family and their scary story, Anissa Mayhew was having a stroke and being rushed to the hospital.

Watching Twitter rally around one of their own is both an inspiring and devastating thing to see. Inspiring because it's breathtaking to see so many people rush to help someone they only know virtually, devastating because it's usually for a horrific reason. The death of a child, the illness of a parent, a tragic accident.

There was no reason Anissa and I hadn't crossed paths before. She's active on Twitter in my circles. According to Facebook we have almost 100 friends in common. She's a blogger, like me. But there are hundreds of thousands of us. I can't know them all, they can't all know me.

Tomorrow I would have emailed her for professional reasons and most likely we would have become friends or at the very least Twitter buddies.

Instead, tonight I'm going to bed with a heavy heart, thinking of this mother lying in her hospital bed, her fate hanging in the balance. I'm thinking of her children, the youngest of whom only just won her battle against cancer. I'm thinking of her husband, for whom it must be so painful to be in a hospital, who must be going through hell tonight.

The five of them should be together.Tomorrow she should be laughing with a friend or playing with her kids when my email arrives unnoticed in her inbox. She should reply, follow me on Twitter, strike up a conversation here or there. That's how it was supposed to be.

Really, I just wish that's how I'd gotten to know her.

She fought so hard to keep cancer from taking her daughter. She deserved a bit of peace and quiet and normal. I hope against hope that she can still get it. And that I can get to know her all over again the regular way.

*Tweetdeck is a service that allows me to keep up with my Twitter friends without having to use the Twitter web interface. I can create search windows that track just one keyword if I want to be able to pick out those specific tweets from the regular timeline.

Mommy went to a Blogger party and we all get cool swag

Well, clearly we can't all be as cool as C sporting her new Teeny Tiny shades. They're best known for protecting little eyes from harmful UV rays, but you just can't reason with these 4-year-olds going on 15. They want to look cool and wear them indoors.

Oh, wait. Apparently you can't reason with the 2-year-old set either. Little L is also sporting fancy Teeny Tiny Optics shades as well as the shaggiest hippest hat in town. This beauty was hand made by Zooni and she'd be asleep wearing it if I hadn't made her take it off before bath time.

If you have a fetish, or just a love, of unbearably cute babies in unbearably cute hats then I double dog dare you to click that link. I guarantee you will also find the cutest socks you will have ever seen. Ever. Honest. Be warned. Clicking that link could be harmful to your wallet.

Oh that hat. And that face. And those crooked glasses.

I could just eat her up.

Though I'd chew with my mouth closed...

Mommy didn't just come home with hat and eye wear. She also brought home some kick ass shoes for her kick ass eldest. Though it might be hard to actually kick ass with shoes this cute. It would be a shame to get them scuffed.

These puppies come to us straight from Livie & Luca, which I did not know before last night, and who will now be pocketing my next paycheck. Come on! I can't have one child in these and not the other! Plus, wouldn't it be unfair to deny Little L these? Toddler shoes with spats people! Pink spats!

Now I did say swag for all and here's where you guys win! The awesome people behind Livie & Luca are so cool they're letting you have 25% off until the end of December. What are you waiting for? Get shopping! And use the code BLOG25 when you check out.

Look how happy they'd make your child!

More to come on the incredible awesomeness that came out of the Silicon Valley Moms Blog Holiday Extravaganza. I still need to sort through everything!


I was not paid, blah, blah, blah, to say any of this, blah, blah, blah, nor did I bribe my children to smile and look happy with anything other than Costco Mickey Mouse chicken nuggets, cool hats, glasses, and new shoes. I just couldn't resist sharing the cuteness with you.

Working Weekend

Over the last few months I've been making a conscious effort to shut down the computer Friday night and leave it alone at least until noon-ish on Sunday when the itch to check in became unbearable. It felt good to disconnect, to pick up a book, to play with my kids, and to spend some quality time with my husband.

Napping was nice too.

Only now that I've had to shift things around in my daily schedule to fit an extra 25hours of work in, I'm having to take lots of that time from my weekend. Last weekend, when there was relatively little newspaper work to be done I didn't feel the pinch all that much. This weekend was a whole other story.

