tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61198900375684992462024-03-18T04:47:33.058-05:00View from the Hawks NestPerched at the intersection of mother and marketer.LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.comBlogger191125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-28481605837273961282018-10-10T14:30:00.000-05:002018-10-10T14:30:10.227-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am still here. I am still growing and evolving and learning. I am still working and mothering. Crying, laughing. Loving. I am still thankful.LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-5302185122896109292016-06-27T11:29:00.000-05:002016-06-27T11:29:50.065-05:00Done and Done<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
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I spent the good part of the day trying to convince a male,
50-something, childless colleague that his assumptions on Life As Mom were
incorrect. When a boardroom marketing-to-moms conversation diverted into mom
guilt territory, he was almost dismissive, even as the moms in the room leaned
into our well-honed patience skills and took time to explain. </div>
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“Why in the world
would peer moms have any influence on whether you'd give your son medication?” he said. (I
paraphrase.) </div>
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You see, as an illustrative focus-group-of-one example for our
conversation and assignment at hand, a fellow mom colleague had shared the
hand-wringing experience deciding to medicate her son with ADHD. (While I
naturally fist-bumped her across the table. Been there. Done that.) But our older co-worker couldn’t
fathom why peer mom judgment would have had any part in the hand-wringing. We
patiently explained to our non-parent-yet-self-identified-mom-expert that
judgments are heaped upon moms from the moment of conception. (Are you going to
find out the gender in advance of birth and if so, what does that say about
you? Breast or bottle? Do you have a birth plan? Are you tough enough to go au
naturel? To circumcise or not? What is your childcare plan? Oh really? Do you
even love your child?) I digress. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So even before my colleague’s son received his diagnosis,
she was already aware of the debate around whether parents should medicate
their children and the points of view from each side of the aisle. (I wondered
silently if male-colleague-who-shall-remain-nameless had ever heard the term
vac-cin-A-tions.) Yeah, obviously she researched the options and consulted her
doctor. But the inputs for moms aren’t so simple. Every decision we make on
behalf of our kids is debatable in the Courtroom of Fellow Moms’ Opinions.
Every decision we make is somehow big enough to potentially damage them for
life. And whose fault will that be? Dad’s? Ha. How in the world do we survive?<o:p></o:p></div>
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One would think it would be enough to make moms turn away
from social media – the major source for the constant barrage of unwarranted
opinion and unsolicited advice on the minutia of Everyday Momming. Advice we
moms didn’t even know we needed, but our anxiety-ridden brains convince us that
we may at some point down the line and so we’ll absorb and file it all away
somewhere in the frontal lobe for future reference. How to raise your toddler
son so he’ll be a woman-respecting adult. How to avoid pesticides in your kids’
food so you don’t accidentally predispose them to cancer. Reasons bilingual children are more likely to
make more money in their eventual careers. (Aren’t you taking them to regular
Mandarin lessons?) I don’t even know if any of this is true, but it’s slewed at
me daily and who reads more than a headline anymore? Who pays attention to the
validity of every source? What it all adds up to is one aggregate headline:
None of us is doing enough. What a
downer. A hand wringer, actually.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Last week, eMarketer reported the findings of a new study
(and I do know the source on this one: Edison) showing moms are checking
Facebook more often today than ever before – at 10 times per day and mostly via
mobile phone. This space that frankly serves as the virtual court of opinion
and unsolicited advice is sucking us in more and more. Why?<o:p></o:p></div>
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At the same time, we laugh it off in IRL conversation. We
admit to being sucked into a photo gallery of bento boxes that will expand kids’
palettes in more adventurous ways over lunchtime. Is the creative bento box
really taking the school cafeteria by storm? Please. We confess that we nailed
that GMO-free, certified organic side dish of peas last night, but Johnny only
ate the main course – blue box mac ‘n cheese. Meh, best effort. We toast our Type-B
mom friends over a glass of wine when we steal a few minutes of happy hour to
remind ourselves we’re well-adjusted capable women who, by the way, grew human
beings in our bodies. Sometimes we laugh in the face of Mom Anxiety. But the
undercurrent is strong, friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My colleague, bless his heart, couldn’t fathom that we
would get side-trackedly sucked into bento boxes we’ll never construct without
proactively having Google searched for ‘creative bento box lunch ideas for
kids.’ The hell? <o:p></o:p></div>
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So yeah, dear childless male colleague who shall remain
nameless, the next time you are tempted to scoff at the perils of motherhood’s
mindset, please remember this: you’ve already been judged in the Courtroom of Fellow
Moms’ Opinions and you’re sentenced to time out. And a gag order. <o:p></o:p></div>
LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-44809694563050455372014-07-25T16:57:00.001-05:002014-07-25T16:57:23.431-05:00Poking at keys"What do you write about?"<br />
<br />
I've gotten that question a few times today because I'm at the annual BlogHer conference of women who publish online. And, to my surprise, I've met the question with a moment of pause. Not because I (admittedly) haven't written much lately, but because so often what my brain processes and sends to my fingers to poke out on my keyboard is a free flow and not well planned. But at the same time, the reason I go for days,weeks or months without writing is because I'm afraid of the free flow and exposing too much of what my brain is processing.<br />
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"I write about life with kids," I said.<br />
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And I guess that's what I do here. And I guess that's also what I stop myself from writing about. And it's hard to make that the answer because "life with kids" sounds so trivial and menial... an oscillation between boring and saccharine. But in reality, it's layered and complex and heart bursting... and hard. I overthink. "What do you write about?" is too close to "what do you think about?" and I won't give that away.<br />
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See? Not well planned.<br />
<br />LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-89889290185985490482014-05-27T23:27:00.000-05:002014-05-27T23:27:00.099-05:00A Sad Goodbye<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
If I have learned one thing about motherhood in eight
years doing it, it is that nothing should surprise me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But yet, I am so surprised at how emotional I am about one thing in particular.
My sister says it’s the hormones. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For 13 months, I have personally nurtured my baby girl
with a gift only her mother can give. And now, that door is about to close. We
are both growing and moving on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When the boys were infants, I worked hard and did what I
was supposed to do and went through the motions of nursing them because I had
to and at six months, they each were done. They were too busy to sit still and
just nurse. They had other things to do and couldn’t be bothered. And
truthfully, it felt to me more bothersome than anything else. Finding the time
and place to get it done seemed so much more impossible then. It was a chore
and I pushed on as far as I could and when that chapter ended, I knew I did my
best and gave them what I could and we moved on to formula and on with life. It
was matter-of-fact. They needed to be fed and I fed them the way I was supposed
to for as long as I could. And then I was free.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But now, feeding my baby isn’t a chore. It’s a bond. In
fact, it’s a gift. And it’s ending.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We have survived sinus infections, flu, mastitis, pneumonia,
and business trips. I have pumped in cars (parked and moving), in bathrooms, in
airports, in offices, and in the Louisiana swamp. I remembered vitamins and
counted ounces of water intake and measured and timed alcohol consumption.
