View from the Hawks Nest

Just another day in solving the world's problems

2012-02-10T09:06:00.003-06:00

Reid: "Substisoot! I don't have a substisoot!"

Me: "Reid, it's not substisoot, it's substitute."

Reid: "Substitoot!? We don't say toot! It's not substitoot!"

Graham: "Substisoot. Did you say substitoot?"

Hubs: "Yes, substitute."

Graham: "Substisoot. It's substisoot. NOT TOOT!!!" hehehehehehe

Reid: hehehehehehe

The Competitive (read: Crazy) Side of Christmas Consumerism

2012-02-02T12:22:00.003-06:00

I recently reached my stop and hopped off the Crazy Train. (Not going to claim I didn’t hop on another.)

I’m not really sure where I boarded that Crazy Train. But I was on it for about a month. Okay, and a half.

I suppose it all started in a haze of post-Thanksgiving Christmas gift shopping. Come on, you know how that time of year mixed with that level of maternal consumer responsibility can make one irrational. But of course I was on top of it. I had done the Black Friday thing and besides that already had a great head start. (I’m looking at you, Target, and your sneaky pre-Thanksgiving toy coupon books.) Unfortunately for my sanity, my loving husband had set the bar on “the big gift.” Graham was getting a drum set. It had been researched, compared, decided. Hubs had it in the garage in boxes already. He was going to freak on Christmas morning and we both knew it.

But Reid? What was going to make Reid freak? Yes, these are the kind of big questions that were haunting my thoughts. People, I’m telling you about my Crazy Train experience, after all. I NEEDED REID TO BE EQUALLY FREAKING OUT ON CHRISTMAS MORNING, DAMMIT! I’m talking about my little sweetheart. My Reidy. My Doogie. My blondie who loves to follow directions and hear stories of what a sweet little baby he was. He melts me. Regularly. Naturally he must be rewarded for that by Santa.

Reid is my techie. Hand him an iPad, iPod, iWhateverelse and he’s on it. He tells the rest of us how to use our devices. He instructs his big brother. He NEEDED toy technology. He NEEDED the LEAP PAD! THE TOY OF THE YEAR! AN IPAD FOR KIDS! SOLD OUT EVERYWHERE! BLOGGED ABOUT BY MOMS IN THE KNOW! UNAVAILALBE ON ANY SHELF! SO YES, NATURALLY THAT WAS THE THING I MUST HAVE FOR MY CHILD!
This is the stuff marketers’ dreams are made of. I was trapped.

The next part is embarrassing to type. But I must confess it here as part of the healing process. I spent every morning for about a week this past December outside the locked doors of my neighborhood Target. Yes, you did read that right. It went down each morning as I pulled into the lot and surveyed my competition.

The first morning, Alpha Mom was already waiting. She informed me that she had been coming to the Target every morning for two weeks. Once, she had been thisclose to snatching the Leap Pad, but a woman "in high heels" beat her to the shelf and grabbed all three. While marveling about how I was bonding in the cold with this random stranger over our shared need to secure a Leap Pad, I was a bit taken aback about the high heels comment. I may have fidgeted and wondered how well my dress slacks were hiding my shoes. She said she works nights and that the weekend before, she hired a sitter for her kids and drove all over the metro, racking up hundreds of miles on her car, trying to find the elusive Leap Pad. I thought about the amount of money she must have spent on a sitter and gas. And compared that against the retail value of the Leap Pad. And I thought about the Leap Pads going for two times their values on eBay and Amazon.

My friends, family, colleagues and even clients knew what I was doing. They offered to help, and asked for regular updates on my progress. This only fueled my fire.

Each day there would be another competitor mom or two. I sized them up. Wondered if I could out-run them. Or if they could beat me up. One day there was a dad. But each morning as the Target employee who opened those red doors and most likely mentally judged us with his sideways looks, and we dashed straight down that gleaming linoleum and then to the right, nothing was there. Each day, the stockers would say, “Oh I think we’re getting four on the truck tomorrow! Come back Thursday and we’ll have more! We’re getting in about two each night!” Yadda yadda and whatevs. Why was I trusting strangers in red shirts who obviously had no information? Because I was crazy.

Finally, one morning it happened. The regular, plus a new blonde in scrubs, and I dashed back to the aisle. They, in their tennis shoes, beat me to the punch. There were supposed to be four, according to the red t-shirts from the day before. But there were two. My mompetition looked at me, Leap Pads in hand, shrugged and said, “Sorry! Welp, Merry Christmas!” The blonde offered to give me her “strategy sheet” if I walked to her car with her. I wished her a Merry Christmas, said, "Hope your kids enjoy that,” and took my high heels and my dignity to the office.

I tried to tell myself that Reid DIDN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT A LEAP PAD WAS! That he couldn’t care less if one showed up under the tree or not on Christmas morning. That by the time his birthday rolled around in June, it would be easy to find all the Leap Pads I wanted at the normal price. I managed to find some sense and hubby bought him a kid’s digital camera and some other goodies we knew he would enjoy.

He had a great Christmas. Without the Leap Pad.

Last week, running typical weekend errands at Target I sauntered to the aisle where it all began. There were two Leap Pads on the shelf. No one was running towards them, no one was fighting over them or pulling mace out of their purses. I tossed one into my cart like no big deal, along with my shampoo and some glue dots. And as I exited the store that day I hopped right off of that crazy train.

The Leap Pad now has a temporary home hiding out in the basement. When June rolls around, a certain little boy may or may not freak out at his techy birthday present. And his mom will enjoy the return of her sanity.

Star of My Everyday

2012-02-01T10:17:00.005-06:00

Someone special is the "Star of the Week" this week in pre-school.

He loves his chicken. Though, before you go marveling at his interest in nutritious protein power, I feel the need to confess he originally said "chicken strips and French fries" but there just wasn't enough room on that line. I steered him towards the "chicken" part of his verbal answer and away from the "French fries" part, knowing this would be posted somewhere. Mom truth.

Betcha didn't know Calendar was such a riveting subject these days. Or perhaps this is just a glimpse of his meterology days to come? Lately he's been talking offhandedly about the weather and what kind of day it is outside today. Little Brother in his obvious genius has already pinpointed the phenomenon of global warming, pondering the calendar and aligning weather patterns in his 4-year-old daydreams, obvs.

His book choice of Sheep in a Jeep was a top-of-mind-at-the-time one. He seems frustrated now when people read his paper and ask him about his favorite book, Sheep in a Jeep. Child, you wrote it down! He has lots of favorites. It's a good problem. Don't box him in.

And how about when he grows up? "Dad." Yeah, hubby should shed a tear at that one. I would have. I mean, if my fictional daughter said she wanted to be mom when she grew up I'd cry a tear of joy at the thought that I might actually be doing something right. Hmm, a daughter. Sigh.

Reid William, you are the star of my week, and of my life. Love you, Doogie.

Dads in Ads are Pitching to Moms

2012-01-31T12:04:00.006-06:00

Dad gone ad! Sorry, couldn't resist.

Check out my latest post at ModernMom.com where I give props to my loving husband who thankfully signed up for teamwork when he took me on as his wife.

And tell me, can you tell when a TV ad is obviously intended to target moms? Do you find yourself seeing more dad actors in ads? And have you ever considered that perhaps those dads are aiming their scripted messages at the moms on the other side of the screen?

P.S. Well-played, Google Chrome and your very "Dear" Sophie. Very "Dear" indeed.

Evidence

2012-01-30T09:35:00.003-06:00

"Mommy, don't...come...in...the...kitchen," he instructed me slowly in his best whisper voice, his body standing by my bed, his face so close to mine, it may have been resting on my pillow. "Okay?"

They were busy making my birthday cake while I enjoyed the gift of a nap.

"Okay. How'd you get that chocolate on your face?"

Pause.

"I don't know."

Where Walter Went

2012-01-24T11:59:00.002-06:00

Where did Walter move? Can we go there now? Well I don’t care if you come, I’m going there today. I’m going to Las Vegas and I’ll ask the owner if he knows where Walter lives. And then I’ll live with Walter.

Oh, child. I know how you feel.

I remember the first time one of my best friends moved away. Her name was Summer. It was second grade and she was here and then she was gone. I continued on about my second-grade ways and had other friends. And it was fine. And then one night in the shower it hit me that she was really not coming back and I remember standing there crying, a wave of emotion suddenly washing over me with the warm water, and then wrapped up in my towel, going to find my mom, hot tears in my eyes, so she could tell me it would be okay.

It was still final. And I still remember these things.

I don’t know how affected you really are, inside, about the fact that your first best buddy has moved away and you probably won’t ever see him again. I know that you don’t really comprehend the gravity of “ever” or of “final.” But I also know what a great first example of real friendship he was. He was the “fuzzy haired” boy from pre-K, with whom you bonded right from the start amid bullies, pretentiousness and the teacher who lacked any control. You played trucks and LEGOs and wrestled and went to zoo camp and had fun. No biggie.

