Rox and Roll

Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, It's Back to Work I ... Went!

Today was my first day back to work at a paid, regular job in over eight years.  I wrote about wanting to do it, and now, I have.  It's a bit overwhelming, of course, but it's also more than a bit wonderful.  I'm not going to discuss the specifics of my job on here other than to say that it's akin to the career I had before staying home with our second child and puts to use my graduate degree.  It's like I took a time-out and am picking up just where I left off.  I feel blessed and very, very happy.

But I need to say something more than that, of course, because this is Rox and Roll.

To my sisters who are also home with their children who are also trying to go back to work, know that you can do it.  There will be a right job for you at a company who will value your experience.  Have patience, and heed the advice I was given by an unbelievably impressive female HR professional who is at the very top of her trade (truly, you might fall out of your chair if you knew who this person is): don't be girlie bout it.  Don't make excuses for being home with your kids.  Focus on what you've done in the past, and tell the company what you're going to do for them.  Be action-oriented, loading your resume and your interview responses with action verbs.  Don't waffle, and don't hesitate.  Don't "I think" -- be decisive.  Don't list the ways being on the PTA has helped you to be bigger and better; focus on your past and your future in your career.  And prepare, prepare, and prepare more -- prepare for interviews, prepare for writing cover letters, prepare by reading industry publications and by talking to folks in your business.  More importantly than anything: ask for mentorship.  A female start-up CEO (also huge and OMG impressive) rewrote my resume with me and prepped me for interviews, hard-core style -- and the awesome HR friend put my resume through the ringer again and also coached me on what might be the best fit job for my personal goals.  She heard what I was considering and offered insights on roles that I might've dismissed, thinking I was underqualified or overmatched.  In other words, surround yourself with hardworking, successful women -- especially moms -- who are already there, and ask them for the advice you know you need.  They will never turn you down; they'll be flattered, and then you can pay it forward by helping another mom find her way back.  We are all in the sorority of motherhood, and we can all help to lift each other up when needed.  (This is not to say that stay at-home moms need to be lifted up -- I'm only addressing moms who want to return to work here, supporting their desires and offering no judgment of those who make different choices.)  Fundamentally, know that you can have kids, stay at home to raise them, see them off to school, and still return to work -- and be a valued contributor to a place that knows it's lucky to have you. 

Today, I checked a big, huge box for myself -- it's probably one of the most significant dozen or so days of my entire life to date.  Because for me, and for my family, I wanted my kids, at a young age but old enough to know that I stayed at home with them, see me dress up, take a briefcase in hand, and leave for the day -- and I also wanted them to see that Daddy can pick them up from school and deal with snacks and homework and sports practices and dinner.  I wanted them to see that we both can do the same things, and that regardless of our specific roles at any point in time, we'll still love and care for them the same way -- even when the day comes when we're both working full-time outside the home.  I wanted them to see that there is no "mold," no one way of doing things -- that mommies and/or daddies can stay home, that mommies and/or daddies can go to work, and that kids will be happy and fulfilled no matter what the combination.  Today, I checked that box, and it felt GREAT!

So, the thing about parenthood ...

Someone recently told me that I'm not writing enough about my kids anymore.  Yeah, so, about that ... two words: Middle School, and one more: Dash.

When I think back to 6th grade, it was the last grade of elementary school where I lived, not the first year of junior high (which, where I live now, is called middle school).  So it wasn't a big deal, except for me, because my parents sent me to a Catholic school across the river that year.  It's not that I'd been rotten or anything; my siblings were in school there, and it was an opportunity to be in a different social situation.  It was also an opportunity to eat the world's best grilled cheese and tomato soup on Fridays as well as an opportunity to realize how very un-holy nuns can be.  (I know, God strike me down for saying that, but, really, they actually did rap knuckles, including mine, once, for taking out my retainer without permission.) 

So, anyway, besides my being in a different school whose motto was "grilled cheese with a side of corporal punishment and Eric spitting out the sacrament and learning what a visit from the holy spirit really meant" ... 6th grade wasn't such a big deal.

But now, Petunia has started middle school, at a new school -- at a new all-girls, seriously academic school -- and whooo-eee, do I miss Sister Mary Beatyoulikeadrum, 'cause that was easier to deal with than this homework.  And sports schedule.  And "Mom can I study in the library 'cause I want to be gone from 7:30 a.m. - 5:30 p.m. everyday" schedule.