Whenever we left the house, I would keep an eye on the clock and a part of my
brain would constantly be ready to alert me as to when it was time for the next
feeding. My nursing cover was always ready to whip out, no matter when or where
my baby needed to eat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We plowed through The Great Incident wherein a certain
very important person who shall go unnamed accidentally left an entire month’s
worth of frozen pumped milk in a hot car and ruined it. I have never felt so
devastated - as if I experienced the death of family member or the loss of a
limb. And yet, we powered through and pumped and restocked the supply and
soldiered on. Perhaps one of my proudest accomplishments. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Because it was that important. Not just for her consumption,
but for our bond. Our thing that only we could have and only I could do for
her. I am the only person who could give her the nutrition she has needed to
live, to grow and to thrive. I alone have provided her with that, and all from within the cradle of my arms. But now it is
coming to an end and so is this unique bond we share. And with it, I say goodbye to this life stage
of mothering infants.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And it’s just so surprisingly sad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-35452587942824009942014-05-22T10:33:00.001-05:002014-05-29T15:57:53.735-05:00EightWe pulled into the garage and your dad turned off the ignition. Everyone got out and went inside but something made you and I linger a little longer. It was your birthday eve – your favorite subject of the moment. “Can you believe you’re almost eight!?” I said. “This is the last night you’ll ever be seven.”<br />
<br />
You crawled from the third row and perched yourself next to me, atop the console between the two front seats. “I can’t believe it,” you proclaimed with a sly smile. “I can’t believe that means I’ve been a mom for eight years,” I pointed out and grabbed you for a hug. “Did you know you made me a mom?” I said. “You gave me that gift.”<br />
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You held on tight – you, the kid who is always so pissed that you’re not yet a teenager, that you still have to live with mom and dad rather than on your own as a self-sufficient free spirit who answers to no one – you held on and so I did too, rubbing your back. “What a gift you gave me,” I softly repeated.<br />
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You looked at me with tears in your almost-8-year-old eyes. “Now I’m crying tears of happiness,” you said. And so was I.<br />
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These are the moments I treasure in the midst of ADHD and defiance and homework hell. In the mess of the daily grind, and anxiety, and hidden triggers that others around us can’t seem to relate to, like when you absolutely must be the last person in the gym after basketball practice, meaning that even the guy who turns off the lights and locks up better get out before you or else you’re gonna lose it.<br />
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You have moved on from calling me “Mommy” to “Mom,” from trains to skateboards, from pajamas to athletic shorts. Your feet stink, you leave the door open and you always have a ball in hand. But even behind your tough-guy persona I still catch you, though fleeting, as my first baby.<br />
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Your teacher told us this morning that you think differently than everyone else. When the assignment was to make an American flag, you refused to have yours laminated because you wanted it to ripple like the way you notice real flags rippling. When asked to create a city scene, everyone else drew buildings on paper but you had to fabricate yours in 3-D, consenting to not hang it up with everyone else’s so that your constructed buildings could actually stand up.<br />
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You are passionate and determined and quirky and individual. Sometimes the way you make everything uniquely yours can drive your dad and I batty. We try to remember it’s not about us. We try to not squash your spirit just because we have agendas and bedtimes to manage. But we’re still growing along with you.<br />
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You acknowledged recently that Autumn, whom you’ve said for maybe three years you are going to marry one day, doesn’t really hang out with you. You’re thinking maybe it’ll be Maggie or Brooke now. It’s all of course meaningless but your heart seems so fragile and sensitive. It’s amazing how at 8 you straddle the fence of tough guy and sensitive boy. And how you push and pull us back and forth with you, alternating between moments of sheer let’s-watch-a-move-and-snug-under-blankets joy and those of whatever-mom-wants-is-exactly-the-opposite-that-I-want discord.<br />
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You are one of my favorite people on Earth and I couldn’t love you more. You, who made me a mother. Who gave me that gift.LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-68147828452889786752014-05-22T10:30:00.000-05:002014-05-22T10:30:50.227-05:00One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtjYFw95V6bsDzTPXYvv7egq7xHk4TGeAXiLdl22w4XWg3BzGNeLx4Bx9tOL0nPRh5adVlJ26znuBCB5rDXv0QT75NdHSVa3W1jvOZpjQ1hGla6v02PxTbWrsQgJFa5liEyT-9-uymkPV0/s1600/RLP_5115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_lm_79747="null" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtjYFw95V6bsDzTPXYvv7egq7xHk4TGeAXiLdl22w4XWg3BzGNeLx4Bx9tOL0nPRh5adVlJ26znuBCB5rDXv0QT75NdHSVa3W1jvOZpjQ1hGla6v02PxTbWrsQgJFa5liEyT-9-uymkPV0/s1600/RLP_5115.jpg" height="426" kta="true" width="640" /></a></div>
She looks out the window and points suddenly, a surprised expression on her face and an elevated voice: "Dad!" He's mowing the lawn. My heart pings a little. She says "Dad" so much more often than anything else. But she still clutches me as if I might disappear at any moment, she reaches her tiny arms out for me to come get her, hold her, hold on. She collapses her little self on top of me in the bed in the mornings. As if she had been looking for me in her sleep, and upon finding me, right next to her the whole time, she is almost relieved and determined to keep me there. I relish these little moments that make up our life today. The third time around, my sense of what is fleeting is keener than ever before. I know she'll push me away one day, but for now, I am her comfort and her hero and I couldn't have a more important title in my life. How funny that one year ago, we were just getting to know each other. LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-81304378094962452112013-12-31T20:42:00.000-06:002013-12-31T20:42:15.585-06:00A Short Reflection on a Short YearI'm sitting up (hooray for at least sitting up) in bed, propped up by pillows, laptop glowing in my face, sleeping baby cradling my hip and breathing rhythmically in and out. I can't remember the last time in my life I was so sick. I am on day five of fever, chills, aches, coughs, and surely death's door - the whole nine yards. What a wonderfully ruined Christmas vacation. This is the kind of sick that isolates you to bed upstairs while you get to listen to the family open their stockings and eat their Christmas dinner downstairs. Yes, next year I will be getting that flu shot. <br />
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I am alone on New Year's Eve with just my girl, while the guys have gone to a germ-free friend's celebration. What a wonderfully ruined New Year's Eve. But in the stillness of this house, and having read my book, caught up on my People, and watched the entire season one of Downton Abbey, I'm suddenly struck with the realization that I have no other obligation than to reflect on this year. <br />
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We are a blessed family of FIVE. <br />
<br />
We survived the Great House Remodel. And I even managed not to maul any of the contractors who spent my entire maternity leave in the house with me.<br />
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We are fighting the vicious beast that is ADHD and though it's an exhausting daily battle for all of us, I believe we mark a W on more days than not.<br />