But as your mama I do comprehend the bigger picture and I am affected, thinking about how this is one of so many relationships that will come in and out of your life as you go on about it. Down your life’s path as it gets intersected here and there by the paths of others. And I am thankful for Walter, for you.

These are the things that matter. You have friends and they are important to you. You are important to them. These are some of the truths of a rich life. I see you learning this in your small ways.

I left Walter’s mom a Facebook message letting her know you had been missing your friend that day. She messaged back saying Walter had just asked if he could talk to you on the computer. That you must have been reading each other’s minds. And I wondered for how long we’ll have these little reminders. These reminiscent memories of first friends. For how long will you miss him? For how long will something spark that makes you pop your little head up and ask, “Where did Walter go?”

Walter went. But he stays. He left behind how good it feels to have a good friend. He left behind the capacity to share. He left behind the means to give and receive friendship. What a gift, that fuzzy-haired Walter was.

It's Been A While

2011-12-02T13:50:00.004-06:00

Sometimes the things I want to say and the things I can't say pile up so high in my head that communicating even something becomes paralyzing.

In the meantime, I gaze at these two and sometimes am at a loss for words anyway...

Motherhood is a crazy thing.

The Nag Factor

2011-10-05T10:22:00.005-05:00

My latest post is up at ModernMom.com, wherein Reid shows me he is a statistic and Fred Flintstone shows me he still knows how to hock sugary cereal after four decades! FOUR DECADES! Curious? Come on over there and read more!

And hey, I suppose you have to hand it to the marketers/packagers/merchandisers who launched Fred's face on Fruity Pebbles boxes that many years ago that they knew what they were doing... and to the marketers who still work on the Fruity Pebbles brand who apparently know that if something ain't broke, there is no need to fix it! Still? As long as Hubby Hawks isn't in the cereal aisle with us, Fred will stay very nicely nestled into his spot on the shelf, no matter what 'gimme goblin' temporarily takes over my 4-year-old's brain.

So, come tell me at ModernMom.com what you think about The Nag Factor, and how it does or doesn't impact your purchases. Won't you?

Meeting Margo

2011-10-03T10:59:00.007-05:00

"Is Aunt Sara sick?" he whispered to Mimi, stoic and nervous.

"No, she just had the baby and she's tired," Mimi reassured him, surrounded by the hospital room's sterile sheets, linoleum floors and hand sanitizer.

He stayed quiet and out of the way. Not making any sudden moves. Not upsetting the delicate balance of the room. The universe was telling him Something Very Important had happened. His senses were heightened. His demeanor revealed it.

Later, he warmed up, softened a bit, ready to embrace his new cousin. He got to meet her first, and thus had become a Margo Expert. He schooled Graham on the fact that no, she did not say "mama" nor "dada." "Well, what does she say?" Graham quizzed. "Waaah," Reid stated, matter-of-factly.

"Can I give her a kiss?" he inquired quietly up at me, nestled in next to me on the hard plastic hospital room couch.

"Sure," I smiled, "how about right here on her head?"

He leaned in and welcomed his little Margo to the world in his delicate, direction-following way. He's gonna take care of her. Because being a good cousin is serious business, you know.

We drank the kool-aid (a.k.a. the week I became a Disney ambassador)

2011-09-29T12:41:00.017-05:00

We recently spent the happiest week of our lives at the happiest place on Earth.

What a big statement. It surprises even me. But it's true.

Mickey knows how to pull the same strings Santa does, apparently. He left these bags in the boys' rooms. When they woke up it was time to go.

Disney kept commanding that we let the memories begin and so we obliged. Then they rushed in. And they started flooding.

Brothers loved on each other. Why not? There was just this abundance of love to go around. Seriously, Disney!

How do you do this, Disney? This voo doo that you do, so well?

My spirited boy was spirited in all the right ways.

My reserved baby made new friends.

No detail was overlooked.

We will be back. Again and again.

And again.

Hindsight

2011-09-26T22:17:00.003-05:00

In hindsight, I should not have left the kitchen TV on the “E!” channel and walked out of the room.

In hindsight, that is really a waste of electricity.

And in my even sharper hindsight, coming back to the room quite a bit later only to find my kindergartener on top of the countertop, eyes glued to the pivotal climax in the movie Titanic in which Jack’s frozen stiff hand is pried from Rose’s, whereupon she watches his cold, dead body -- eyes garishly open of course -- drift downward to the black depths of the Atlantic? Um, yeah not cool.

And even less cool was the slow-motion pivot in which my boy turned to face me with his huge eyes, clearly questioning all of humanity. This was of course followed by the face scrunch, and then the alligator tears and deep-seeded wail. Like a one-two-three punch you could see coming right toward your gut.

“Why are you so sad?” I tried to play it cool. Like maybe he would forget about the melodramatic death he had just witnessed.

“Her friend Jack just died!” his finger jabbed at Kate Winslet on the small screen. He was beside himself. “And he sank into the ocean!” my 5-year-old wailed.

“Well, we need to get ready for your class picnic!” I exclaimed, as if tap dancing in front of a crime scene. Nothing to see here, folks, did you notice there is an ice cream truck over there! Hey kids, ice cream! Carnival! Santa! Fun!

“I think a shark bit his leg off!”

Well now you’re just making things up. Isn’t James Cameron dramatic enough all by himself?

In hindsight, when the tap dancing did nothing to help and I feebly attempted to provide my boy some text book logic (long time ago, wouldn’t happen today, yadda yadda), mixed with a definition of “movie magic” (actors aren’t real, Leo’s not dead, clothes are costumes, yadda yadda) I basically dug my own grave. My answers led to new questions as his little mind started weaving an intricate web, attempting to make sense of it all and bandage his broken heart, such as:

Why did the captain not know there was an iceberg under the water?

How does the captain see under water?

Did someone not tell him?

What is technology?

Do the boats we have today have technology?

So boats have computers?

Where are the computers?

Our car has a computer?

I probably should have stopped at “movies are not real,” even though the way the questions progressed made me think I was totally working at that distraction thing. But then he totally called me out on saying that this happened “a long time ago” and thus DID IT REALLY HAPPEN OR NOT???

Note to self! Turn the TV off! Particularly before loading up the car to drive to the kindergarten class mixer/picnic at the park where your still-weepy kindergartener will tell the other kids about Jack who died in the ocean!

In my future hindsight? I’m sure this will be pretty funny.

What I want for you

2011-09-23T13:01:00.004-05:00

You came home last night with exciting news. You had already told Mimi and couldn’t wait to tell me, with a sheepish grin.

“I wrote my name on all my papers today,” you proclaimed. Followed by, “You can go ahead and cry now, Mom.”

You were so ready to see tears of elation.

You know. Oh, you know how it kills me that you aren’t more like I was in school – teacher pleaser, honor roller, over achiever. You know how much advice I’ve sought simply because you are so desperate to divergently walk your own path – the road less (or never?) traveled – so much so that you do these things that land you in the “safe seat” constantly, that get your name on the board, that have put me in constant contact with your teacher.

“Graham is smart,” she reassures me. But you won’t show your cards. You can do what you’re asked, but you refuse. You can finish the worksheet, but halfway through when you’ve shown you know how to write that letter G, you don’t see the need to keep going. You can write your name on your paper, “but everyone knows the one without the name is mine.” This is Kindergarten.

And oh we have so many years to go.

You exhaust me. Your brother who actually has diagnosed needs? Piece of cake compared to you. But here we are in the trenches together. I subconsciously dress myself in armor in your presence. I try to mentally anticipate your needs, your actions, before they happen. I work to diffuse your “spirited” ways. And it’s work.

I remember hosting our first Parents As Teachers meeting in our old house when we still counted your age in months and we still wore our naiveté on our sleeves. Our instructor asked us to tell her what characteristics we hoped you would have. I remembered how surprised she was that we knew so clearly what we wanted for you.

Perfectionism wasn't one of those things.

Unfortunately what I’ve found is that you are in fact more like me than what I want for you. “It has to be perfect!” you shrieked recently when your pencil line contained a wobble. “It’s not perfect and it has to be perfect!” The wobble became a roadblock and you refused to go any further. I saw my reflection in your eyes and my heart broke.

Who doesn’t want their child to do well? But you don’t believe me when I tell you that you can indeed make mistakes. You can wobble. That you only have to do your best, whatever that may be, try again, learn from it, move on. Move on.

Things are harder than they have to be. I know because I make them harder, too. I want to be perfect, too. I know how exhausting it is inside your mind, too. Trust me, son.

But while I yearn to see you as the teacher pleaser, honor roller, over achiever, what I more so want for you is to not be like me. To get off of this steamrolling perfectionist train before it’s too late and you live your life on it, mile after exhausting mile. What I want for you is to be imperfect and happy in your skin, in your surroundings, in your intellect. To have character, not perfection. To shrug glitches off, not let them incapacitate you. To write the word, not dwell on the wobbly line.