Petunia is happier than she's ever been in her life.  She's working harder, and I actually heard her say the words, "I don't know why, but I'm actually excited to do my homework tonight!" last Thursday.  There must be something in the water at that magical school, or maybe that's the place on which Hogwarts is based.  Anyhoo, she's happy, she's working hard, and she's gone.  G-o-n-e.  When she is home, she's working, and if we squeeze in an hour of family time each day during the week, we're lucky.  It is what it is.  She's growing up, quite well, and she even has a weekly grilled cheese and tomato soup lunch without the side of yardstick across her knuckles.  Girl doesn't even know how lucky she is.

As for that other kid, the dementor Dash, there is First Grade.  He has the teacher he hoped for, declaring her "the nicest."  But he pretty much hates it.  He's reading Harry Potter at home; he has no patience for Chrysanthemum.  He does not feel he needs to write, or write neatly, because, as Petunia has shown, in 6th grade, he'll have a laptop.  So who cares about his stupid penmanship?  He's going to be an archaeologist someday and needs to know hieroglyphics.  What is the point of first grade, anyway? He's not thrilled to be there, and he's also not eating his lunch, again.  Since the school day is longer than it was in kindergarten, when he could eat a Luna bar and be content, this is a big deal.  It is an even bigger deal because some little asshole girl told him that Luna bars are made from luna moths, so he's been eating bugs for a year.  Since he can't take almond butter with honey -- total peanut and tree nut ban in effect -- he's been experimenting with starvation.  One day, he'll eat a cheese roll; the next day, he'll declare the same thing inedible.  Then he'll eat plain ravioli; the next day, nothing.  It's a stop-and-start experiment that is failing.  On the "nothing" days, he comes home angry.  As I sit him atop the kitchen counter, forcing him to remain there until he's eaten a healthy mini-meal, he screams things at me like, "Mom, you're ruining my happy life," or worse, "I won't starve to death, and I'll prove it."  (Oh, but he will.  He is the kid who would rather starve than eat, and we're sooooo not going there.)  After he finally does give in to ingesting a modicum of food, twenty minutes later, he finds me (usually curled up in a ball in my closet hiding from his fury) and apologizes.  "Must've been hungry," he says, as he hugs me.  "Love you mom."

So, the thing about parenthood, is that it's hard.  In times like these, it's hard to write about.  To my friends who have not yet entered preadolescence, to my friends who don't have a child with an eating disorder (which is what it is), they don't get it.  I get useless advice like "just make him eat."  Or "have you tried...?" which sometimes leads to a great suggestion but, usually, is just someone trying to prove me wrong -- that, actually, my child does eat enough to live, even if it's only a few things, not understanding that he won't even eat those few things consistently so, therefore, it actually is a crisis.  Every other day.  And that's hard.

Parents of newborns?  You have it easy.  Your colic, witching hour, sleepless nights ... that's the easy stuff.  Just wait until they grow up and you have bigger problems.

See why I haven't been blogging?  It's not nice for me to say that.  And frankly, it's not nice to my kids, who are both, in the end, doing wonderfully.  Petunia is happy, and Dash thinks he's going to Hogwarts in sixth grade.  I'm just very, very tired and in need of a week in Hawaii with no one demanding anything of me except the pool boy, wondering if I'll have a pina colada, a lava flow, or a strawberry daiquiri.  Decisions, decisions...

So that's my parenthood update for this week.  Another one is coming soon, because oohhhhh boy, Petunia is turning 11.  I can't handle the truth. 

Where's that daiquiri?

There Comes a Time ... When We Heed a Certain Call

Today, a reader told me how much she enjoyed my blog, and it reminded me that I'm way overdue to write something.  Truth be told, it's been hard to pull myself together lately, for I've made a big decision: I'm going back to work outside the home.  AKA: Show me the money!

For a host of reasons, now is the right time for me to become a wage-earner again.  I could list those reasons, but they're as long as my life as a mother.  In truth, the list of reasons start with "I never intended to be an at-home parent," has something trite like "but I'm grateful for the time I've been able to spend at home with my children" in the middle, and ends with something to the effect of "now get me the $#@% back out of here." 