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We have cultivated new meaningful friendships in the arms of a community.<br />
<br />
We got to introduce our sacred beach and annual family tradition to the newest member.<br />
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We celebrated 10 years of marriage. We are high school sweethearts who have grown into teammates.<br />
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We have contributed time, talent and treasure to local causes that can benefit from what we have to offer.<br />
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We are given a daily gift of watching our boys love our girl, and vice versa.<br />
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They say the days are long but the years are short and it feels no more true than at this time of year. How do I have an 8-month-old baby? How am I possibly going to remember all the little moments of this precious, fleeting time that I find myself begging my brain constantly to imprint? It's the catch-22 of a full life: it will not last. So here's to hoping 2014 brings more big and little moments that make me catch my breath and hit the pillow hard at night with the knowledge that I did my best to earn it every day. That I worked hard and played hard and prioritized appropriately. And that one year from right now, I will be cursing time, begging it to slow down while also recognizing that my begging means it was again a year full of so much to be thankful for. <br />
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Cheers to you and yours and happy new year!LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-30435503398078027452013-12-09T15:43:00.003-06:002013-12-09T15:44:34.372-06:00When Girl-Power Marketing Accidentally Does the OppositeI have long believed I am a psychologist or sociologist trapped in a PR gal's body. Or perhaps it's just that I was drawn to a career in marketing comms because I am so fascinated by how marketing can make people believe and even do things they may not have believed or done otherwise. Behavioral psychology. And maybe that's also why since college I have had a thing about gender-based targeting.<br />
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<br />
Check out my <a href="http://www.modernmom.com/950997fa-5eb8-11e3-b042-bc764e0546c6.html" target="_blank">latest post</a> at ModernMom.com, where I (probably not very popularly) discuss what I see as an big miss (though in fairness I think it was inadvertent) by a toy brand trying to debunk the myth that only boys should like engineering. I just don't like the approach this particular brand *coughGoldieBloxcough* took.</div>
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Do you agree? Disagree? Tell me about it.</div>
LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-79879889462967950652013-07-16T11:09:00.001-05:002013-07-16T11:09:58.738-05:00To My DaughterI open my blurry eyes in the morning and see you there. I am amazed you are still here each day. That you are really part of our family.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUmxjMFAlWdYWBTzJ_1ml63PD4YHOKWKE5giJls7GOLgOmvctLauMzvE5RoXjBpdfFje9WYIHglnDMlUv-rFCxCJj8reFoQo1lqJQQw6do80w4kW9kjz2f4As7NFc70i5U9OmYMzOSX4Q/s1600/0015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" iya="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUmxjMFAlWdYWBTzJ_1ml63PD4YHOKWKE5giJls7GOLgOmvctLauMzvE5RoXjBpdfFje9WYIHglnDMlUv-rFCxCJj8reFoQo1lqJQQw6do80w4kW9kjz2f4As7NFc70i5U9OmYMzOSX4Q/s320/0015.jpg" width="320" /></a>I pinch myself regularly. Thankfully, I am not waking up from this dream.</div>
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Your story started almost a year ago, when your dad, brothers and I were in the car on our way to the airport, headed to the family beach house and I made us stop at Walgreens on the drive north so I could purchase a pregnancy test. I got sick in the plastic Walgreens sack. Your dad and I exchanged looks. I took the test in the airport bathroom and gave him the news in the terminal. You were already with us. This was happening. We managed to keep the news of you secret between just the two of us for several months even while we lived with Mimi as our house was remodeled. We didn’t know when we had created the blueprints with our architect several months beforehand that we were adding space for you.</div>
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I have waited months to write these words because I am so desperate to make them count; to live up to the standards you’ve set. Perfection. It’s an impossible goal so I move forward anyway, expecting missteps but doing my best. Just like in mothering. </div>
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In my belly you made me crave anything tomato-y. Salsa, spaghetti sauce, pizza sauce. And anything involving a mix of peanut butter and chocolate. I was sure you would have peanut butter colored hair based on the amount I consumed. </div>
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I find myself reminiscing about you growing and stretching inside me, kicking and hiccupping. This is not my first rodeo. I know I will forget how that felt and I already grieve for these memories that are so fleeting in the course of motherhood. This is the story of you, now. The snuggly baby ball of you that is just stopping by on her path of growth. I plead with time to stand still, while simultaneously looking forward to the next phase of you being unveiled.<br />
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You arrived in late spring and when we left the hospital with you, there was a May snowstorm. Welcome to Life, a place where we shrug our shoulders and try to go with the flow. In the 11 weeks that have followed, you’ve done just that. You eat and sleep like a dream and your yelling, screaming brothers don’t even faze you. I believe you got used to them in utero. And based on the chaos you heard, you figured out that you would need to be flexible. Thank you.</div>
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You love to be outside. You seem lulled into a peaceful state by nature sounds and smells around you. I hope a yearning to be outside stays with you forever. You gaze up at me from your seat in the stroller as we walk and I gaze back, overwhelmed with all the life advice I want to impart. Be a helper. Stand up for what’s right. Extend your hand to the outcast. Identify your gifts, then cultivate and share them. Stay off of reality shows and out of tattoo parlors. Respect yourself and treat your body as a gift on loan from your Creator. Keep the faith. The list is endless. What will you learn from my words and what from just living, experiencing, observing? I feel anxious pressure to set the best example.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCB26-4NpIZ3etYnb7EML10fuKGyE4LMo_WxZnY0pnSfzmpiLUAsFZDWdaocr4jk_Do0KS3FPzEwXXmAaT4PgfjvUw-mC8XoxKrVjmT26zrx3oVimbiS-3IzJITcURrkCiZrLrAjlqPDC4/s1600/0014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" iya="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCB26-4NpIZ3etYnb7EML10fuKGyE4LMo_WxZnY0pnSfzmpiLUAsFZDWdaocr4jk_Do0KS3FPzEwXXmAaT4PgfjvUw-mC8XoxKrVjmT26zrx3oVimbiS-3IzJITcURrkCiZrLrAjlqPDC4/s320/0014.jpg" width="214" /></a>I know there will come a time(s) that you’ll become so annoyed with me and that’s okay. (I’m sure your grandmother secretly looks forward to those full-circle moments.) I’ll try to be patient, give space and wait for you to come around. I also hope there will be times you are proud to be this woman’s daughter. I will tell you about the day you accompanied me to the office, just a few weeks into your life, as I was promoted to Partner. I want you to learn from me how to work hard in pursuit of a rewarding passion. Not how to fall back on your laurels or be enabled. At the same time, you inspire me to cut back, reexamine priorities and seek treatment for my sometimes workaholism. You are my treatment. I know you will remind me over the next many years, when I want to be reminded and when I don’t, to stop and exhale.</div>