A couple nights ago, between stories and tucking in, you looked in my eyes and said, “Mom, I can’t tell you how much I love you. And the more days we get, the more I love you.” And oh my heart. My armor fell off.

Child, you slay me – with both frustration and elation. How do you do that? You do it so well… so perfectly imperfectly. This is what I want for you. If only that was all you wanted for yourself.

The Night Before

2011-08-16T22:07:00.002-05:00

This is not a time for sentimentality. You have been going to “schools” for several years now. Parents’ Day Out at church, “Friday school” at another church, Bible School, Zoo Camp, Pre-K… You completely bypassed the separation anxiety phase. You have never clung on to me, as much as I have wanted you to sometimes.

So tomorrow really won’t be that big of a deal. For you.

You don’t realize the finality of it all. But I see a page turning and a chapter ending. A chapter that I’d prefer to read and re-read again and again.

So yeah, I’m a bit sentimental. For me. For the You and Me that we have had for these five years.

Now I’ll be sharing you even more than before. And we’ll be in this new dance for the next many years. And after that? You’ll totally fly from this Hawks Nest. So yeah, I’m now tearing up at the thought of my five year old becoming a man and getting a job and a house and a family of his own. Damn you, Kindergarten!

I met your teacher yesterday for the first time. I wanted to sit her down, look her in the eyes, and tell her everything about you. That you are a hugger. That you like the sound of your own shouting a little too much. That you are a rockstar obsessed with guitars and I want to encourage that while also not encouraging it to the point of hosting heavy metal concerts in my garage. I wanted to tell her that you eat your lunch very slowly and it worries me that you aren’t getting enough nutrients because you just can’t eat on someone else’s arbitrary schedule. I wanted to tell her that you may be ambidextrous. That you are a perfectionist who does not want to do something unless you know you will succeed at it. That you love Legos but hate coloring. That you may want to have more control of the class than she does. That you need to know how serious she is about the rules and boundaries right from the start or else you’ll show her your way around them.

I wanted to tell her that I’d be watching her and she’d better not mess this up.

But I had about two minutes with her, in which I had enough time to find out whether you should bring your own milk for lunch or buy it at school. I could feel stares from some of the other parents waiting for their turn. And I had to walk away without telling her about all your awesomeness.

Tomorrow’s going to be just fine. And so will the day after that and the month after next and the year after this and on and on. We’ll be just fine.

And after I drop you off for your first day, I’ll drive to work like any other Wednesday. But on this Wednesday I may be swallowing a lump in my throat while at the same time looking forward to what this year has in store. For you. And for me.

On being a modern marketeer mom

2011-08-08T12:19:00.003-05:00

I am excited to announce a new side gig I've started over at ModernMom.com, an online magazine for moms founded by celebrity mom (of four!) Brooke Burke. There, I am now a contributing expert, blogging about marketing to moms and what is causing the gap between marketers and mom consumers.

So now, not only do Brooke and I both have amazing washboard abs (ahem) but we also write for the same site. The similarities between us are just uncanny, really.

I hope you'll check out my latest post there, all about moms and mobile apps and what apps pass my deletion test. What apps are your must-haves? Why? Tell me there (or here, I'm not picky)!

And, don't forget to add me to your feed!

Conversations with a 5-year-old

2011-07-11T12:29:00.003-05:00

Him (and his own stream of consciousness listening to music in the car): "Can we go to the party on the top of the world tonight? ... Wait, is this a true song? ... Well, maybe we could get everyone we know in the world and have a party on top of the world. ... Wait, it is a true song because after we die we'll go to the top of the world!"

_____________________________________

Me (singing in the car): "Should I join a band?"

Him: "Mommies can't be in bands."

Me: "They can if they want to."

Him: "Well they can't be on the Foo Fighter team. Mommies sing soft songs."

_____________________________________

Me (leveling with him in Time Out): "What's gotten into you?"

Him: "Reid's mind."

A Day in Americana

2011-07-04T22:40:00.003-05:00

Today I stretched my legs out in plush grass under a shady tree in the middle of picturesque Small Town U.S.A., a place where the suburbs are corn fields. I leaned back on my hands and looked up to find not one cloud in the blue sky.

My ears were full of melodic patriotism blaring from bull horns dotting a small town square, and a speaker system propped up on an empty portable outdoor stage in front of the local bakery.

I watched my kids hand tickets to the kind of ride operators who spend their summers driving short highways between small towns, towing carnival parts behind them. They claimed their seats on rickety metal Ferris wheels and homemade barrel trains. They rode over and over for what seemed like forever, waving to us excitedly every now and again when their eyes caught ours. They worked up a sweat in the bounce house, where wee ones placed their sacrificial shoes at the entry – an homage to the gods of inflated plastic and generators. Across the town square I noticed a dunk tank with an excited crowd gathered around. On the other side, a bean bag toss.

Today I sat on a curb for nearly two hours watching a parade, comprised of what was clearly the pride of Small Town U.S.A., weave its way through rows of lawn chairs and parked strollers. I watched sweaty politicians in button-down shirts shake hands with old folks in the crowd while kids scrambled to catch candy tossed their way by clowns and volunteer high schoolers. Between homemade floats came herds of tractors, different models and colors, all manned by resilient, wrinkled men who oozed hard work.

We waved at local firemen and small business owners, sports teams and civic clubs. I chuckled to myself at the irony of the town’s historical society inviting people to “like us on Facebook!”

Today we stood in honor of the vets as they marched past us holding flags. I looked at their faces and wondered where they had been, what they had seen, if they were perhaps looking back at us thinking that we just.don’t.understand. I silently thanked them for seeing what I don’t have to see.

Today my kids ate corn dogs on sticks with a side of root beer float. They shared a tire swing with their cousins and stopped running/crawling/skipping/jumping among a wooden park maze only long enough to shake stray mulch out of their shoes.

Today was full of big times in a small town. A day spent exactly how I wanted to with the people I most wanted to see in America’s quaintest place.

Made possible by the freedom that we gathered there to celebrate.

All we need is just a little Patience

2011-06-29T13:45:00.001-05:00

The boys are at Meeha and Papa’s house for a couple days. You know what that means – I can get to work early and stay late!! Um, I mean… date night! (Workaholism… I’m working on it.)

“Patience” by Guns ‘N Roses plays in my ear buds right now. My loving hubby sings that to me now and again … because after 15 or so years together he knows me so darn well.

When the boys are home, life is a blur. Hectic. Stressful. Keep up, keep up, keep up. Always late. And when they are gone, I miss them like crazy. I like - and I don’t like - the quiet, the slowed down. I loved my extra half hour of free time this morning that is typically spent reminding wee ones to hurry up and brush your teeth and make your bed and you’ll get a quarter! Then Graham says he doesn’t need a quarter. Such motivation that one has.

Nah, I’d rather be in charge of myself so you can keep your directions and your bribing, he says in fewer words than that – sometimes just with the look in his big eyes. Meanwhile, Reid marches upstairs to the bathroom, doing exactly as told, then straightening his comforter without missing a beat.

I miss my big boy’s stubborn independence, as crazy as it usually makes me. And I miss my little boy’s sweet perfectionism.

Patience.

My baby turned four earlier this month. And now people seem to be asking more frequently when there will be a third.

Patience.

I don’t know where we could possibly fit one more thing into our daily schedules. Babies require a lot of time. A lot of…

patience.

They’ll be back tomorrow night. And several days or weeks after tomorrow night I’ll come up for air and look around, wondering when the last time Hubs and I had a night alone, or the last time I didn’t bring my work home, the last time I didn’t feel like my mornings and evenings were spent telling everyone to hurry up.

Patience.

Mean Mommy

2011-06-09T14:28:00.003-05:00

I have a confession to make.

I am a mean mommy.

My children didn’t tell me this (yet). I just feel it sometimes. I know it. The guilt tells me so.

This is not guilt that has compelled me to admit it to you (or maybe it is).

It’s just that while you wouldn’t believe the number of people who have told me over the past five years that they don’t know how I “do it,” I have my days that all the reasons people tell me this (working at a demanding career and having two kids 15 months apart while simultaneously going to grad school at night, yadda yadda) seem to all sneak up on each other and culminate in me blurting out to my little guys to “Hurry up!” and “Move faster!” and “We’re late, we’re late, we’re late!” and “I forgot my phone!” and “No we cannot go back for your hippo or fire truck or anything else!” and “What forms have I filled out and what forms have I forgotten?!” and “Do you have your backpack, did you take your vitamins, do you have a lunchbox? Can you eat that breakfast any faster?!” and “Is this a t-ball day and do you have your t-ball stuff? GET IT NOW BECAUSE WE’RE LATE!” etc. etc. etc.

I hate that mommy.