Here's what's in between: within mere weeks of Petunia's birth, I went back to work out of necessity.  It was my husband's second year in an MBA program, and this Mama had to bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan.  But I had the most flexible job on earth: Ivy League graduate program admissions.  I could bring my work home, tailor my in-office schedule around breastfeeding/ pumping obligations (it certainly helped that Petunia was the most regimented baby ever, all of her own accord) and was surrounded by really supportive co-workers, many of whom were also relatively young parents.  When I needed help with the baby, there were hundreds of willing graduate students, not to mention hundreds of their spouses, who would take the baby at a moment's notice; I could walk into the student lounge and hand her off for hours, and I often did.  That was perhaps my favorite year of life: new mom, making the working-thing happen, with free babysitting.  It just doesn't get much better than that.

The year flew by, and we relocated, close enough that I could "telecommute," which is short for "drive three hours each way once per month to sit in on a day-long meeting then bring a month of work home."  I excelled at making that look easy.  Then I started graduate school, first part-time, and then full-time, and that was the beginning of the (temporary) end.  Working full-time during admissions season, attending graduate school full-time by commuting over an hour each way from my home, and trying to mother a two or three year-old pretty much full-time just wasn't working for me, especially coupled with my new-MBA grad, newly-employed husband's insane travel schedule.  Babysitting was no longer free, and I was exhausted and paying out way more than I earned.  So, I stopped.  I finished graduate school and conceived baby #2, who, from the moment he was conceived, was nothing. but. trouble.  Not that kind of trouble -- medical trouble.  He had reflux, then would never eat, then there was the year of chronic ear infections ... Somehow, life had gone from the one-baby, working-mom, graduate-student, I can-do-it-all-easily phase and shifted into the dear-God-I-haven't-showered-for-days phase.  With a lot of screaming.  And vomit.  (Not mine -- the baby's!) 

Years have passed -- six, to be precise -- and I've found my way.  I've worked here and there in social media, sometimes being paid for blogging and editing, sometimes consulting ... mostly, "just" mom-ing.  Which is short for driving to soccer.  And to baseball.  And to guitarbasketballbaseballnewspaper churchcommunityservicegroceriesdoggroomer.

It has been a wonderful six-plus years, and, fortunately, my son's health is now on the mend.  He starts first grade next year and absolutely loves the school's on-site aftercare program, in which he spends an afternoon per week already.  Petunia is headed off to private middle school (another reason for having a second income), where she'll spend her days into the evening hours. 

Everything's on track.  Except for one thing: I need to work.

But first, I need to set a few things straight.

I do not believe that being an at-home parent is a bad thing at all, or a waste of a college or graduate education, or lazy, or anything negative.  I truly have loved being at home, and I will never disparage anyone's choice to do so -- not my own daughter's, not my son's, not anyone's. 

I also do not think that my mind has rotted at all, that my skills have weakened (that would be part of the reason I've dabbled in social media all of these years -- have to keep it fresh!), or that I'm somehow "less than" others in the work force because I've stopped out.  Rather, I could list the skills I've gained during my stop-out (I will not call it "time off," because boy, is it ever not "off"!), including fundraising, community leadership, advocacy, coaching/mentoring skills, and all sorts of other assets that were not on my resume before I became a mom-on-the-scene. 

I am doing this in part because I want to enhance my social "set," but not because I'm unhappy with lunching with the girls -- for really, the mom-friends I've made have made my life rich and purpose-filled in ways that work never would, just like work-friends will make my life rich and purpose-filled in different ways.  They're not incompatible; they're also not incomplete without the other.  Some people truly don't need both.  I feel like I do.  I miss "lingo," and "outcomes," and "water cooler conversations," and "a paycheck."  I can get some of those things from life in the Valley -- but that last one, not so much.

And lastly, I am doing this for my kids.  I want them to see the full array of life choices in how I've lived.  I want them to know that, as a parent, one can work, one can attend grad school, and one can stay at home.  Even, if you're me, all at the same time.  At the end of the day, my story isn't complete without a return to work, and I won't say just for my daughter's sake -- for my son's, too.  Ultimately, it's not just about a paycheck -- it's about crafting a life that works for a whole family and which shows my kids that the world is full of possibility: that one can make one's own opportunities, fulfill one's own dreams, remain a fantastic parent, and forge a path that may not be common but may be the right way to go anyway.