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I need to tell you about your brothers. You wouldn’t believe how in love with you they are. Even Graham, who upon learning that you would be a sister cried real tears. “But she’s going to be bossy!” he lamented through sobs. I know we’ll recount that story time and again with a giggle, but oh that boy. I believe he thought you would come out as a fellow first-grader who stole his toys and liked to tell him what to do, which (word to the wise) apparently he does not appreciate. But the first night you were home with us from the hospital, he held you in his 7-year-old arms and proclaimed, “I guess I wanted a girl the whole time.” He is protective and proud. As you get to know him and come to appreciate his quirks, you will be a better, more empathetic person for knowing and loving him in all his uniqueness.</div>
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Everyone says you look just like Reid. He loves that. He is gentle and understated and timid around you. But really, it’s not just your effect on him. You will learn from him how to be a sweetheart, a listener, a pleaser. At night he asks if you will snug with him in his bed while I read to him. I ask him if he will read to you one day and he looks up with me with a nod and a smile. That’s so Reidy. Remember that when Graham’s extremes push you too far, Reid will be your soft place to land.</div>
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These boys have taught me how to mother to this point. I hope you’ll find they’ve done a good job with me and consider yourself a lucky addition to their team.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQBdO6FlUrcoKbj0Hb5DHmxWqNk3t8XgTPeZ5SmXLiw-Y9ew3vpeMMQSiPi3L5L7-sIeHDjmTHear65BP16OboUv2KhYKoGXDP3GcROoIoqNKLW0uemRF6LMZuG6VLS8QX6xeWmEL6nYjv/s1600/0001%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" iya="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQBdO6FlUrcoKbj0Hb5DHmxWqNk3t8XgTPeZ5SmXLiw-Y9ew3vpeMMQSiPi3L5L7-sIeHDjmTHear65BP16OboUv2KhYKoGXDP3GcROoIoqNKLW0uemRF6LMZuG6VLS8QX6xeWmEL6nYjv/s320/0001%5B1%5D.jpg" width="211" /></a>I hope you also find luck in being your daddy’s daughter. One day when you are older I will tell you about my complicated relationship with my own dad, but more importantly what I learned from it. Part of that education was what I wanted in a father to my children. You will now benefit from that hard-learned lesson. Your daddy is the man by which any of your future suitors should be measured and often fall short until one day, someone doesn’t. When that happens, and not beforehand, you’ll know. In other words, never, never settle or compromise your expectations in this arena. Never. Ever.</div>
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While I’m still early in this motherhood journey, I know enough to know that while daydreams of the Future You are inevitable, we really have just met and you haven’t shared much about yourself yet. In seven years of parenting, I have learned the most important lesson: that you are not a mini version of your parents, or who we think you are or want you to be, but you, Blair, yourself. And as you let us get to know you more with each passing year, I hope you’ll find that you have no louder cheerleaders anywhere in the world than the four who will always be here in the Hawks Nest – your nest – where we have enthusiastically made room for you. You, my daughter. </div>
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Welcome to the world.</div>
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Love,</div>
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Mom</div>
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LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-26639414661554124222013-02-12T15:10:00.000-06:002013-02-12T15:10:23.182-06:00Breathe in, breathe out<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Progress happens one day at a time. Kinda like growing a human being inside your body.</div>
LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-84777342943275497012013-01-30T12:59:00.000-06:002013-01-30T12:59:42.938-06:00NowI look down at my ring and scratch some dirt off the diamond with my thumbnail. Things are cloudy, just like its surface. Just like the air around me, spitting snow. Snow that annoyingly invades my space when I roll the window down to tell the Starbucks drive-thru speaker which caffeinated escape I need today. I roll it back up before a crackly voice responds. Doesn’t she know it’s snowing out here? Faster, faster. Move faster. Away from this morning and towards whatever comes next.<br />
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I am a year older today than I was yesterday.<br />
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Nothing makes any more sense today than it did then.<br />
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The boys gave me a card with a perforated crown. I painstakingly poked it out of its cardstock home and put it on my head, feeling uncomfortable with a fake grin. The smallest things feel the biggest. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Move faster. Towards the next thing. Something else.<br />
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They were almost as excited about my birthday as they would be about their own. But the problems of mundane daily life, getting through one step at a time, those don’t disappear just because it’s someone’s birthday. Their excitement makes up for my lack of. I’m grateful for it.<br />
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My computer dings the alert of an incoming email. “Help,” it says. I chew my lip too hard and it’s bleeding. Angry red pulses just below a thin surface and with a little more pressure, release.<br />
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Something’s gotta give.LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-11184515847354365662013-01-08T21:17:00.000-06:002013-01-08T21:17:34.505-06:00My Broken BoyWatching him struggle with a pencil in one hand and a piece of paper in front of him, I am a mess of emotions. I want to shake him. I want to scream at him. I want to rip up the paper and tell him it’s okay and I know he’ll figure it out in his own way eventually so who cares about these stupid spelling words. I want to cry.<br />
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It takes him over an hour to write four sentences. There are seven more.<br />
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I look at the faint blue and pink lines on the thin paper. I hate those lines. The sky, clothesline and ground. The letters are supposed to fit nicely between them. Letters that you can’t form when ADHD wins. So often, it wins.<br />
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My son struggles with barriers in his brain that I can’t comprehend because they don’t exist in mine. And they make me angry at him. And then reminding myself it’s not his fault they are there, I get angry at myself for my misguided frustrations. I love my son. I hate his ADHD.<br />
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It’s bedtime. I tell him he must stop now and turn in unfinished work. And he cries, anticipating his teacher’s disappointment, whom he adores in spite of the fact that he is not the prized student. The boy cries because he didn’t finish his sentences, but yet, he can’t (?) won’t (?) finish. <br />
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Will he ever? He is smart, so smart. He asks the right questions and comprehends, inquires, analyzes, problem solves. But follow a simple direction? Write some words on a piece of paper? He stares at it. He asks about noises, and erasers and why is this pencil so sharp and Mrs. Bundy has paper like this, and my Stompeez are slippery and what is Reid doing and, and, and…<br />
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I email his teacher with the heads up. I search for solutions beyond medication. New strategies. Tweaks. Options. Diet changes. The medication is on only during the day. It’s off at homework time. Our time with him is <em>off</em> time. And oh how it throws everything <em>off</em>. But still I have a love/hate relationship with the little blue pill he takes each morning. It helps and even he knows it. But he is so little. What about the long-term? Is enough really known? What if?<br />