And truth be told, those “how do you do it?” wide-eyed questions of amazement at my perfectionist, supermom, master of juggling tendencies have, um… dropped off since I finished grad school and the Hawklets stopped wearing diapers. Damn it! I really miss those unwarranted compliments – the ones that make me think the ruse I’m pulling on everyone else is totally working.

I love my job. I love being a mom. I have even found a way to blend those two statements into one. I love that I have created a job in which I can focus on moms.

But that? Also sometimes turns me into mean mommy. The schedule, the constant iPhone, the late-night laptop sessions, the stress that I seem to too easily project onto the wee ones. It’s enough to turn me to MommyJuice. I mean, why do you think there is a wine brand called MommyJuice? IT’S FOR MEAN, GUILT-RIDDEN MOMMIES LIKE ME, OBVIOUSLY!

I don’t want my guys to be stressed out, especially unnecessarily. (Though candidly it does seem like sometimes they are operating at a snail’s pace and unless it’s Sunday I just.can’t.stand.it.) I don’t want them to feel the need to start saving up for therapy due to the obsession with constant lateness their workaholic mean mommy projected onto them as young children.

I want them to know that if they need extra hug time at drop-off, or if they need to go back and get Hippo, this mom will turn the SUV right around because my time belongs to them and my stress belongs at a safe, legally enforced distance of at least 10-feet away from us at all times.

Do you ever feel like Mean Mommy is creeping up on you? What do you do to make her go away?

Ads Gone Wild

2011-05-25T10:37:00.006-05:00

Have you ever pondered how fine the line separating "edgy" from "offensive" might be? Perhaps it's just large enough to house "confusing" and "strange" but not quite wide enough for the multitude of specifics you'd have to include if "upside down cow udders making peace signs" was to be encompassed there as well? On that fine line? And of course you have to take into consideration the fact that the line is surely different from country to country, culture to culture. I mean, obvs.

All that to say... what was McDonald's in Finland thinking with this print ad? Moms, does this inspire you to swing the mini-van through McD's drive thru for a real milkshake? Hey, it's got double the flavor after all!

Moo. Or whatever Finnish cows say.

What do I do all day?

2011-05-12T11:06:00.000-05:00

I realize if you are not in PR or integrated marketing communications, it's hard to understand what it is I do in this job of mine (hi, honey!), though I can assure you it has nothing to do with saving lives (though occasionally we help people better understand their pharmaceutical options and nutritional choices) or even getting names on VIP lists (though occasionally we work with people you may have heard of to tell people in the media about why our clients' products are awesome).

The most fun part of my job is the social side, particularly when moms are involved. And yes, I realize that is still not defining much so check out my interview in today's Mashable (Mom, that's the Wall Street Journal of the social media industry), where I am thrilled to be sharing my points of view on what social media engagement is, how social media has changed our industry and how we measure whether or not our efforts are making an impact.

It might help. A little? (Okay, yes I have met Lindsay Lohan. And no, there was absolutely nothing special about it.)

A Mother's Letter to the Foo Fighters

2011-05-04T12:45:00.000-05:00

Dear Foo Fighters:

I don’t know much about you. I like your songs, but can’t remember their titles. I can picture at least two of your faces, but can’t remember your names. I do recall the music video featuring you as flight attendants, but don’t recall the last time I watched MTV, so I must be digging deep there. So clearly this is not a fan letter, per se. Nope, it’s a warning-letter-slash-request-for-help. You’d better check yourselves, Foos, because my 5-year old is watching you closely.

You see, my baby boy reeeeeally digs you. And, um, he’s five. Naturally you may think he also is into his extensive CD collection featuring the greatest hits of Sesame Street, Bob the Builder, The Wiggles… even Free to Be You and Me (a personal favorite that I used to have on record… ah the good ‘ol days). And oh the Kindermusik songs. They are in his room, in our cars, on our iPods…

But no! Kindermusik be damned! Thanks to his getting a glimpse of you on Palladia, now we’re all Foo Fighters all the time!

I blame you, Foos. I blame you that my 5-year old said to me last week (from his spot in the hallway at Kindermusik where he was in time out for retaliating against age-appropriate music), “Here’s the deal, Mom - I just don’t like this music. I like rock star music. I need drums and guitars. This? Is not rock star music.”

I tried a meager come back about the fact that all musicians have to start at a place of learning rhythm, and that learning all instruments will help him eventually be better at both drums and guitars, and that these are the benefits of Kindermusik, yadda yadda. But he wasn’t having it. “Rock star music, mom. I want to scream into the microphone.”

It’s not just the screaming. My 5-year old, Foos, wants to wear his hair like yours. Long. He wants to headline an amphitheater concert in a big city in the pouring rain. Like you did. He wants to strap an electric guitar to his torso and head bang. Mmm hmm.

“When I grow up, I’m going to join the Foo Fighter team,” he reminds me occasionally from his booster in the back seat. You know, because he’s five and all, and still sits in a booster seat. But yet loves the hard rock. He tells me these things when other bands come on the radio. Like, oh, the Rolling Stones. Yes you, Foo Fighters, are cooler than the Stones in my 5-year old’s humble opinion.

No, neither you nor Charles Barkley is a role model. But this mom is a wee bit concerned about the glimpse I’m currently getting into my son’s teen years (and having heart palpitations) and so anything, ANYTHING you can do to show my baby that it’s totally cool to be a head-banging heavy metaler while also being an upstanding young citizen who eats his veggies and respects his parents? Yeah, that would be awesome.

Very best wishes with the next album and all,
Mama Hawks

Conversations with 5- and almost 4-year olds

2011-04-28T14:30:00.002-05:00

Graham: "What do we love?"

Reid: "Christmas?"

Graham: "No! We love bobcat cheerleaders!"

Me: WTH?

___________________________

Graham: "Joey said I could be friends with him if I stopped beating up Johnny, but I've been beating up Johnny for yeeears!"

Me: WTH?

___________________________

Reid: "I got a boo-boo at Mimi's house so she put peas on it."

Me: "Frozen peas, huh?"

Reid: "Yes, so I need to go in the microwave!"

Graham: "Reid, you can't go in the microwave because then you wouldn't have bones or muscles and that would make you sloppy."

Me: Again, WTH?

___________________________

Reid: "Mommy, bubby broke my car and then he said, 'Hardy har!' and so he can't be my friend anymore. He can't say, 'Hardy har!' to me!"

Me: Nope, nothing surprises me anymore.

Follow your heart

2011-04-21T13:25:00.006-05:00

"I wanted to jump off the top of the playground today," he said at the dinner table, between bites of corn on the cob.

"But my heart kept beeping, and I couldn't do it."

(And then I heard my heart beep, too.)

Life Goes On

2011-04-20T12:55:00.002-05:00

When your parent dies, life goes on, you know. Oh blah dee, oh blah dah.

When your parent dies, and you are a parent, wee ones still force you to get out of bed and take them to school.

They still need breakfast and backpacks. (Oh, your dad died.) They still need help finding their shoes/toy/belt/jacket/truck-with-the-blue-trailer-not-that-one-the-other-one-because-I-hate-the-red-one! (Yeah, your dad died.) They still need baths and stories and don’t forget to brush your teeth, please don’t make me tell you one more time. (Um, your dad died.) There are still little kid birthday parties to attend. Like a zombie. Where the other moms who you don’t know very well may or may not be looking at you sideways, wondering if you are still wearing yesterday’s makeup. (Hey, your dad died.) The radio shoots sad songs at you like bullets. Like you accidentally tuned the station to 101 The Dramatic. (P.S. Your dad died.) And you find yourself using the words “bizarre” and “ridiculous” a little (lot) more than normal.

Oh and that meeting with the pre-K principal? The one that took three weeks to schedule, the one for which you meant to fully prepare the five key points you wanted to get across to the person who supervises your son’s less-than-adequate educator? Yeah, that still happens. Even if your dad died.

Though you may have a heightened desire to throw down in that meeting. Because, well...

But all the rest of us? We are still alive. We still have motions; we still go through them.

Isn’t it funny how life is always lived in such parallel paths, no matter what drama is going on in one?

Oh brother, how the life goes on.

To Dad

2011-04-15T23:03:00.006-05:00

I'm sorry I was stubborn. I'm sorry you were stubborn.

It doesn't matter now.

You left me once before. In college, after you had called me to get the typical updates, the same type you had been getting over the phone for about 10 years already. But that time you told me you would call next Wednesday. And next Wednesday came and went, and so did many more Wednesdays. You checked out and I grieved while inside thinking that someday, one day, somewhere in the future we would figure things out.

We can't do that now, or ever. You are really gone now.

I have memories, good and bad. So many memories. You were so funny. People know you as the funny extroverted guy, always joking, always telling stories. Oh the stories. You used to tell us as little girls tucked in our beds, about the time you and your friends jumped the city pool fence at night and skinny dipped. I couldn't believe your audacity and every time you told it was like the first time I had heard it. Your inflection never changed. Oh the stories.