Aside from a few hours spent at a baby shower,* a few hours spent at an awesome Silicon Valley Moms Blog event (details coming soon), and the tiny bit of time I took to focus on the kids, I worked pretty much non stop - editing newspaper articles, figuring out what was missing from the line up, coordinating with the line editor, the graphic designer, and the owner. Yesterday I must have worked five hours straight before finally calling it a night and going for a much needed and much appreciated, though short, date with my husband. Today was more of the same, sadly without the date.

I am tired. Very, very tired. And, even though I'm quite proud of everything I accomplished tonight, I'm still darn tired and sad that I didn't get to have much fun with my kids. Even more annoying I didn't get through my whole to do list, I came close, but close isn't enough.

I know that this weekend was a bit of a fluke. And I know that I'm going to get better at organizing my time. But right now I'd just like to know one thing:

When does the weekend start?

*She loved all the pink stuff, though she did keep saying in a stunned voice "I'm having a girl. I'm really, really having a girl."

Irony thy name is pink.

One of my best friends is having a baby shower tomorrow. It's a bit of an nontraditional shower giving that she's having her second child, but she wasn't able to have one for the first so we're making up for it a few years late.

She had a son the first time around. This time she's having a girl.

A cute widdle girl.

A few weeks ago she came face to face to my every growing laundry pile (the clean stuff, I keep the dirty stuff hidden.) and she laughed.

"It's so pink!" She said, with barely veiled horror tinged with amusement in her voice.

"Oh the sweet girl," I thought, looking at her bulging belly. "Just you wait."

There is no fighting the tide of pink when you have a baby girl. Even if you try, you can't win. I know, I tried. My girls wore lots of blue for those first few months. And then they discovered pink and it was all over.

I kid you not, Little L learned to say "Mama" when she was five months old. The next word she said, months later, was "Pink."

Tonight I headed out to the store to get a shower gift. I was determined to load up on pink, lots and lots of pink. I wanted to overwhelm her with pink. A bit of a tongue-in-cheek gift if you will. Pink booties, pink blanket, pink rattle, pink sippy cup - with princesses for added effect, more pink booties, pink gift bag. Pink, pink, pink. No more dinosaurs and trucks for that mama! She needs to be indoctrinated to the pink world of princesses and tutus!

My cart loaded up with enough pink to make someone nauseous (too bad Pepto is also pink), I went and collected a few things we needed around the house.


Namely new underwear for C and Little. For C because she has outgrown her first batch, and for Little L because I harbor the hope that gorgeous underwear will motivate her to do more than sit on the potty wearing her diaper.

The underwear I picked out?

Princesses, Tinkerbell, and Hello Kitty.

All pink.

One night off, it's so darn tempting

For the last two weeks and a half I have been up at 7(ish) and I have essentially worked straight through to 11pm if not later. I've rushed from one job to the next, parrying emails, voicemails, phone calls, kid calls, editing, planning, writing, consulting, and researching every moment of the day.

OK, fine, I did take a few minutes to myself here and there. What can I say, a girl has to visit the restroom once in a while and order coffee a few times here and there too. In my defense, if I stop ordering coffee, the Starbucks baristas are going to kick me out. And when you drink lots of coffee... well, let's just not go there. 

Tonight a few articles are demanding my editing attention. A few blog posts are clamoring to be written. I could probably find ten emails to write and another ten needing replies. 

But I am on my couch. And I do not want to work. I do not want to go to bed after midnight. I have a glass of wine and it's making me pleasantly mellow and I'm watching Bones, which is making me delightfully giddy. (Mmm David Boreanaz.) And I am terribly tempted to just take the night off.

I'd turn off the TV, turn off the computer, slip into my jammies, brush my teeth, check on the girls, and slide myself gratefully into my bed long before midnight.

I'm just not sure I'd be able to sleep knowing I had left so much work undone.

Vaccines at last!

"Do. Not. Touch. Anything." My warning was delivered in my most dire 'do this or else' mommy voice.
"Right. Nothing except the toys." C answered nodding knowingly.
"No. Nothing. You don't touch anything. Especially not the toys."

I saw her start to argue and I went for words that I hoped she'd understand (Thank you Sid!).

"When children are sick, parents take them to the doctor and while they wait they play with the toys in the waiting room. Their germs are all over the toys in there. Germs are what make you sick. You don't touch anything. You hear me?"

She nodded sadly.

"But what about the fishies?"