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I try to keep my focus on ways I can help my son. I try to separate ADHD from my relationship with him. I try to silence the white noise of society’s judgment. <em>His parents should be stricter disciplinarians. My child would never. Such behavior problems. Too much TV.</em> Or, those who think ADHD is a cop-out label. Every other kid “has” it, right? The squirrely kid? The kid who doesn’t want to follow directions? The kid in her own world? <em>Oh, of course, it’s ADHD!</em> Someone once asked how we had Graham “diagnosed.” In quotation marks like it was made up. A mask. Are that many pediatricians throwing meds at first graders these days that this real misery has become synonymous with some imaginary state? <br />
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ADHD is very real here. And it is horrible. And it will never leave my son alone. Just like him, dancing around that lined piece of paper, it will never finish.<br />
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LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-86330536652092445212012-12-11T17:57:00.000-06:002012-12-11T17:57:37.937-06:00Getting ThereSlowly but (painfully) surely, we are getting there. We will one day move back into our home. We will get out of my mother's hair and take our shoes to a place where her puppy can't chew on them. We will have our own space again. It will happen. Right? Right. Looking at pictures like these remind me of that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiMER-NanLhZRM16VtCgZ0x2bmBFt8B1MKI6bBqXe83re0qym9tPz3gOTYpDBuAkEnyAy_MkzmS4hZ5xGOTGdmhy6flZWZuHOs88ZLmsG395mCo3C9YYf_rPLdGR-EwQH7K0tv47lcGUK-/s1600/photo3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img bea="true" border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiMER-NanLhZRM16VtCgZ0x2bmBFt8B1MKI6bBqXe83re0qym9tPz3gOTYpDBuAkEnyAy_MkzmS4hZ5xGOTGdmhy6flZWZuHOs88ZLmsG395mCo3C9YYf_rPLdGR-EwQH7K0tv47lcGUK-/s400/photo3.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Starting work on second floor facade framing... notice there is no more front balcony eye sore/safety hazard! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And a few days (weeks?) later, a tarp, which may or may not be covering up the fact that nothing else has been done, but I'll give the benefit of the doubt since there are new windows in...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAmHKpiKMlWK6aBx82sYJ9NTcvMZ8zdyhYoyZ99IQeMzbSvHgXdbkUNAIwGtTJ151VGSgpb-qdYPQGXEfmKc_WIKnMMFcEJ3-TocbNcEkMk43IGcnMtMd1LsF4wbjlTJ3LOBk2XzUFNsfG/s1600/photo6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: left; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img bea="true" border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAmHKpiKMlWK6aBx82sYJ9NTcvMZ8zdyhYoyZ99IQeMzbSvHgXdbkUNAIwGtTJ151VGSgpb-qdYPQGXEfmKc_WIKnMMFcEJ3-TocbNcEkMk43IGcnMtMd1LsF4wbjlTJ3LOBk2XzUFNsfG/s400/photo6.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the back. A big, beautiful window overlooking the backyard in what is now officially the baby's room. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add some pretty windows in the master and things look less hollow and more homey... almost...</td></tr>
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LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-41878611273257453212012-11-30T09:04:00.000-06:002012-11-30T09:04:42.844-06:00Lucky Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is my man.<br />
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My baby daddy.<br />
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Here he is winking at me, sitting in a bay-side bar in one of our favorite spots. <br />
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He's probably had a few Bud Lights and is clearly wearing a couple days' scruff.<br />
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I love it. And him.<br />
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Lucky.LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-34030750525716653612012-11-29T16:21:00.000-06:002012-11-29T16:21:19.383-06:00All this in one Fall?The starts and stops in my posting schedule are probably indicative of the volume of stuff in my brain clogging up the flow of words from mind to fingers to keyboard.<br />
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It's a tangled web.<br />
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Since my last post, I have quietly celebrated a new life growing in me. And also shed tears for my best friend and her daughter over a leukemia diagnosis. <br />
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I have watched our home lose more of its walls, floors, and shell. And I have watched new lumber raise up, constructed where old once was.<br />
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I have ached for various colleagues, many of whom I spend more time with than my own family members, as they have alternately contemplated divorce, prayed for their infant son's cancer to go away (again), taken in a homeless person, and buried their mother-in-law. And I have marveled at the fact that no matter what is happening at home, behind closed doors, we are a group of people who show up and perform at the top of our games and bring passion and enthusiasm, even if it's cobbled together some days, to a job we are truly invested in. <br />
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I have held my tongue and my breath while navigating the tricky waters of first grade reading curriculum as a parent of a smart kid who is bound by hurdles in his brain that he didn't create. And I have reveled in the relief of his good grades, awesome spelling tests and a teacher who is actually on his side, working with, not against, him and his quirks.<br />
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I have been reminded that I am the daughter of a selfless mother whom I don't outwardly appreciate enough. But oh how I appreciate her. She is my village. I could not _______ (you name it) without her.<br />
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I have tried to stop myself from thinking that things are going so well right now we must be in for a disaster around the corner. <br />
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I am emotional.<br />
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I am pregnant.<br />
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I am getting fat. And dealing with my anxieties. And wondering if this will be the last time in my life that I will physically experience this miracle of humanity - that I have the ability to produce and grow another person. Every now and then reminding myself that I need to stop and be conscious of that more often, in the 21 weeks remaining of this unique time of my life. <br />
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I am thankful.<br />
<br />LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-50690129500188215112012-09-26T09:59:00.000-05:002012-09-26T09:59:45.660-05:00A Perfect DateI took the smaller Hawklet on a mommy-son dinner date recently on a whim. One of us suddenly thought cheesecake needed to appear and jump into our bellies. I can't recall exactly which one of us had that hankering... hmm.<br />
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When we arrived at our booth, he insisted on sitting next to me on the same side. I nearly shed a tear at the gesture. He was the perfect date, excited about being there, about the menu choices, about being just the two of us, about the carb-loading he accomplished.<br />
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We held hands walking back to our car, loaded with take-home bags. I promised him we'd do it again.<br />
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What an easy promise to keep.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFDRCdr7YxUyZSqpc3-bp5TWV_DKh1XhlLg8I7qW4iGfuvKeCOGJ9aMWqHO1W_kdeIxggaFYUp_YgM9oAB8_DkRPWyLisBt3hRhvsxb98tsT50hjOoqonnG8hhk_flBUsUXeTOnBJvFpR0/s1600/Reid+Cheesecake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFDRCdr7YxUyZSqpc3-bp5TWV_DKh1XhlLg8I7qW4iGfuvKeCOGJ9aMWqHO1W_kdeIxggaFYUp_YgM9oAB8_DkRPWyLisBt3hRhvsxb98tsT50hjOoqonnG8hhk_flBUsUXeTOnBJvFpR0/s640/Reid+Cheesecake.JPG" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He could not be more excited to be on a date with Mommy. That, or, to choose his cheesecake flavor. Maybe both.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-15353602819891882862012-09-24T16:25:00.000-05:002012-09-24T16:26:47.487-05:00Home Sweet Demolition<div style="text-align: center;">