You played Barbies with me when I was home sick from school. But you also taught me about Semper Fi and hoo-rah and how to sing, "From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli..."

We grew up on a farm because you wanted us to. You introduced us to piglets and chickens. You worked on the tractor. You cussed. You fixed the seats of our swingset. It was on that same swingset a few years later that my friend Jill asked me why you and Mom got a divorce. We didn't know anyone else at school whose parents were divorced. I told her it was because you cussed too much.

We ate Ramen noodles on weekends at your house, and watched movies Mom would never have let us watch. We went to different churches on Sundays. We met various women. We listened to classic rock in your truck. Sometimes I would rest my head on your lap or your shoulder for the long Sunday afternoon drive home, sitting in the middle seat between you and Sara. I remember the smell of pleather truck seats mixed with chewing tobacco.

You taught school - many friends, people I grew up with, people who still tell me you were their favorite teacher of all time. They describe you like a hero, larger than life. I wanted to know only that person, not a cheater, not an alcoholic, not a divorcee.

I hate that my eternal image of you is pocked with negativity. No one is perfect. I needed my dad to be perfect. I shouldn't have had that expectation. I'm sorry. But I'm not sorry I needed you to be the grown-up, the parent, the one reaching out rather than feeling sorry for himself that his daughters didn't try harder. We were so young. You? You were young at heart.

I will hold on to the time you came for "Dad's Weekend" at the Chi-O house. We all went dancing in the Fort Worth stockyards to country music. We cut a rug together and we were happy.

You are described as a Renaissance man. I think of you as a drifter, your own person, unable to commit to anyone or anything. God knows parenting was too hard for you. It tied you down. You were free, and yearned for nothing more than flying your little planes whenever and wherever you wanted. It was a theme that permeated your entire life, one handed down to you.

I know it wasn't your fault. I know.

The last time I saw you was at your mother's funeral, wrought with family drama and high emotion. It was also the first time you met your grandsons, but I never told them who you really were. They ran around like two wild little boys do at pot luck dinners in big open fellowship halls, unaware of the messiness of grown-ups' hearts, and you looked at me like maybe we could be friends. I felt peace, and silently thanked Grandma for it.

But truly, you spent years hiding behind your bruised ego. I was as stubborn as you, after all, and you couldn't stand it. That I could carry a grudge for so long. That you could as well. You knew I had not fallen far from the tree. We both bore the guilt. I still do, and will alone now. But I know you loved me. I hope you know I loved you, too.

Occasionally my boys have asked why their daddy has a daddy but mommy doesn't. Now, my answer is more definitive than it was before.

Things were so complicated, but now they are simple. They have to be.

Fly high. Fly free. Fly away home, forever, Dad.

He loves the Beatles

2011-04-15T10:02:00.006-05:00

"Graham, do you like the Beatles?" our neighbor asked, with almost a gasp, suddenly noticing the band's logo gracing the front of his 5T Baby Gap. I couldn't exactly tell if she was being facetious or if she was impressed.

He squinted up at her in the sun, sitting on his bike at the end of her driveway, where he had been listening to us chat about her college poetry class - the one she teaches to undergrads and wonders how much they care, trying to keep their cloudy brains in the game. Sometimes using music references as a crutch. He didn't know she was referring to his shirt.

"Sometimes," I replied for my little guy. "He just really loves rock... to watch bands on Palladia. Kindermusik doesn't quite keep his attention."

"Do they have electric guitars?" he asked her, with 5-year-old intrigue.

"Yes, sometimes!" she replied, seemingly excited for his bucking-the-toddler-system interest. Or perhaps enjoying that she was schooling another human being about this group called the Beatles. That these so-called Beatles played guitars. Like she was letting this kid on the world's biggest a-ha moment.

"And base hits?!" Now he was excited, too. A Beatle. Yes! Now that sounds like something special - they have electric guitars and base HITS!! (No, I don't know what those are, either.)

We chuckled at the cuteness of a 5-year old discovering the Beatles and their guitars. We said goodnight and that shirt went into the dirty clothes basket without another thought.

Then a few days later, in the car, in our ears -- there they were. I turned it up loud. "Graham, it's the Beatles!" I exclaimed. "What do you think?!"

He listened. He asked to hear the electric guitar. He listened. He was quiet. Taking in those... Beatles. Just another radio song? Maybe. Just another band logo to make Baby Gap-buying parents fork over a few more bucks for the perception of cool? Yeah, mostly.

And then, last night, as we sat in the comfy chair in his room in the dark, rain started coming down softly. He turned to the window and slipped behind the blinds to look up at the night sky. He stood a while gazing.

Then he whispered to no one in particular out of the blue.

"I love the Beatles."

Snow Day!

2011-02-03T12:42:00.002-06:00

What? You didn't actually expect us to go outside in the snow to take a snow day picture, did you? Baby, it's cold outside!

Moms Can Have Firsts, Too

2011-01-31T10:54:00.007-06:00

On Sunday morning the alarm went off early. I put my feet on the floor and attempted to decipher if I should wear short or long sleeves in the 20-something degree air.

I was preparing for a first - my first 5K race.

Hubby suited up with me. "Don't run ahead of me!" I begged him. He promised to stay beside me, no matter how embarrasingly slow.

He saw me gathering my headphones and reminded me that headphones are against race rules. I told him he would have to sing to me, then.

We made our way to the caves, stretched (like I knew what I was doing) and took our place with the masses.

At the start, the mass began to stretch forward into a cave snake. We found our stride. I wanted to impress my husband on our first time to ever jog together, side by side. Not sure that 12-minute miles impress him, but who's timing?

He may as well have been strolling down a beach. He was the picture of ease, talking on and on, apparently see this as an opportunity to catch up with his wife who'd just returned from a business trip. I told him several times that I would not be talking back. But still he was effortless, a verbal stream of consciousness:

"What should we have for dinner tonight?"

"I'm hungry! Let's go somewhere for breakfast right after this!"

"Did I tell you about when we appraised these caves...?"

"Did I tell you about Kindermusik the other night...?"

"So I was talking to (so-and-so) and he said..."

Eventually I asked him to provide some motivation if he was going to chat the race away. Literally, he talked the.whole.time. He responded with his best effort: "Don't fade on me now!"

Um... or not.

And then, 37 minutes after I started, I finished. I crossed the finish line running, next to my man, hopefully making him proud. But also, making myself proud.

Night-Before Needs

2011-01-26T09:54:00.003-06:00

The night before a business trip there are so many things we need to do to get through today and prepare for tomorrow.

I need to make a list.

One Hawklet needs a bath. The other needs a shower. They remind us they both need their own thing occasionally, even though most of the time they just need to be together.

I need to start packing, need to gather clothes, need to think about what must be accomplished - and what I'll need to wear doing it - for the next four days.

I need to decipher if I've forgotten anything... if the team is set... if we're all set up for success.

I need to tell Hubby about the things to remember and appointments to keep in my absence. (He needs me to stop reminding him to not forget.)

We need to figure out what everyone will take to school for show-and-tell that starts with a "D."

Simultaneously little wet Hawklets wrapped in towels need pjs and stories.

They need to brush teeth and understand what will be different about their routine for the next few days.

I need to put down the iPhone and laptop and focus on gathering us all up into the cushiony chair that rocks to read and talk for a bit.

I need a mommy time-out with my boys.

Because I want to stay here forever.

New Year, New Radomosity

2011-01-08T21:45:00.004-06:00

You know you're not starting things off right when you have to commence with an apology, but... um, sorry. I left you with one post in the whole month of December. And it was about the horrific effects of drunk driving.

So happy holidays and everything!

Anywho, we're already a week into the new year. And I'm doing that thing where I drop the kids off and realize 20 minutes later that I'm still listening to their CD in the car, "Hokey Pokey" and all. And at home, Hubby walks out of the room and 20 minutes later I'm still watching the football. So I'm apparently starting my year in the clouds.

We really had such an amazing break over the holidays. I can not express in words how much I love that time of year. And, oh, the little people questions that came along with it this time around, including:

"Does God have powers?"
"Did Santa start out as a baby?"
"Are angels' eyes closed in heaven?"
"Does Santa have birthdays?"
"Do you have a baby in your belly?" (Um, no... damn you, holiday cookies!)

Today I allowed Graham one last Christmas cookie before throwing all of that hard work in the trash. And a couple hours later he apologized to me: "Mom, I just wanted to say I'm sorry I ate the cookie that I made for you."

In the meantime, we decided it would be a good idea to knock a wall out of the side of our house to expand our kitchen starting, oh, the day after Christmas, and the dust is starting to get to all of us. So Mimi and I took the boys to see Tangled today at the theater. We were 10 minutes late because my beloved 4-year-old had to take time to change his clothes, putting on his "movie theater outfit" before we left the house.