Thus, duty has called, but this story is still being written, for I am missing one piece to this puzzle: an actual job.  Stay tuned, for I am nothing but hopeful!

Forget the Tiger Mom; how about a Tiger Child?

All of this bruhaha over Amy Chua's "Tiger Mom" parenting has gotten me alternatively thinking deeply and stewing over what it means to be an effective parent these days.  Simultaneously, my book club is reading The Price of Privilege by Madeline Levine.  (If you're raising a child in an affluent environment, this book is a must read.)  And on top of all of that, we've recently had several school interviews with our daughter, Petunia, who is applying to various private middle schools as we weigh our excellent public school options, too. 

So basically, I've been thinking a lot about what makes a successful parent, what yields a successful kid, what are my oldest child's strengths and weaknesses... what could I have done better, differently, etc.  And I've come up with a few ideas that I think are worth sharing.  (And just as an FYI, I'm referring to Petunia a lot throughout this; Dash is important to consider, too, but Petunia is my best example because of her age and the admissions processes we're going through right now.)

Most notably, I've thought a lot about what parental goals for a child should be.  Some of my friends say that they don't care what their child becomes in life as long as they're "happy."  I once wrote a post about how I'd replace "happy" with "joy-filled," but I've decided that, for us, the whole concept should be scrapped.  It's not that I don't want my kids to be "happy," but happiness as an end itself is not a goal I have for them, for it is certainly not enough in life to be "happy."  In fact, I often find people set a goal of "happy" as an excuse for not encouraging their kids to work hard in school, to join activities, to strive for success ... because, after all, if the work's too hard, the kid might not be "happy," and that's a dealbreaker.  But what does that really teach a kid about life?

That thought leads me to digress into a story about the best lesson my child ever learned.  Petunia tried out last spring for 3 competitive soccer teams, and she failed to make any one of them.  One coach told her, "You'll never play in this league."  (I have some choice words for that woman, who is one of the biggest jerks I've ever met.)  One coach did not add any players to her team, so that loss was easy to take.  The third coach told Petunia she was "on the cusp" and gave her a host of pointers, including mentioning skills to work on, suggesting some summer soccer camps, and leaving the door open for another tryout.  When Petunia learned of these failures (let's call them what they are), she didn't cry.  She wasn't even really mad.  She was determined.  She seized on those last words from that coach, and she attended a couple of summer sports camps.  When the team had openings again in the fall, she tried out again, and she gave the tryout her 110% best effort.  She made the team!  It was very exciting then and has remained so for her, especially as she has taken on additional goalie training, preferring to be in that slot for the team.

Meanwhile, let me tell you what many of my friends were saying during this process: "I'd tell her to find a new sport."  "Why don't you just tell her it's not her thing?"  "I'd never let my child suffer like that."  And my favorite: "Aren't you embarassed?"

In that situation, I was only embarassed by my friends.  My daughter was much more grown-up about the experience than they were.  The Price of Privilege speaks a lot to those parents who would do anything to avoid seeing their kid fail.  They need to meet my kid and see how much better off she is having had that experience -- and how lucky I feel that she's had it now rather than years down the line when there are so many other stressors in life.

Where was I in all of that experience, though?  Was I standing over her, screaming at her, calling her stupid, and denying her bathroom breaks to make that point (like Amy Chua did)?

Nope. I didn't even have to tell Petunia a thing.  We've taught her that the keys to life are "brains, hard work, and a good attitude."  Emphasis on "hard work."  She worked hard to make that soccer team.  She works hard in school.  She remembers that "to whom much is given, much is required" (that's the primary Proverb, Luke 12:48, by which we govern our house).  Above all, we expect her to be a good person, but, second to that, we expect her to work hard at whatever she chooses.  There are no slackers here!  And now she knows -- she learned from that soccer failure -- that hard work yields great rewards.

Enter: The Tiger Child.  The Tiger Child knows what she wants, and she goes for it full-force by her own self-motivation.  To survive, she must be able to get ahead on her own.  She must be able to self-manage in a world that demands more than "happy."  She knows first-hand that she needs to make her own opportunities in life. In turn, those achievements will make her "happy." 