So, this? Is (finally!) happening at the Hawks Nest. Our humble abode is in a state of, well, disrepair. But on purpose. Not that I have anything against the 1950s, but the 1950s had called so often asking for its layout and materials back and so we had no choice but to do the polite thing and oblige. Also? This is an attempt for my house to help my mind stop spinning with the constant "we should do this!" and "what if that looked like like that!" ideas that at times could suffocate me. And my poor husband by default.</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp_lUjdG-s1fGIad1AMDViQLPCGvFNl39X6nk7JeYGu0mr5iEPudNLMgytQE8WgdxWGvMwWBtoskCN02k22fnBYZlY-TNflzCYgj0cFkhlzyAYAEuV5iKdM5IqUDr-xYL61qsxGzfQHcAl/s1600/IMG_1678.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp_lUjdG-s1fGIad1AMDViQLPCGvFNl39X6nk7JeYGu0mr5iEPudNLMgytQE8WgdxWGvMwWBtoskCN02k22fnBYZlY-TNflzCYgj0cFkhlzyAYAEuV5iKdM5IqUDr-xYL61qsxGzfQHcAl/s320/IMG_1678.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our friends and family used to share nice meals with us in this room. No soup for you here! Good bye dining room and wood paneling!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSO07zvYDwrGvneqDf134S5fTGtzfLcmNtzVRyBDRD3KFO1xcccn1S7ZxscxXVP7YQjJBiFzze1GJky_DXhwtqoiGGwviJuKfJCoSCclH2Pl4Bb2MD7iSq2P1HOoy6yWfL9mlcLTJ3Uv2/s1600/IMG_1679.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSO07zvYDwrGvneqDf134S5fTGtzfLcmNtzVRyBDRD3KFO1xcccn1S7ZxscxXVP7YQjJBiFzze1GJky_DXhwtqoiGGwviJuKfJCoSCclH2Pl4Bb2MD7iSq2P1HOoy6yWfL9mlcLTJ3Uv2/s320/IMG_1679.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah, the passageway of wasted space. Be gone ye confusing floor plan!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04Mz1AFjx117xxEY0rN6uEX0JR6W7iOY6tQoKF_N-IBxRaQAayLjByGGFymVpFHjAywsINsXHzd7XKncmgBJBIN-38FFLLUnvfFfxgvbv-N6O1DnWUoozatRfjk76jGNiIf7CszT7JSbW/s1600/IMG_1680.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04Mz1AFjx117xxEY0rN6uEX0JR6W7iOY6tQoKF_N-IBxRaQAayLjByGGFymVpFHjAywsINsXHzd7XKncmgBJBIN-38FFLLUnvfFfxgvbv-N6O1DnWUoozatRfjk76jGNiIf7CszT7JSbW/s320/IMG_1680.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who doesn't love an awkwardly narrow TV/family/play room?! Uh, we don't.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEluh5ca8ZhVuQyiPW9nNMe5PirITahK2m_nBv97gQyfsoL9xXEPx3X7Yyv7J26MR0b7sDvKPXnbY3tP3CL81MX1lFSJZeDqJlS8T5YH1MiHuF61ENTbooEzuaIpJfL_rmuzrktksHDyf_/s1600/IMG_1681.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEluh5ca8ZhVuQyiPW9nNMe5PirITahK2m_nBv97gQyfsoL9xXEPx3X7Yyv7J26MR0b7sDvKPXnbY3tP3CL81MX1lFSJZeDqJlS8T5YH1MiHuF61ENTbooEzuaIpJfL_rmuzrktksHDyf_/s320/IMG_1681.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Obviously it makes perfect sense to put the half bath right next to the front door. OBVIOUSLY!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxxMQrmztVbi1kKmmNDrnAoxqjfUyBNXAWfe3xCzTusr6QfUf70PRrq4yEOlPatSxddbggrEs9PP001Cj0zIKr7TM2nft9rckBeKlns_Hd-YZg3YIhv-57bm22XHI-3TcECKgP9UXMMy6/s1600/IMG_1682.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxxMQrmztVbi1kKmmNDrnAoxqjfUyBNXAWfe3xCzTusr6QfUf70PRrq4yEOlPatSxddbggrEs9PP001Cj0zIKr7TM2nft9rckBeKlns_Hd-YZg3YIhv-57bm22XHI-3TcECKgP9UXMMy6/s320/IMG_1682.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is it just me or is that NO INSULATION in an exterior wall? Tsk tsk, 1950 builders.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUSihz42FDVRj-3YbldCKuzEBNBNvkzhV7f7FUAPc18pF_6P7qfRX1eC6Pwdspxrl1K11RIC__h-gthAtua03QexAVmU7fOXs5se61z9PILBnflowqcGbjUVawTd5TjaQJ3q5-kNxt00Pn/s1600/IMG_1683.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUSihz42FDVRj-3YbldCKuzEBNBNvkzhV7f7FUAPc18pF_6P7qfRX1eC6Pwdspxrl1K11RIC__h-gthAtua03QexAVmU7fOXs5se61z9PILBnflowqcGbjUVawTd5TjaQJ3q5-kNxt00Pn/s320/IMG_1683.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This used to be Reid's room; now a hump of something he'd love to climb on is living here. But don't worry, he won't.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTsE6HVv8Nont5tZZYORayUx8p5QoZflTk4dwRACAyn_Y4FNy77mgbNnHkKTFElVA59gl7KWMIAcvsU2uGcwk6F3wB5pnwQeGNT2XSu4WA8xkH99XCn9GeepE3ugb3OGIxMbRp3oZM8e5w/s1600/IMG_1684.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTsE6HVv8Nont5tZZYORayUx8p5QoZflTk4dwRACAyn_Y4FNy77mgbNnHkKTFElVA59gl7KWMIAcvsU2uGcwk6F3wB5pnwQeGNT2XSu4WA8xkH99XCn9GeepE3ugb3OGIxMbRp3oZM8e5w/s320/IMG_1684.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wishing I could have taken the sledge hammer to this - the original 1950 pink and white bathroom - myself, but the contractors beat me to it. Sigh. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXa0_Ucvgz0dGXz_UdLgf24G9z12smJzsxNQRBuDNqH1jipVNmzXKrDrNpdE9SCB_hZQ6o7Q5KOtVVxVxTnQFUw70M-qo0iVNGNeIdrqoTnNCcru1UuCgU64rvGl_9nVllpPExKseypxF/s1600/IMG_1685.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXa0_Ucvgz0dGXz_UdLgf24G9z12smJzsxNQRBuDNqH1jipVNmzXKrDrNpdE9SCB_hZQ6o7Q5KOtVVxVxTnQFUw70M-qo0iVNGNeIdrqoTnNCcru1UuCgU64rvGl_9nVllpPExKseypxF/s320/IMG_1685.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That tiny master closet on the left probably took 5 seconds to eliminate. Gosh I'll miss shoving my wardrobe into that hot mess.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx1QTkYCpmoF5pSTImWDbEhQq_0FnEc-DBq6LaXwCRaHLcwfZjete6xED3eWBz0Nm6X-Ay39-bhMTuSCcp-TNJxfXe-HGVOd6SsNBfw2nXji32c0zo2G22S1VdG28ZvvXcOZClbCrwcgG_/s1600/IMG_1686.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx1QTkYCpmoF5pSTImWDbEhQq_0FnEc-DBq6LaXwCRaHLcwfZjete6xED3eWBz0Nm6X-Ay39-bhMTuSCcp-TNJxfXe-HGVOd6SsNBfw2nXji32c0zo2G22S1VdG28ZvvXcOZClbCrwcgG_/s320/IMG_1686.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Upstairs, minus walls, plus mess, equals progress.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmWPrkp5Dme21wYVrRaFFrLirVxKdQaCT1vps114yCyE69dWwxhgCpbYhJUXxCZtK585oZZV8s0xA2ItwjoptmfJ7k5VqmffOPxyUV3UR0RBdtYd-uT29fEGQAbVXYlOQutilTxENWcoY/s1600/IMG_1687.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmWPrkp5Dme21wYVrRaFFrLirVxKdQaCT1vps114yCyE69dWwxhgCpbYhJUXxCZtK585oZZV8s0xA2ItwjoptmfJ7k5VqmffOPxyUV3UR0RBdtYd-uT29fEGQAbVXYlOQutilTxENWcoY/s320/IMG_1687.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry front deck safety hazard/eye sore. We will never, ever, ever get back together.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
February can't come soon enough (and more so for my sweet saint of a mother who is housing us in the meantime). </div>
LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-13103782531029607962012-09-19T10:54:00.000-05:002012-09-19T10:54:11.924-05:00Ah, to Have It All! (blech)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I was in a client meeting last week when the topic of
moms “having it all” came up. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Gah. I want to stop typing right there. “Having it all”
makes me want to throw up a bit in my mouth. It’s SO OVERDONE. Overused.
Abused. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I’m going to forge on now as I did in that meeting; bear
with me.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The topic actually came up authentically in the course of
this client’s business discussion. It wasn’t a side conversation during a break
in the meeting among the working moms in the room who were lamenting over which
one couldn’t get her 5-mile run in this morning because she had an early board meeting
to zip off to after dropping her three perfectly coifed and ironed children off
at Montessori to continue on their path towards presidency. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Nope, the topic came up in the course of ideating a new
strategic platform for the client, whose primary focus is on the mom consumer.
(You do know what I do for a living, right?)</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I personally have been accused of “having it all” in the
past and while outwardly rolling my eyes, internally secretly loved the
accusation because, well, that competition thing. It’s real, it exists, and don’t
think I have gotten to this stage in my career because I’m not competitive. Why
do you think the “mommy wars” exist? (Oops, throwing up in my mouth again.)
Because moms are competitive. News flash!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
For Pete’s sake, at my son’s soccer game last weekend, I
showed up (un-showered, mind you) wearing a t-shirt, skinny jeans and a long
necklace and another mom in workout gear pointedly asked me why I was so
dressed up. She wasn’t joking. “Have you been to church or something this morning?