After the show, Reid told me his favorite part was "when they cut off her hair," simultaneously solidifying the fact that if Reid had been a girl, no Barbie in his possession would have been safe from the scissors.

So there you (basically) have it - our 2011 to date. So as I attempt to pull myself back up on to the blogging wagon, please accept my apologies, as well as my wishes for a very happy new year -- from our (dusty and disheveled) hawks nest to yours.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, a "movie theater outfit" is a gray track suit. But of course it is!

Australia Has a Message for Us

2010-12-10T09:33:00.003-06:00

Those Aussies have done it again. An Australian TV spot has used graphic violence to get a point across. They crossed a line you would never see even approached by U.S. broadcasters. They created something that of course went viral. You don't see something like this every day, so you have an urge to show someone else. Why is this kind of shock value okay?

Because it's not about selling something. It's about life and death.

Please don't drink and drive this holiday season. Or ever.

No matter what country you live in.

Thankful Thursday

2010-11-11T19:16:00.002-06:00

Funny Friday

2010-10-29T10:30:00.001-05:00

I returned home last night from a three-day conference in Chicago (more on that later) to this:

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"FUNNY JOKE!!!!"

...And boy, it was.

Feedy Fast

2010-10-26T11:27:00.005-05:00

Going "feedy" fast on the "bump" cars? Oh, yeah. More of that, please!

(And also perhaps a little more practice with Reid on the "sp" part of "speedy...")

...but in the meantime? "Feedy" fast is kind of adorable.

Just like their too "feedy" fast childhood.

Are you better than Target?

2010-10-22T15:59:00.005-05:00

I am not crafty. I aspire to be more into mommy/son art projects, but I have two hurdles: 1) kids who aren't much into coloring (which of course triggers the 'red flag' area of my paranoid psyche) and 2) this ongoing battle with Father Time who keeps telling me he won't add even one minute to my day. 24 hours?! Pffsh. Please. (P.S. Next election, I'm voting for Mother Time, who would clearly understand my needs.)

But I digress. Today, this article floated across my desk. You may (or may not) be surprised to know this kind of controversy is not an anomoly in our industry. Moms are always getting pissed about ads (hey, me included!). But the criteria for the crankiness is all over the map. More than once the trigger point has been about a mom's attempt to make something for her child, which (according to the ad) completely displeased the child, and made mom look like a fool. Or at least out of touch with her child.

Shall I remind you that ads exist to make you want to buy something to make yourself better/happier/prettier/smarter/ -er/ -er/...?

Today's "crassly offensive" case in point: Target.

If I had a little more time and creativity enabling my own handiwork, I might be miffed by this. After all, I don't want a major corporation telling me my loving, hand-made efforts for my child are useless.

At the same time, I think this spot could have saved itself from controversy with a very simple acting shift. If the mom had a different air about her - maybe if she didn't look so proud of her apparently inadequate creation but rather gave her son a look that said, "Dude, what is happening here? Grab my purse, we're headed to Target to remedy this," then the brand would put itself on mom's side rather than taking the superior-to-mom path of putting us all down and implying that in order to best show our children love, we must buy, buy, buy. All without compromising either the sale or the mother/son relationship.

Who doesn't want or need a teammate in motherhood? Come on, Target, be a team player.

Wishing this was a joke...

2010-10-21T13:51:00.003-05:00

...but it's actually an advertorial (a paid advertisement that is presented to look like an editorial article). The text instructs women to ask for a raise by following simple steps, starting with step No. 1: "showering with Summer's Eve Femine Wash or throwing a packet of Summer's Eve Feminine Cleansing Cloths into your bag for a quick freshness pick-me-up during the day."

(Because who doesn't associate feminine hygeine with getting that much-deserved raise or promotion? Surely your boss does?)

While I don't know who created this placement (or who reviewed and approved it), fingers on Facebook are being pointed at men. It doesn't really matter which gender is actually to blame. Someone simply missed the mark. Which begs the question of the day: is it really that hard to hit?

Is this offensive to you?

The natives have their own language

2010-10-20T09:52:00.003-05:00

A new study published last week by Why Moms Rule (oh yes, we do) and picked up by eMarketer showed that Gen Y moms, who are currently in their 20s, communicate more often with the people in their households via digital means than they do in person.

Incoming text from Mom: "I'm in the kitchen cleaning up dinner plates and finishing work on my laptop so will you please get the kids in the bath?"

Huh?

We already know moms in general are 20% more digital than women without children. Let's face it - digital is the enabler to mom's multi-tasking, multi-minding lifestyle.

But this study shows that it's not simply a matter of adding digital communication to in-person exchanges, but that digtial may actually be overtaking the in-person communication for this particular mom segment. (You know, like talking. With your mouth. And perhaps, eye contact, facial expressions and hand gestures.)

Younger moms, who are considered "native" social media users and can't remember not having email, are using digital platforms to not only keep up socially with Facebook friends, peer blogger moms and Twitter followers, but now they're conversing with their own family members more via electronic devices (52%) than face to face (48%).

It's happening. Moms are slowly morphing into robots and taking over the world. Social media is turning young moms into mombots! Hide your children!

As Gen Y moms progress through the stages of motherhood, it will be interesting to see if this trend continues to gain speed and their gap between in-person communication and digital communication widens.

Does this surprise you?

Little Bits of Awesome

2010-10-17T13:42:00.004-05:00

"Mommy, when I grow up I'll be a mommy and make eggs like you," my baby boy declared, sitting on the counter watching me mix together our breakfast concoction.

"But what if you grow up and become a daddy?" I posed.

"No, I want to be a mommy, like you, because I love you."

Yeah, that.

Scraping the Barrel

2010-10-01T09:15:00.004-05:00

A couple forkfulls of cottage cheese. (I refuse to eat cottage cheese with a spoon.)

Some reheated restaurant fries from a few nights earlier.

A few bites of reheated mac 'n cheese off the Hawklets plates.

A bowl full of Brussels sprouts. Oh yes, a whole bowl full.

The rest of the halved grilled cheese (leftover from said restaurant) kids' meal that Reid couldn't/didn't want to finish.

All that? Oh, just my dinner a couple nights ago. At which time it glaringly obvious this mama has been working too much. Mom guilt in tow, I drug my bag of bones to the grocery store after that Top Chef dinner and like a zombie, walked the aisles tossing a little off this and some of that into a cart. And then - the crown on top of this perfectly imperfect mom moment - I walked out with my bags and had no idea where I had parked. I literally had to stop myself in front of the store and scan the lot, no idea even which direction I should head in.

But our fridge is not bare and our children are happy!

And that work part? Well, I'm working on it.

A million

2010-09-16T09:20:00.008-05:00

"I am a million sad to leave the beach," he said when we were packing the car,

headed to the airport with sand in our shoes and shells in a baggie.

I told my little man that I was, too.

But pictures like this one - my favorite boys in one of my favorite places - will keep me a million happy until next year's trip.

Let me Tell you about the Show

2010-09-03T10:32:00.003-05:00

I learned something this morning in the Pre-K class by accident. Or osmosis. Actually it was eavesdropping.

Every Friday. EVERY. FRIDAY. Is show-and-tell day.

I learned this by overhearing Graham's teacher ask another kid if she had something in her backpack for show and tell. The only things in Graham's backpack were lunch and a just-in-case change of clothes.

So bizarre that I didn't get the memo in the FIVE HUNDRED various pieces of paper we've received from the school over the course of the first few weeks. I read it all. Even the stuff that had absolutely no relevancy to the pre-Ks at all. Did it say anywhere anything about show and tell? No. Did it say anywhere anything about what the key code combination is for the pre-school door? Nope. Did it provide a parental outline the curriculum or objectives or strategies for what my child will be learning this year? Nah. Did it outline the hot lunch menu for the K-8th graders that indicated only two days of the month would be healthy lunch days? Well, yes.

Thisschoolhasagreatreputation.Greatreputation.Greatreputation.Greatreputation.Greatreputation.

Never mind the clear lack of communication skills on the school's part. And the disorganization around getting simple messages to parents. What I am most frustrated with is not that I did not know that Fridays are show and tell days. It's that EVERY FRIDAY IS SHOW-AND-TELL DAY.

Yes, I am a marketer. I have built a very meaningful career around getting people, mostly moms, to buy my clients' products. I love doing this. I am fascinated with the psychology of the consumer - most particularly moms and the power they (we) wield, and what they buy on behalf the household, including their children. I soak up data about why they are buying, where they are buying, and how they communicate with each other about those purchases. Those toys - the ones that my son's classmates brought today for show and tell? Somewhere out there, a marketer's objectives were assisted by the purchases of these toys.

Yes, I am a fan of American consumerism! I study and practice this art daily! I make a living on consumerism and I personally contribute part of that living to the American economy!

But my 4-year-old? I want to protect him from the want of things. My stomach turns with the idea that today at school he might think someone is better because they have a particular monster truck. Or the bigger Buzz Lightyear. Or this thing or that thing that he doesn't have. Things. To have. Or have not.