I relented a little. "We can say hi to the fishies, but only if you promise not to touch anything. Deal?"

Deal struck, I pulled into the parking lot and ushered my kids into the cesspool of flu germs pediatrician's office. Luckily someone was just stepping out, so I didn't have to figure out how to open the door without using my hands or putting Little L down. I can trust C to listen when I say 'don't touch,' Little L, not so much.

We checked in and I stayed a foot away from the counter. And then in the waiting room I made sure C kept her hands on the two stuffed bears she had brought in with her and kept herself away from the toys, books, and chairs that beckoned invitingly. We spent some time saying hi to the fish while I studied the other people in the room.

At first glance everyone else there was clearly waiting for a vaccine - the way the parents were staring everyone down like me was a clear giveaway. But suddenly a tired looking dad walked in leading a child wearing a surgical mask. All our eyes instantly darted to the big "If your child has flu symptoms please tell us so we can give you a mask." sign hanging near the entrance.

"Hey girls! Let's go look at the picture hanging in the hall!" I shooed C out of the room without making eye contact with the dad. Three seconds later two other families followed us out of the room. The only thing worse than imagining all the germs that are crawling in that waiting room is being thrown face to face with them.

The rest of the visit proceeded without further incident. We collected vaccines, stickers, and cheery waves goodbye and I managed to open the door without actually touching it with my bare hand. In the car I handed out liberal rounds of hand sanitizer and I shook off the mental image of bright kid friendly surfaces crawling with germs and viruses.

They're vaccinated. Finally.

The h1n1 vaccine saga continued and hopefully ended

The vaccine is all anyone talks about these days. Did you get it? Do you know who has it? Who's high risk? Who's gaming the system?

Never ending speculation and rumors that spread like quickfire. That office is giving it to anyone who walks in! This place had a 6 hour wait!

I got to daycare this morning and was told that the mother of another child, patient of our pediatrician's office, had received a call last night informing them that the vaccine had arrived and giving them an appointment time.

Now, allow me to backtrack a second.

After all my hemming and hawing I fell down hard on the side of needing to get my children vaccinated. 76 dead children will motivate you like that. I double checked with the pediatrician's office that my girls were high risk and then I sat back and I waited patiently for the call.

My friends freaked out and raced around looking for vaccine doses, but I waited patiently. I didn't call the office daily, I checked the website like they asked. I was confident that they were doing their damnedest and would do their best to get to us when it was our turn. I put my faith in the system.

So this morning, I was curious, but nothing more. I checked online to see if there were any updates, and when I didn't see any I called the office to politely inquire as to why we hadn't gotten a similar call. I apologized profusely for being an annoying mom, but I asked.

And I was told only the high risk kids were being called. When I informed them that my daughters were high risk the receptionist paused, put me on hold, checked a list or two, and then came back online to tell me that only the really high risk kids, the ones who had had transplants or were awaiting them, were getting the vaccine.

Pardon my internet speak, but WTF?

In a town of 27,700 people and multiple pediatrician's offices, how many of their patients could possibly be waiting for, or have already received transplants? Two? Three? Dare I call BS on that argument?

I bit my tongue and resisted getting mad at the poor girl whose job has probably been hell for the last two months. I figured that by simply calling and getting her to pull their files I reminded them that my girls should be on their high risk. I didn't want to tick her off and make the situation worse.

Oh, but how it chaffed to hold back! I was pissed. I'm good. I did what they asked. I followed their arbitrary rules to the letter. I never bug them. I never take up their time needlessly. And I was being passed up. Twitter tales of people who had lied to get the vaccine upset me further.

I so wanted to believe the receptionist's assurance that we were on the very next list. That they'd call us as soon as they could. But really? Why should I believe them. I even started thinking of ways I could game the system myself. Ear infection concerns anyone?

Luckily work took over for the rest of the day, pushing my concerns and my anger to the side. Though I did let it flare up periodically throughout the day by relating the drama to a few close friends. I ranted some more when I went to pick the girls up at daycare. And then we went home.

Where the answering machine light was blinking.

"We made a mistake. Little L should have been on our list. Sorry. Oh, but we don't have a vaccine for C. We only have it for kids 36 months and under. She's going to have to wait. Oh, and please don't mention anything to anyone. Thank you. Beep!"

Again, WTF?