Seriously, why so dressed up?” Uhhh…</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Do I really have it all? Psshh, child please.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I yell at my kids. I have no patience for helping with
homework. I’m late. They’re late. Sometimes I’d rather escape to Starbucks with
my laptop than be at home. I’m stressed and anxious and have decided I’m
probably thin only because my heart is constantly racing. I’m sure I project my
stress onto my wee ones (one of whom has been diagnosed with generalized anxiety,
okay?) and my workaholic tendencies are probably giving them self-esteem
issues. Does that make <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> feel
better?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sounds like a dream, right? Just another day in Having It
All! Whee!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Do you think we can just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">decide</i> we should not be so competitive? That we can just decide to
stop the drive towards trying to have it all? I’m telling you, it was mentioned
in the meeting that day. People who are very smart and strategic, at the top of
their games, and who work with moms every day allow this idea to spill out of
their mouths too easily, in my opinion. I’ve heard it. Like, “let’s just help
American moms off this path of destruction called perfectionism! Easy peasy,
done and done!”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
God, if only that whole sentiment came in a pill.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Instead of talking the tired talk about how “we don’t
have to have it all! (wink!),” because God knows we love to beat a dead horse,
let’s have a REAL, blunt, head-on conversation about the fact that yep, we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> all want it all and we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> want it all to be just like we
imagined and we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> want it to be better
than the mom next door to boot. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
If we (and the brands we love) really want to help moms,
how about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feeding into</i> this innate drive,
this wired-in competition, and flip it so that the drive is towards who is the
BEST about shutting off (or attempting to?) the laptop at 5:00 most often? Who does the BEST job of
encouraging her child to learn through play the instead of doing anxiety-ridden
worksheets? Who is the BEST about asking for and leaning on help from her
personal village? Who is the BEST about talking most openly and honestly about
her fears and insecurities when it comes to motherhood? Who is the BEST at
making others around her feel like their no. 1 goal should be to achieve perfectly
imperfect? Who is the BEST at not gossiping about other moms and the way they
manage, acknowledging the fact that none of us knows what’s really going on at
home, in families and personal lives, and God bless us every one. Whew.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Own up to it and then figure out what works for you. What
is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> “all.” And then work it,
mama. Not just for you but also for your need to show Suzy next door that yes, you
indeed are going to rock those hot pink skinny jeans and let them mask your
anxiety about the fact that your demanding job and the needs of your offspring
are in a constant state of war that you will never admit to Suzy. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Because God help you, you will persevere with ALL the
drive you have. All.You.Have.</div>
LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-27168936032718251382012-08-31T11:08:00.001-05:002012-08-31T11:08:32.592-05:00Here<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm0OFTiWteb9DIt2299B3dDtsnkZgPcSy1axidTsZkOOwqBZg6rFeD4AVehCx_-8Z58JwHDgDAbfZ9qAvmwxaS9dCDCivsVYRo3DCCx7M_IErkxP_yQJWjpi5oUXQTimv0hUksNtxlOfmb/s1600/Beach.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm0OFTiWteb9DIt2299B3dDtsnkZgPcSy1axidTsZkOOwqBZg6rFeD4AVehCx_-8Z58JwHDgDAbfZ9qAvmwxaS9dCDCivsVYRo3DCCx7M_IErkxP_yQJWjpi5oUXQTimv0hUksNtxlOfmb/s400/Beach.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Soon I will be here. My soul reviver. My happy place. My beach. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Exhale.</div>
LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-34130744396681929802012-08-27T10:27:00.000-05:002012-08-27T10:27:44.425-05:00A Dinner in the Life<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhULnmMexwq8IIIr7gED2J8bWDRJV3BqbAAZMrCm_7sRmfe767RzrsusGiRmt0KFpxdMkiwSLZimZGPB4206MSdzez2zjeP_R_T1_ODzm1IsH94v3MOZQ9YUBF3phTERrH1ivliDJDDHni1/s1600/IMG_1591.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhULnmMexwq8IIIr7gED2J8bWDRJV3BqbAAZMrCm_7sRmfe767RzrsusGiRmt0KFpxdMkiwSLZimZGPB4206MSdzez2zjeP_R_T1_ODzm1IsH94v3MOZQ9YUBF3phTERrH1ivliDJDDHni1/s400/IMG_1591.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom, it's a Mexican restaurant. What's with the camera? Seriously. What's the big deal? I'm tired.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiua2ucqSD6bhxKx36rcESfql_tLaa_oAzIqXSu98EJlcZ9IIlKqwwAFGekx5lOX1MZTpRtVKPQlzHlzRZMuH_EXOpknAyPf-Euv8D0NL2gX77T6KpHT1oVeREYnhSaaoO3Eai6DDjV7wCW/s1600/IMG_1593.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiua2ucqSD6bhxKx36rcESfql_tLaa_oAzIqXSu98EJlcZ9IIlKqwwAFGekx5lOX1MZTpRtVKPQlzHlzRZMuH_EXOpknAyPf-Euv8D0NL2gX77T6KpHT1oVeREYnhSaaoO3Eai6DDjV7wCW/s400/IMG_1593.jpg" width="400" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But not too tired to get crazy! Which obviously requires a tongue sticking out. Graham, look at me! My tongue is so funny!!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfB6YfjXIFbqbQOYmJLEFhYr85G1Icsjpd0Ulms4U4AwIkdmtQyssSAmnbuTzIAo31jAB-7aKoH4gwGk4-PiVkjvKd10t_FSHhSCUqL3nShftHf4VCoH6q6q1VvgXEArOCQJmbAK1RYGMb/s1600/IMG_1594.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfB6YfjXIFbqbQOYmJLEFhYr85G1Icsjpd0Ulms4U4AwIkdmtQyssSAmnbuTzIAo31jAB-7aKoH4gwGk4-PiVkjvKd10t_FSHhSCUqL3nShftHf4VCoH6q6q1VvgXEArOCQJmbAK1RYGMb/s400/IMG_1594.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where are my shoooooooeess? Did I wear shoes here? Why do shoes always jump off my feeeeeeet? I don't need shoes! </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSuRY_6UdEgQ8NpeOqGVDl_i4gm3uYj30_XS-OqVv4o69qxEhSj0W6r_Wkqo3fdYwJt_r1oX7MK24jA5Wivmi_obwqEG8qlJwMXPp6s8LRRfPVQE_kWMi9akCJnUXDyXv5mzKHQXnTiSYX/s1600/IMG_1595.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSuRY_6UdEgQ8NpeOqGVDl_i4gm3uYj30_XS-OqVv4o69qxEhSj0W6r_Wkqo3fdYwJt_r1oX7MK24jA5Wivmi_obwqEG8qlJwMXPp6s8LRRfPVQE_kWMi9akCJnUXDyXv5mzKHQXnTiSYX/s400/IMG_1595.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Graham, put your arm around me. Look how cute! Let's put our heads together. We are cuuuuuute! Ooh, chips! Chips! CHIPS!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3Qn5Arna568CXHvwMy6O3AjnJyf5WIKCrnJKUr9syY0GVaRJs9emqtunc7J-ojZOE9AL7pAhWcmXfyd18yWLpn4xGKzUgWnNMIqcE65LFYb4TSme8LwC5RCI7fPiW8XX50IJQpQVvx7H/s1600/IMG_1600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3Qn5Arna568CXHvwMy6O3AjnJyf5WIKCrnJKUr9syY0GVaRJs9emqtunc7J-ojZOE9AL7pAhWcmXfyd18yWLpn4xGKzUgWnNMIqcE65LFYb4TSme8LwC5RCI7fPiW8XX50IJQpQVvx7H/s400/IMG_1600.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Okay, NOW let's be even funnier and cuter by making CRAZY faces! We are so cra-zeeeeeee!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I know! Cheesy grins! Oh. So. Funneeee!!! I can't stop laughing at how funny we are! And cute! Did you get that, Mom? Oh, what is this food on my plate? Am I supposed to eat it? Nah. Prob not. Let's get boxes! We need lots of boxes! Does anyone know where my shoes are? I'm going to go use the bathroom BY MYSELF! Wheeeee! GOING OUT TO DINNER IS SO FUN!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-6523833443281958882012-08-23T12:30:00.000-05:002012-08-23T12:31:24.652-05:00I'm Alive!It's been a fast summer. So fast, I never did find time to tell you about it here.<br />
<br />
But I'm back now, looking forward to the fall and many changes in our neck of the woods. More to come on that. In the meantime, feel free to start visiting me again more regularly and I'll promise to keep the cobwebs clear here.<br />
<br />
Deal?<br />
<br />
And while we're agreeing, I hope you'll agree to come check out <a href="http://www.modernmom.com/blogs/liz-hawks/pink-washing-could-it-be-good-for-girls%20" target="_blank">my latest post at ModernMom.com </a>where I revisit my undergrad (ahem, honors-level, ahem) two-year independent study on the effects of advertising to kids in perpetuating gender stereotypes. It's a topic that has stuck with me, and now as a marketer and a mother of two little boys, it pops into my brain time and again. I'm talking about a recent observation of that research in my real life and would love to know what you think. LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-63495115972885621922012-05-18T10:26:00.000-05:002012-05-18T10:26:03.180-05:00The patience of a funny bunny<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3jBCjMkAGtJSeHSamIBU0D_bmO5ZCjWk6w3DSEYa_hCjerZfOnU1T8CWkAhp1bEERhO5PG0Znm-mD5wPl3nL9tvc27aQHJ5I7_vvhDCMRWN1OJyQw_LhTYC-_suO2mA9LaGNrKx6JJ0p/s1600/IMG_1049%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3jBCjMkAGtJSeHSamIBU0D_bmO5ZCjWk6w3DSEYa_hCjerZfOnU1T8CWkAhp1bEERhO5PG0Znm-mD5wPl3nL9tvc27aQHJ5I7_vvhDCMRWN1OJyQw_LhTYC-_suO2mA9LaGNrKx6JJ0p/s320/IMG_1049%5B1%5D.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