Who cares? My problem with this is that he doesn't know enough to not care. He cares. He loves toys. He is four. Jealousy? Materialism? These are unwelcome attributes in our house. But today at my son's school, they may be lurking. They may be hiding in the shadows of the classroom, just waiting for the opportunity to make themselves at home in his heart. The opportunity that may come at show-and-tell time. I can't stand the thought.

Why is show and tell still okay? Where is the teachable moment in this activity? I posed the question to the experts on Twitter. You know - the place where the experts congregate! @eCelebrating was optimistic with this response: "no idea. best bets: sharing, storytelling, taking turns, paying attention, learning about new items. ???"

I agree with the question marks. In my opinion, show and tell fosters unnecessary materialism in our youth. Four-year-olds don't need to learn public speaking by showing off their favorite toys and feeling badly that 'Johnny has this but I don't.' They need us to remind them about what really matters. Thoughts, not things. People, not products. Yes, this from a marketer.

I believe show and tell has no place in an educational class room.

What do you believe?

Emergency Hand Washing (alternately titled: Being a Mom of Boys)

2010-08-22T17:01:00.003-05:00

I was standing in the kitchen, chopping tomatoes to make guacamole. Suddenly, I heard little sneakers pounding the hardwoods, originating at the back door and running toward me.

"Mom! Mom! Come quick! Something fell out of the sky and it has blood on it!"

Oh geez. There is animal blood involved in this equation right off the bat. Suddenly the red fleshy wet tomatoes in my hands made my stomach turn.

"Is it a bird?" I asked with a mix of hesitation and bravery. Trying to fool my boys into thinking that of course their mom is not afraid of a dead animal. Of course.

"Yes, it's something that can fly because it fell out of the sky!"

My 4-year-old is exhibiting too much excitement about this bloody flying object in the back yard.

We took off toward the grass. Little Brother was waiting for us there.

"Come on! It's over here! Wait, where is it? Reid, where is it?"

Oh, God. Is one of us about to step on it?

"Oh look it's right here!" A chipmunk. A (formerly) flying one? It had a huge gash at the neck, where insects had started to invade. Its eyes were open, fixated, perhaps, on Chipmunk Heaven.

My boys appeared to be ready for a science lesson. There was not one ounce of disgust on their parts, but rather awe. Perhaps pride even -- that they found this, and they were letting me in on it. Such good sharers. And at that moment it hit me.

"You didn't touch it... did you?" I managed, not allowing my eyes to wander over the red gash.

Graham studied my face. Then: "We didn't touch the bloody part."

My mind replayed this statement. We. Didn't. Touch. The. Bloody. Part. I grabbed their wrists, one in each hand. Flanking me, we bee-lined inside for the sink. The soap. The running water. "Don't touch anything! Just get some soap! Scrub every finger!" I squaked.

"But we only touched the back! We didn't touch the blood!"

"SCRUB!"

They scrubbed, dried, I exhaled and they went back to playing. I grabbed a shovel and flung the thing over the back fence. Like nothing had happened. What bloody flying chipmunk corpse? Nothing to see here! Keep moving!

But the tomatoes? They're going to have to wait a bit.

Boogying with the Best

2010-08-20T12:39:00.003-05:00

I started running. And, yes, this is breaking news. The reactions I've seen from friends and colleagues have reinforced the fact that I needed to get off my lazy arse and take care of my heart. Running, I've found, is me time. I smell the trees and feel the fresh air and hardly even notice I'm sweating like a pig and my left big toe is numb. Or something like that.

Are you taking care of yourself, too? If you're looking for a new way to get in the game, as I was when I decided to give running a try, what about this gem? I think this woman could motivate a tree stump to get up and boogie. Uh-huh. Oh yeah. Feel the beat!

Happy Friday!

Five

2010-08-12T11:05:00.002-05:00

“When I turn five,” you say, “I will go to a new school.”

“I will play tennis.”

“My feet will touch the floor when I sit down.”

“I will be a daddy!”

“When I turn five,” you say, “I will ride the Ferris wheel.”

“And, Reid will be four. When I am five.”

But also?

When you turn five, I will celebrate my fifth anniversary of being a mother.

I will realize that in 13 short years, you will be flying from this Hawks Nest.

I will know that I have done my best for you for five years, but promise to do even better, to work even harder at this most important job of mine – being your mother.

When you are five, I will wonder why time passes by so fast. I will laugh at the clichés and embrace them. And curse time.

I will remember what it was like to see you, to hold you, for the first time. Probably most especially when I drop you off at Kindergarten on your first day there. And I will size your new teacher up and say a little prayer that she is the best, most qualified, accomplished and award-winning Kindergarten teacher in the whole world.

I will watch your unique personality continue to blossom and be so proud that you are your own person. I will hope I’ve had something to do with it. And I will realize that I’ll have that same hope for the rest of your life.

I will worry about whether you are getting enough nutrients, whether we’re too involved with technology and not enough with nature, whether we have you in the right amount of extracurricular activities.

I will look at you and marvel at how far we’ve come in these few years together.

I will love you with my whole heart. Just like I do today. Just like I will when you are 50.

When you are five.

My Brother, My Friend

2010-07-29T13:33:00.003-05:00

Reid didn't eat his dinner or follow directions really at all last night, so he didn't get to outside to play with Graham and Daddy after we cleared the dishes. His devastating cries accompanied by hot tears filling the rims of his glasses permeated my back as I stood at the sink rinsing ketchup off plates. I shut off the water, turned around and scooped him up, ignoring both his pleas for "Daaa-ddyyy!" and the crumbs begging to be swept off the kitchen floor. I carried my sobbing baby boy up to our bed and switched on the laptop - a workaholic's force of habit, yes, but also a good distraction that is not TV. Digital photos of my boys? Yes, that's the ticket. Reid and I flipped through jpg after jpg, reminiscing about when he was my baby in size, not just rank. And his tears dried easily.

"Go back to that one!" he would demand. "Look at me, Mommy!" pointing at the screen, and "What was I doing/wearing/eating?" He wanted to linger on the photos that included his bubby. And then I realized that the really devastating part of his punishment for not following directions was more about not getting to play with his brother than it was about not getting to go outside.

Those two are quite a pair.

I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three. ~Author Unknown

There was a hula-hooper in the corner at Kids Eat Free Night

2010-07-21T20:51:00.004-05:00

It was a clown. Need I say more? What happened to the good old-fashioned clown we used to know? The one that made children laugh and was all full of happiness and goofiness and carried around a bicycle horn and was not remotely odd or slightly scary or seemingly drug-induced? Yeah...that.

Let me explain...

Tonight we dined at Jason's Deli. Me loves a good salad bar so I can't ever resist Jason's Deli. And Wednesday is Kids Eat Free night -- an even better reason to patronize this lovely dinner establishment. Because let's face it, spening $5 on a plate of Kraft Mac & Cheese that I know costs $.99 at the grocery store and that I know will get a couple bites of attention from my 4-year-old is just annoying. But a free plate of Kraft Mac & Cheese that might get a couple bites? You had me at hello!

Tonight there was a special extra something at Jason's Deli for Kids Eat Free Night.

A she-clown.

With a hot pink tutu, hot pink thigh-high leggings, sparkles, blush and a pig-tails wig. And? Three hula-hoops. And PG-13 rated hula hooping abilities. She was "performing" in the corner at Jason's Deli. Sort of entranced in her own clownish hula-hooping world.

It felt so awkward. At one point she walked in the back room to get a chocolate chip cookie. She sauntered out munching on it and grinned at us. Then, back to her corner. I looked around at the kids in the room, some of whom were occasionally watching her, others not really noticing, a couple little girls wanted her to make them balloon flowers. I wondered, "What is going on here?" Clearly, nobody really cared.

Is it Stephen King's fault? The downfall of clowns everywhere? Being reduced to a clownish, fuschia-wearing, sparkly teeny-bopping, multiple hula-hooping "performer?"

After probably about 30 minutes, her gig was up. She walked out to the parking lot at the same time we did, chatting away on her cell phone. Her Blazer had a "Bang This" bumper sticker. She loaded the hoops in the back.

But hey, the Kids Ate Free.

Conversations with a 4-year-old

2010-07-15T12:54:00.002-05:00

Hubby: "Stop licking the butter. Don't put your finger in the butter."

Him: "But I like butter!"

Hubby: "It's for the corn. It's not for you to lick."

Him: "I want to lick the butter! I like licking the butter!" ... (pause) ... Is the butter meltingIs it smallerWhy is it meltingWhy is it getting smallerWhy does it do thatWhy can't we eat itWhy can't we lick butter? Why? Why? WHY?

Me: (futile attempts at answers to each question)

Him: (as Hubby's back is to us, in his loud-whisper voice) Mom! Lick the butter! Quick! Don't tell Dad!