Am I hard on my kid?  Sometimes.  That's a story for a whole other blog post.  Do I demand excellence?  Absolutely.  Do I crush her when she fails?  Never.  Do I lift her up?  Nope; I help her figure out how to get herself up.  I'll hand her the shovel with which she can dig out. 

At the end of the day, I don't have all of the answers, not for my kids, and not for yours, but I do know this: when I sat down in interviews and was asked to describe my kid, I had some great examples of how she self-motivates, works hard, never gives up, and maintains a good attitude throughout.  And in the back of my mind, I knew that all of that came from my self-sufficient kid who perhaps was born that way, perhaps was nurtured that way ... regardless, it didn't need to be beaten or screamed into her.  We gave her the latitude she needed for self-discovery, and darned if we don't all love who she's become.  I have no concerns about her ability to manage herself in this big, scary world, and, somehow, she got there without being tortured by her parents and at only age 10.  I think that it's a testament to the fortitude of this child, guided by loving hands but expected to self-direct -- either that, or luck.  Then again, "luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity" (a quote from Roman philosopher Seneca).  I'm thinking she made her own luck.  Petunia: well done.

Another day, another milestone

After yesterday's nursery school carnival antics, I figured that today would be pretty rough at school.  Oversugared, overtired kids plus overworked, overexhausted parents and teachers couldn't make for a good day.  I could tell when I showed up that it hadn't been a great one, though Dash seemed his usual self.  We hung around for a little while after school, but, when we arrived home, Dash went to his room instead of to his usual bathtub routine.

"Dash?" I asked.  "Do you want a bath?"

"No thanks, Mom," he replied, "I'm not that dirty."  Oddly, he was right; he's pretty clean for a day in the wet sand at his school.

"Do you want a snack?" I asked.

"No thanks, Mom," he said again. "Actually, I just want to be by myself for a while."

I cleaned out my ears.

"You want some lonely time?" I asked (using his usual term for it).

"Yes, please," he asked.  "Would you please close my door?"

I left.  I listened at the door, because this surely couldn't be anything good.  I heard sounds of play and went about my business for about five minutes, then I checked on him.

"Do you need anything, love?" I asked him.

"No thanks, Mom," he said for a third time.  "It was a long day at school, and I just want to play alone."

I left.  He played alone for about 45 minutes.  When he emerged, he declared he wanted to make something with me.  We studied the cupboard.  We tied on his new apron from the carnival store.  We mixed up some homemade play-doh (recipe to follow), and he's been playing with it, a chapati roller, and my Halloween cookie cutters ever since.

This day will live on in my memory for quite some time because:

1) After a rough day, he wanted to spend quiet time alone.  Maybe he IS my child, after all.

2) He didn't just have a few minutes alone, and disaster didn't happen: he played alone and had fun (I listened in on some great matchbox, train, and building fun) for a long time.

3) When he felt better, he didn't ask for TV.  He asked for me -- and, not only that, he asked to make something with me.

4) He meaningfully engaged in the play-doh making... and still is.

This is one of those days that you live for as a mom: the light at the end of the tunnel, the signs that they're figuring out how the world works.  It's the reward for all of the poop and barf and crying, I think -- the fact that they actually become little people who don't just rely on Mom or the TV but can rely on themselves.  What a great day -- and who knew that play-doh was so easy to make?!

Here's the recipe:

1 cup flour
½ cup salt
2 teaspoons cream of tartar
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
1 cup water
food coloring

Mix ingredients together in a saucepan and cook for two minutes until the mixture pulls away from the pan.  Knead the dough until smooth.  Store in a covered container.

P.S. My hands are bright red from kneading the play-doh... it's not wheat-allergy friendly.  Next time, I'll wear gloves.

In this crazy world, one thing is true...

My children are growing up even more magnificently than I ever could have imagined. 

By the time anyone reads this, it will be Tuesday, March 3, and my little Dash will be a big 4 years old. 

On the one hand, I look at him and think: where did the time go?  But on the other hand, I think: why is it still so hard?  Petunia was never this challenging, especially not at 4.  When will it get easier?