Don't mention it? No vaccine for C? We 'made a mistake?'

I'm sorry. You've had well over a month to prep for this moment. A month to figure out a system that actually worked. How hard is it to create a list of kids who need the darn vaccine? And why on earth would my 4 year-old also asthmatic child be any less at risk than my 2 year-old asthmatic child? The vaccine reserved for kids 36 months and up is usually the nasal mist. Asthmatic children can't get that. So, what? C never gets the vaccine?

Let's just say that it's a good thing I got that message after the office closed.

And let's add that I felt like an ass when we got a call at 8:30pm informing us that they were also going to vaccinate C and when could we come in?

I'm still appalled that the website still hasn't been updated. I'm frustrated at the way this has been handled. But I'm incredibly grateful that my girls are going to get their vaccine in the morning. It's not going to make us any less cautious when it comes to public places and exposure, but at least it'll ease the stress a bit.

From the Mouths of Babes: Curing Mommy's Road Rage

I am a very cautious driver. In fact, before last Sunday, I hadn't been pulled over in over four years. I might always be dealing with kids yelling for something or other, but I'm cautious and careful. And like every other cautious and careful driver it bugs me when other drivers are not as cautious and careful.

In fact I might, maybe, just a bit, sometimes yell at these people. From the comfort and safety of my car. With the windows rolled up. It helps me blow off steam and get on with my commute.

C, however, does not quite understand this practice.

Take this morning for instance. On a rather, ok, really busy highway, a person right in front of me realized too late that he needed to get off said highway. Instead of continuing on to the next exit and turning around, like the rest of us might have done, this individual sllloooowwwwwed way down and then STOPPED while waiting for a break in the cars in the lane next to us. Stopped his car. In the middle of the highway. During a fast moving morning commute.

Cars whizzed by all around us and I felt like a sitting duck. I figured it was a matter of seconds before someone behind me didn't notice that I was stopped and plowed right into us.

So I did what any rational, cautious, and careful driver would do. I lay on the horn and screamed at the other driver. From inside the safety of my car. With the windows rolled up.

"Mommy? Do you think that person heard you?" C asked sweetly from the back after I stopped my tirade, the offending car moved over to the right, and we finally moved on.

"Well, I'm sure he heard me honk."

"But did he hear you yelling?"

"No, that he probably didn't hear." Thank goodness.

"Well, then, maybe next time you should open the windows when you yell. That way maybe he'll hear you."

Nothing like the point of view of a 4-year-old to show you how ridiculous you are.

Sunday Scribblings - Interview

When I started working at Parenting on the Peninsula back in June, I knew that on top of my editorial responsibilities I would also be required to submit a monthly article. At first I had no clue what to write. I started with a piece about kite flying. Then I somehow managed to skip a month, followed by a short filler piece about something we were launching.

And I drew a blank. Between the editing and the brainstorming of articles for other writers, I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted to write myself.


Which is when I had a brilliant idea.

Mompreneurs.

Everywhere I went I was surrounded with brilliant, motivated, awesome moms who had acted on their ideas and passions to start companies. I figured it would be fun to interview a few of them to see if their stories might make compelling articles.

I had no idea how much I would enjoy it.

It's no secret that people love to talk about themselves, but when they're talking about their baby, their creation, there's a whole other level of excitement that comes through. And yet, they don't always know where to start or what to share. I get a thrill out of helping them tease out the great elements of their stories.

I have a few questions that I start with, just to get them talking, and I try to keep my ears open for the gems that will make the article sing. It's a hunt of sorts. And yet it just feels like a great conversation. Even better, after all that the article basically writes itself.


It's fun, and I love the whole process, but nothing beats hearing from the Mompreneur after they see the published article. I have yet to hear from one who wasn't utterly delighted with the finished piece. I get an extra thrill from knowing that I'm the one who made them that happy.


This post was inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt "Interview." Be sure to head on over to discover other great posts.

Prolific Tweeter and Proud of it

At the end of the work day I attended an office Beer Bash designed to help the newbies get to know the people who have been there for a bit longer and to help the different teams get to know each other a bit better. To get us mingling, the organizers prepared a round of Human Bingo.

We walked around, paper and pen clasped in hand, looking for the person who had played pro-ball in college, a driver of a hybrid, someone with 2+ kids. 