Fast asleep, he clutches the same bunny I clutched 30-some years ago.This kid. He slays me with his heart, bigger than his little body. He balances out the crazy chaos of our Hawks nest. <br />
<br />
I like to tell myself he loves this bunny so much because it was once mine. Even though he wanted to cut the bunny's whiskers off with scissors. I noticed recently the bunny now has whiskers on just one side.<br />
<br />
To me, the bunny was Jelly Bean. To him, Funny Bunny (and sometimes <a href="http://viewfromthehawksnest.blogspot.com/2012/04/not-exactly-how-it-happens.html" target="_blank">Margo</a>). How funny that this bunny, claimed and saved from the depths of Mimi's basement storage boxes could be so revived. His musty smell now gone. Instantly best friends with this big-hearted kid. <br />
<br />
Funny Bunny waited patiently on the driveway last night while Reid rode his bike all around the cul-de-sac. Then he waited patiently outside Reid's door in the hallway while we read bedtime stories.<br />
<br />
"Where did you find him?" he asked, relieved, after I brought him to my tucked-in little man.<br />
<br />
"He was waiting for you, right outside your door," I smiled.<br /><br />What a patient bunny. He certainly had been waiting. And now he is so loved, clutched tightly just under the peaceful breath of a little one, once again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-3271519957069249002012-05-04T09:45:00.001-05:002012-05-04T09:45:52.484-05:00You're Doing a Good Job<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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There was something I needed to hear. I didn’t realize it
until an average weekday afternoon, when I heard it and my eyes surprised me by
getting wet. Like unbeknownst to me the tears had been gathering behind them
for a few strong weeks but those words put a big crack in the dam.</div>
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“You’re doing a good job.”</div>
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When is the last time you heard it? That you are doing a
good job <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">as a mother</i>?</div>
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For me, it came not as an obligatory Mother’s Day golf
clap, but on a random Friday afternoon in the midst of specialist appointments
for both boys. The school principal and I had A Conversation. And it was mostly
about how I have no more capacity for negative. Even if you never told me one
time how difficult my child is, I would still know. I know my child. I know he
bounces off the walls and marches to his own drummer and gets stuck on things
inside his mind that other kids would never even notice. I know his energy can
zap that of adults around him. Tell me something you like about him. </div>
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Since I was pregnant with my first hawklet, the
downright-scary-at-times labels have come: “Spina bifida.” “Non-stress tests.”
“Speech delay.” “Generalized Anxiety Disorder.” “Perfectionist.” “ADHD.” And
with the other one: “MRI.” “Albinism.” “Nystagmus.” “Esotropia.” “IEP.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Welcome to parenthood.</div>
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The negative is not exclusive to labels and to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Different</i>. The negative is all over the
news. The Mommy Wars have perpetuated competition and finger pointing and judgment
for decades. If you work, you must not love your kids as much as I do. If you
don’t work, you must be over-involved in the PTA with an inability to
understand guilt and trade-offs. </div>
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The self-doubt. </div>
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The wondering if what I’m doing (or not doing) today is
going to drive him to drug addiction later.</div>
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The anger that the time I have to put into this takes
away from that, and vice versa. Falling short. Chronically late.</div>
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Those are all scary labels, too.</div>
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A lot of what we have to do every day just to get through
the motions is So. Exhausting. Sometimes I can’t help but be mad at my own
child for making everything harder than it has to be. This is a huge admission,
one that I am not proud of, but I’m putting it into words here because in spite
of this, in spite of everything related to this, I am still doing a good job.
And one reason I know that is because I can still step outside of this and
remember that it is not his fault. Sometimes, stepping outside of the moment in
motherhood is a herculean feat. </div>
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And I also know this is true because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">someone else</i> said it.</div>
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Maybe it was the fatigue that Friday afternoon. But when
this person on the periphery looked me in the eyes and told me she’d noticed
that we’ve been dealt a lot with both kids that most families don’t
have/know/understand and that she sees that we’re on it, that we make it a
priority to keep on top of what our kids need and look for the tools available
to figure it out… I exhaled. I hadn’t noticed that I had been holding my
breath. I think I’ve been holding my breath for six years. </div>
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“Thank you,” I responded. I meant it. I needed to hear
that. I needed to exhale. </div>
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What I want you to know is that you, too, are doing a
good job. We are all given a hand of cards that doesn’t match each other’s. We
only show each other the backs. All the backs match. But that only makes us
eyeball each other to attempt to figure out what we’re hiding on the other
side. I don’t know your cards. But I don’t have to to know that you are
managing your own dealt hand in your own way with its own unique intricacies I
can’t understand. You are doing a good job.</div>
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And so am I.</div>LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-11204155559565457882012-04-23T17:13:00.000-05:002012-04-24T13:47:08.734-05:00When Schools Market to MomsI recently had the pleasure of speaking to a group of PR folks who communicate to parents on behalf of their kids' school districts and it served as inspiration for <a href="http://www.modernmom.com/blogs/liz-hawks/when-schools-market-to-mom" target="_blank">my next post at ModernMom.com</a>, which I hope you'll check out and comment on! Remember that it's not just brands trying to capture moms' attention, but schools, churches, non-profits, libraries, civic organizations, and all those places where a cash register may or may not exist. And there is most definitely room for improvement, even in the absence of commerce.<br />
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What do you think schools do best when it comes to communicating with Mom? What should they change? Come on, this class is in session!LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6119890037568499246.post-1641689249056813412012-04-12T09:19:00.003-05:002012-04-12T09:27:23.583-05:00Not Exactly How it HappensSitting in the comfy chair in his room, Reid and I got completely off-topic in our pre-bedtime-stories conversation.<br /><br />Him: "Mommy, I want a dog. A dog and a baby."<br /><br />Me: "You want a dog AND a baby?"<br /><br />Him: "Yes, I love babies. I want Henry's baby."<br /><br />Me: "You want Baby Margo to be yours?"<br /><br />Him: "Yes."<br /><br />Me: "You take good care of Baby Margo."<br /><br />Him: "Yes. I say, (in his best baby voice) 'Hiiieee Baby Maaaahhhgooooo!'"<br /><br />Me: "Well I don't think we can get baby Margo."<br /><br />Him: "We can buy our own baby."<br /><br />Me: "You want to go buy a baby from the store?"<br /><br />Him: "Yes. Like Aunt Sara buyed Margo."<br /><br />Me: "Where do you think Aunt Sara bought Margo?"<br /><br />Him: "I don't know. Where do you buy babies?"<br /><br />Me: "Do you think I bought you at the store? Remember how we talked about how God put you in my belly? Maybe you should talk to God about it."<br /><br />Him: "I'll go talk to God and he would put a baby in my belly? I don't want a baby in my belly!"<br /><br />Me: "Well I'm glad we've cleared that up! And now on to the books!"LHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12652580944585765586noreply@blogger.com2