And then my brother started planning his wedding, and I realized something.  They grow, but it doesn't get easier.  They just live greater distances from us and have different needs -- happy and exciting needs right now, perhaps, then deeper and more complex needs in the longer term when they have their own children (all the while trying to fake knowing what they're doing).  It's the circle of life, and, as much as we grown children come into our independence, we also always come back to mom and dad.  Of course, I've circled back to mom to request babysitting for a weekend in Vegas, but hey -- fulfilling some needs can be fun for all involved!

Tonight, I ask Dash if he'd like to hear about his birth, and he thought the story was a riot, especially the part when I told him that Petunia told her preschool that she was going to have "either a sister, or a brother, or a dragon!"  Dash had fits of the sweetest giggles, and he kept asking me to repeat that line.  I almost had him convinced he was actually a dragon.

Finally I said, "Alright Dash, goodnight.  I love you all the way up to the moon and sun and stars."

Dash: "That makes no sense, Mom."  (Where did Mama, or Mommy go?  When did I become just "Mom"?)

Mom: "What doesn't make sense?"

Dash: "You can't love me up to the sun.  The sun is just a mass of burning gas and lava and fire."

Mom: "Okay, I love you up to Pluto then."

Dash: "Mom, can you just love me up burnt the light?" (We have no idea what this means, but it appears to be his greatest form of love, as he loves his dad merely "stuck on the wall."  *snicker*)

Mom: "I'll love you as much as you'll let me love you, always, Dash."

Dash: "Okay, Mom, I'll love you forever too."

It's hard, this parenting thing, harder than I ever dreamed... but it's also much, much more wonderful than I ever imagined.  We've still got a long row to hoe, this four year-old boy and I, and, at times, it's going to seem like too much hard work.  But as I sit here listening to him snore, I can't help but think that no one could pay me enough to have more kids I'll never do this again -- yet it's been so very worthwhile to have not just one, but two very different, extraordinary children, siblings who love each other so protectively and surely that I know I birthed not only children, but friends.  I am so tired, but I am luckier than I am tired -- and that makes all of the difference.

The weekend that'll make my week

Starting out the weekend, there was a chance it was going to be the weekend from hell.  I braced myself appropriately, apparently, since it turned out to be an absolutely fabulous few days.

Of course (WARNING: EAST COAST FRIENDS, AVERT YOUR EYES!) the weather being around 70 degrees and sunny might have had something to do with it.

Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful as I gathered the kids for a neighbor's Laser Quest birthday party.  Truly, the place was insane.  There were four birthday parties going on at once, and the arcade was in the reception hall.  It would've been easy to lose Dash, who was attached to me while Petunia played laser tag, because of the sheer overcrowding, let alone the poor layout.  Suffice it to say, it wasn't my favorite party ever -- but the kids loved it, and that's what mattered.

The laser tag and arcade party was followed by pizza, etc., though, and imagine the surprise I enjoyed when the party hosts whipped out a gluten-free, soy-cheese pizza!  To some people, this would be far from thrilling, but put yourself in my shoes: I don't remember the last time I ate a slice of pizza.  It has been over a year, maybe two, ever since my wheat allergy became severe enough that I can't even cheat and sneak a bite.  To compound things, Dash's recent diagnosis with a mild dairy allergy has complicated things.  This family eats (ate) a lot of pizza.  So when my neighbor introduced me to Amici's (the one they ordered from is in Mountain View), she greatly improved the quality of my life.  We ordered from there tonight: a soy cheese pizza for Dash, a gluten-free Margherita pizza for me, and a half-cheese, half-pepperoni "normal" large pie for Petunia and the Guv.  The downside was the $53 bill (the GF pizza was $24 of that) -- but my first taste of pizza in over a year made that priceless!  (And it was really, really GOOD too!)

After Laser Tag on Saturday, we returned home to prepare for a visit from my college friend Seamus, his lovely wife, and their two year-old daughter.  Sometimes, these type of visits are more trouble than they're worth -- the work of cooking and cleaning up compounded by constant childcare ("refereeing") can be a real drag.  But not this time!  Our Petunia stepped up to the plate without even being asked, taking over the care of her brother and our young visitor.  Plus, the Guv and I made a very low-maintenace menu of chili, quesadillas, veggie and cheese trays -- that, some wine and beer, and it was a very easy, enjoyable evening.  I don't remember the last time I had meaningful adult conversation with kids in the house.  What a special night!