I approached a girl I hadn't yet met and introduce myself.

"Wait, Jessica? As in Jessica Rosenberg?" She replies, looking both shocked and delighted.

I just nodded, kind of confused by her reaction.

"Man you tweet A LOT."

I couldn't tell if it was awe I heard in her voice, or thinly veiled horror. I'm not sure I want to know which it was.

But you've been warned, I'm prolific.

Winter flip-flops - perfect California wear

There was a moment, sometime this summer, when I realized I had finally fully given in and admitted that I was officially a Californian. It wasn't the avocados. It wasn't the love of the mountains. It wasn't even my acceptance of the insanely expensive lifestyle.

It was the flip-flops.

Sometime this summer I realized that I was wearing flip-flops for more than just getting the mail, taking out the trash, and going to the pool/beach.

And now that summer is finally waning my feet are cold.

So, I ask you, would it be very wrong to get these?

I know that they're sold as slippers, but I think they'd be all the rage at my favorite Starbucks. No?

Parties in the past

My grandmother had a home in the town of Briare, France, about an hour south of Paris. She didn't actually live there though, the house sat empty, waiting for whatever family member wanted to escape Paris for a weekend in the country.

Often that family member was me, usually accompanied by some of my closest friends.

Man did we have some rocking parties at that house.

The checkered living room tiles just begged to be turned into a dance floor. And the many bedrooms were the perfect place for everyone to pitch a sleeping bag for when we were finally too tired to party.

It never occurred to me to marvel that so many of my friends would drive an hour out of the city to join me for a party in a truly rural town. People in France just don't drive places. Going an hour out of town is not something people do unless they're heading out for a week long vacation. But they were my friends. And they came.

I loved those weekends away. I loved the casual camaraderie of it all. Friends clustered in the kitchen. Everyone pitching in to prepare the party that they'd all be attending. We would all spend the afternoon decorating, cooking, and clearing furniture. Then we'd head to the bedrooms and bathroom to get ready for the party. Sometimes extra people came for the actual event, but for the most part it was all the same people, from sun up to sun down.

These people were my friends, my chosen family.

Ten years later I can't remember if we were already starting to lose touch before I left France or if my departure marked the beginning of the end. I just remember how I was affected by that summer in New York. I broke up with my boyfriend by phone, met M, and in a heartbeat decided that I wasn't going home. I never stopped to think about the friends I'd be leaving behind or how my departure would affect them. I guess that I assumed they'd just go on being friends without me, that I would step out of the circle and that the circle would tighten to fill the void. Then I got caught up with life in another country and, even though I missed them all terribly, I didn't worry about them.

Over the last year I've reconnected with many of those old friends, primarily thanks to Facebook, though it kills me to admit it. This morning, one of them sent me a link to some pictures from the last of those infamous parties. Instead of packing up my computer and taking my children to daycare I found myself dragged back to 1999. For a moment I was single and childless and utterly silly and carefree again. There was no work, no worries, no bills, no taxes, no children who needed me to brush their hair and find their shoes. There were just great friends and endless time to hang out and just be together.

The caption under one photo grabbed my heart and twisted. "I never found another friend like you."

I've been busy creating a life for myself these last ten years. A life filled with great friends and an incredible family. I've grown up, become who I was meant to be. But it's true for me too. I never found other friends like them.

Thank you to my old friend Cecile for the photos. I'm very grateful she found them and took the time to scan them.

Five jobs and counting, but still sane

By the time I dropped off the girls at daycare this morning I had already conducted a phone meeting for one of my jobs - managing editor at a local parenting newspaper. I kissed them goodbye, reminded them to make good choices, and headed a half hour south for a second meeting for a second job - co-creator of a website. (Still in very early days. Incredibly exciting.)

After a quick lunch with an old co-worker I raced to my new job (job #3) at Tiny Prints. For four hours I worked nonstop on a number of projects* and then I tidied up my desk and hurried back out.

I had 15 minutes to go get C and Little L from daycare, which is when my fourth job of the days started.

Now, you could argue that being a mommy isn't really a job, or you could argue that it's the hardest job of all. I just know that after a full day of work I still had to come home, cook dinner, clean up, wash little people, put them in pajamas, read them books, and put them to bed. Thank goodness for M. There's no way I could have done it by myself.

When the children are in bed and the grown-ups have eaten there's one more job (job #5) awaiting my attention - blogging. I update here, sometimes there, and from now on here too.

If I had any energy left at the end of all that I'd turn my attention to my sorely neglected novel (job #6), but tonight that's just not going to happen. It's almost 10:30, I'm nowhere near done with job #5, and I just got a flurry of emails related to job #1.

I'm sure that soon this new routine will feel like just that, routine, but right now it's feeling like a bit of a stretch. I'll either get used to it or something will have to give. I just don't know what it could be. Hopefully it won't be my sanity.


*We just launched an unbelievable contest over at Tiny Prints. You can win $1000 and become the new face of the company! All you have to do is send in a picture or two. Check it out, tell your friends. And I promise that if you win I won't take a referral fee.

The Princess Cowgirl and the Princess Witch Halloween it up

Their mother is a mommy blogging novelist marketer, their daddy is a ukulele playing lawyer, so is it really all that surprising that C and Little L couldn't decide on just one costume for this Halloween?

Beautiful Princess Witch.

"Because witches are kind of like princesses, right mommy?"

Cowgirl princess!

Complete with cowgirl hat, cowgirl boots, and hand-me-down Gymboree jeans.

We did some afternoon trick-or-treating in town.

And we faced the hordes of other candy hungry kids.

Little L was delighted with the whole thing.

Her hat, curls, boots, and blue eyes delighted everyone else.

We also did some evening trick-or-treating.

The Princess Witch was very excited about the whole thing.

Patient, but excited.

 Note the red cowgirl boots?

And the barely contained excitement?

 We took our friend M.J. trick-or-treating for her very first time.

Though that banana turned out to be her favorite treat of all.

 Our favorite trick was putting her in a tree.

 It was a low key, easy Halloween with no drama and very few tears. C clutched a flashlight tightly and only freaked out at the sight of one costumed boy. All in all it was a very successful evening, which gives me hope that the horrible no good terrible Halloweens really are a thing of the past!

My messy car spared me a traffic ticket

I had one goal this weekend, aside from spending quality time with the girls and M, one measly little goal: clean out my car.

It wouldn't have taken long, all I really had to do was scoop out the contents of the toy bin that has been strewn between the seats, on the floors, and everywhere in between. Every few weeks I have to truck everything back inside so the next day the girls can start migrating the toys back to my car one at a time.

Of course, as usual, I never found the time to go out to the garage to tame the chaos inside my car, which is why my car still looked worse than the love child of the public dump and the Toys R Us baby doll aisle when I headed out to go to a blogger event this afternoon.

I was still spacey from a too short nap and a run in with my sorely lacking wardrobe when I realized that I was racing up a 40 mile/hour road going a brisk 60(ish). I slowed down to a more respectful speed and glanced in my rear-view mirror to make sure no one had spotted my transgression. Which is when I noticed the cop pull up behind me.

I pulled over and she did her thing before finally walking up to my car. I smiled my brightest smile and tried to be my most charming self, but I have to admit I wasn't expecting what happened next.

"Oh! You have twins?" She asked, glancing at the matching car seats in the back. I had expected disgust at the state of my car, instead I got pity and compassion.

"No, a two and four year old. In fact, that's why I was speeding, I think I was enjoying the quiet a bit too much." She nodded knowingly and smiled, but she still asked me for my license, registration, and proof of insurance.

I had the first two, but despite all my frantic searching in the glove compartment I couldn't find any trace of the proof of insurance. I shrugged apologetically and must have looked sufficiently harried and confused because she replied with a soothing smile and a word about how busy I must be before moving off with the two documents.

She let me off for the speeding, choosing to just giving me fix-it tickets for my burnt out brake light and lack of proof of insurance. She talked again about how busy I must be, and, peering around the inside of my car again, reminded me that I clearly needed to pay more attention, both to the speed limit and to my documents. Then she told me to slow down and let me go.

I glanced around at the abandoned dolls, stacks of artwork, ground up waffles, books, and everything else that clutters up my car and thanked my lucky stars that I never found the time to clean it out. I was so grateful that I was even able to hold my head high when I stepped out at the Four Seasons and let the valet drive off with it, though I did feel the need to apologize when I got it back at the end of the event. It really is beyond messy and I should probably do something about it.