And then this morning, I slept in... which was actually a problem, since I woke up at 8:35 am and was supposed to be at Dash's preschool from 9-3 for a "maintenance day."  For the uninformed, "maintenance day" is code for "wiping boogers off of toys, tables, etc." and it was totally gross.  My son loves this preschool, but it is just not my bag... too much work, too much cleaning that I don't even want to do in my own house, too much dirt... All that said, the Guv recently figured out that to take my son to the drop-off preschool, I'd have to earn about $12g to pay for it... So we stay at the right school for Dash, the wrong school for me (though I have made some great friends there, so someday I'll stop saying that). 

While I attended Booger Day, the Guv took Petunia, her two friends N and Z, and Dash on a super-long bike ride to Stanford's campus, where they launched stomp rockets, dunked in a fountain (did I mention it was 72 today?) and slurped Jamba Juice.  The Guv is exhausted, and I am hugely impressed that he took that on himself.  When I commented to him that this weekend was like one long playdate for our friend Petunia, he chuckled, "yeah -- just like our life was growing up.  This is how it's supposed to be.  Like the good old days!" 

I'm not sure that I'm up for weekends jam-packed with mutiple others' kids yet -- though breaking it up with some friends and wine sure did help!  And the Guv is right about one thing: these are the good old days, made new again through our young 'uns.  What a fun weekend.  I hope that it's just the start of a magnificent new year in our new California home.

Those were different years

Growing up in northern West Virginia, I found most of my big-ticket entertainment in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  I enjoyed Pirates and Steelers games with my grandparents, and my parents took us to the symphony, Buhl Planetarium and the zoo.  With my best childhood friend, I rode a bumper-float behind her parents' speedboat at the intersection of the Three Rivers and attended my first concert: Billy Joel.  As fondly as all of these memories, I recall surviving my early teen angst by tuning into B-94 FM.  Ahhh, those were different years.

These memories came flooding back to me during our recent Vermont vacation, as I had some alone time in our rented Grand Marquis (Style?  We haz it.) and decided to turn on some tunes at 2:30 on a lovely Friday afternoon.  Finding a station with old-skool hair-band music wasn't hard, as I picked up the car in New Hampshire.  After listening to "Nothin' but a Good Time" my jaw hit the very large floorboard as a Trojan condom ad came on.  Did I mention that this was 2:30 in the afternoon?

Aghast as I was, though, I realized that this fairly graphic ad would not have been played during "family hours" back in my day.  Instead, those were the days of Spuds Macenzie and cigarette ads.  I'm not sure if a mid-day Trojan ad means that sex is no longer taboo, just as I'm not sure that the absence of cigarette and beer ads mid-day means that those addictions are either taboo or under control enough not to warrant ads anymore.  I can't read too much into these ad placements in their vastly different times, as I never studied marketing (and never will -- yawn).

What I am a scholar of, though, is parenting.  While my parents never turned on B94 in our car (just not their kind of music), my best friend's very Catholic mother always had it blaring for us.  I wonder if she still listens to it, and if B94 is playing similar ads.  In my car these days, we listen to an I-pod; but, for a few seconds in my "cop car" in New Hampshire, I thought to myself that my kids are missing out on enjoying the radio.  I take that back.  Maybe it makes me an old biddy to want to avoid questions about condoms and sex from my very-perceptive eight year-old before it's time.  2:30 on a Friday afternoon, in a car, prompted by the radio, will never be the right time for me.  So, alas, they'll miss out on the radio, and on the radio ads, at least until they're having their own teen angst and figure out that they can tune in.  By then, they'll know what a condom is anyway, as the Guv and I will have taught them even if the schools haven't.  Yet I can't help feeling that a Trojan ad, played mid-day, means a loss of innocence in our society that I damn sure feel should still be there.   Then again, the song lyrics they'd be hearing aren't exactly clean either.  At least I control what's on my daughter's I-pod, for now anyway.  (As for what she hears at school... well, I'm probably silly to be worried about a radio ad!  But that's a subject for another post...)