Me: "I don't want to li-"

Him: "LICK THE BUTTER!"

_______________________________________

Yes, folks, we are still solving the world's problems over here at the Hawks Nest. What's new with you?

How the drive-in reignited my love for Disney

2010-07-08T08:35:00.007-05:00

When is the last time you saw a movie outside, from the back of your car, or bed of your truck, under a starry summer sky, the sound resonating from car speakers and maybe just a tad bit crackly?

It was Hubby’s idea. I was going to take Graham on a date to Toy Story 3. He’s been so, SO into Toy Story lately and didn’t even realize there was a third installment in movie theaters taking the country by storm. I felt like I was holding out on him, like holding a bouncy red ball over my head, too high for him to reach. But also? He didn’t even know there was a red bouncy ball out of his reach. To be fair, I just HAD to share it with him. And then Hubby discovered it was playing at the drive-in and suggested we make it a family affair.

“Yeah,” I said to Hubby, the light bulb slowly starting to glow in my mind as I tried to picture us at a d-r-i-v-e i-n . “Yeah, let’s go to the drive-in.”

Hubby and I reminisced about the old drive-in in our hometown. I remember being there in my pajamas, in the car, blankie in tow. I don’t remember the movie we saw from the comforts of the car, but rather just being there because it was different. It’s the “different” that we remember.

I think my kids will remember the “different,” too.

We popped popcorn at home first and put it in paper sacks. We filled up lidded cups. We packed peanut butter and crackers in baggies. The boys took baths and pulled on their pajamas. We loaded up the car and didn’t forget Buzz Lightyear and Jessie – so they could see themselves on the big screen under the stars. I grabbed their blankies. They didn’t care as much as I did about the blankie part. It just felt right.

The movie started “at dusk.” We weren’t sure exactly what time that was. There was some mystery to it all… who else a drive-in attracts these days, how exactly it all works once you get there (you park backwards, by the way, and open up the SUV hatch, sit on the back, pull out camping chairs and coolers – much more of a community experience than I remembered), how hot it might be and whether our car battery would die if we sat for two hours with the AC on (which we did not do).

They looked at the speaker-on-a-stick and asked if Woody was inside.

“Daddy, do you want a cold beer?” Reid asked in his loud voice during a quiet part.

“But that’s not HER cowboy, it’s HIS!!” Graham shrieked right at that heart-tugging part when Andy bestowed his beloved Cowboy Woody to the next generation of playmate.

Graham hopped down off the bumper and climbed up in my camping-chair lap to give me a big hug right at the point that Andy was playing with his pals for one. last. time. He’s not old enough to get emotional, but I think he knew there was something special about that part. Something… different. That boy has quite the intuition.

Did the drive-in reignite my love for Disney? Or did Disney re-ignite my love for the drive-in?

Maybe a little of both. It was different. It was awesome.

Thinking like a 4-year-old

2010-06-25T13:58:00.004-05:00

I've been a sparse blogger lately. But it's because I have so much to say. There is so much swirling in my mind that it has given me blogging paralysis and I can't possibly figure out where to start.

Leave it to Graham to remind me - in his unique way of always snapping me back to reality - about focus. He informed me out of the blue as we were driving around town recently that he has ideas in his mind. He told me that they don't just come to him - he goes looking for them and uncovers them inside his mind, where they are all there, waiting to be found. My 4-year-old explained how he thinks - actively, not passively. And then went on to ask me about the difference between his brain and his mind.

My 4-year-old.

I think I can do this. This focus thing. So I hope you will stay tuned.

The Fantastic Mr. Hawks

2010-06-19T22:10:00.006-05:00

I brag about him to my friends. About how I come home almost every day to dinner waiting. About how he tackles bath time. They tell me he needs to teach their husbands classes. They remind me how good I've got it.

He is the one who still gets up in the middle of the night. He picks up a snoring 3-year old, who crawled his way into our bed sometime around 3:00 or 4:00 a.m., and deposits him back in his own bed.

He is the one for whom they call most often when they are sick or upset. Sure, they've been through their Daddy phases, but he gives them reasons to prolong the phases, and they blend into each other so much that I can't ever tell when the so-called phases are over.

He is the better playmate. He wrestles. He pitches. He's funny. He leaves the monotony of teeth brushing, doctor appointments and babysitters to me. Instead of monotony, he deals in fun.

Today the Hawklets and I ran errands and discussed Father's Day. I explained the significance - that this is a day for us to thank Daddy for being such a great father.

"But he really hasn't been such a great father," Graham said. (Excuse me? Are we talking about the same saint described above?) "He puts us in time out sometimes."

Oh, did I mention he is an efficient disciplinarian?

Happy Father's Day, Hubby Hawks. Thanks for being so brag-worthy.

I've been busy...

2010-06-13T21:57:00.006-05:00

Yes, I realize that I posted about having more time and then disappeared. Surprisingly (ahem), I found a way to fill that time. You see, I found a little hut on a beach where 'multi-tasking' doesn't have a Spanish translation and cool breezes blow and books that I choose beg to be read.

And the view out from the little hut looks like this:

And drinks are sipped from this little bar here:

So, Anonymous, now you know.

About Time

2010-05-19T09:04:00.002-05:00

For the past five years, I have spent one night a week away from my family - rushing home from the office to gulp down a couple bites of something edible before rushing off to a class, and afterwards coming home to a sleeping house, wondering if my hawklets missed me and occasionally picking their dreaming bodies up out of bed to rock a bit. I have handed newborns over to Hubby with a bottle and left for hours at a time to pound the path of persistence.

For the past five years, I have spent a lot of my “free” time doing this:
Building projects and presentations.
Meeting with teams.
Studying for exams.
Reading books required by professors.

No more.

Last weekend I was deemed a master.

And now I’ve gotten time back. A lot of time, actually.

Time that can be spent doing more of this:
Giving baths.
Making soapy mohawks.
Cuddling wet hawklets in towels with trucks on them.
Reading books required by little boys.

Being (or working towards being) Master Mom.

*insert huge sigh of relief*

Take your target off of my child

2010-05-17T13:58:00.003-05:00

Recently I had the pleasure of attending a seminar featuring the Chairman of Disney Consumer Products, Andy Mooney. Mooney shared insights that drive his business, one of the four divisions of the overarching Disney brand. In other words, he is one of those people I listen to and excitedly think, “I need to work for [INSERT THE PERSON’S BIG BRAND HERE]!!” But I digress.

Mooney shared several behind-the-curtain insights, which you might have noticed that day if you follow me on Twitter but one thing he said about Disney’s targeting particularly stood out to me and is still bouncing around in both the personal and professional sides of my brain like a little brain gnat that can’t do much damage but at the same time completely annoys me.

When asked who are Disney’s target audience or audiences, what do you think Mooney’s response was? Moms of kids within a certain age, right?

Nope, his first mention was girls ages 2 to 10, followed by boys slightly younger.

Not the moms… the kids.

This is not to say moms aren’t a consumer target for Disney, clearly Disney focuses on multiple target audiences including moms and its Disney Moms panel for the theme parks is a great example of that. But there is an audience prioritization going on. And our kids are in the bullseye. The marketers’ first thought, their first mention.

It’s not right or wrong. Clearly it’s working for Mooney. But here are several reasons why I can’t get this comment out of my mind:

Mooney pointed to young children first – children likely too young to even have an allowance – as Disney’s primary target. Typically when we talk about targets, we are referring to consumers. Consumers by definition spend money. Does your young child do his or her own shopping, or do you shop for your child? Who is in charge?
Mooney’s comment also tells me that Disney likely buys into the concept of nagging. I don’t want to think that Disney wants to wear me down to a ‘giving in’ point to get me to buy something my kids want. Rather, I want to know that Disney wants to build me up to get me to do the same behavior – to market to me directly and make me feel that if I gift my child with some Disney product I will be a better mom with happier, smarter, better-adjusted children.
Mooney revealed that Disney looks at girls first and boys second. It’s no surprise that Disney is known for princesses and Cinderella’s castle. But boys love to be entertained just as much as girls do, and I still haven’t grasped the reasons why both genders aren’t equal opportunity customers for the Disney brand. I don’t tell my boys they can’t like pink, but the bottom line is they don’t want to play with princesses.
As the mother of two children in this age range, the idea that there are strategy meetings going on to determine how to get my children to act a certain way makes my mama bear radar go up. Target me, that’s fine. I welcome brand engagement as the owner of the purse strings. I know what strategies are being put together around moms as consumers. But target my children with such strategies? Something feels icky about it.

Is it okay with you for a brand to target your kids, instead of you as the purchaser for your kids?

On Listening (I'm Looking at You, Marketers)

2010-04-21T11:55:00.006-05:00

A colleague in the office next door to mine, who just returned from speaking at the PRSA Health Academy conference, mentioned that she heard several references to 2008's Motrin Moms debacle at the conference. I was surprised. And at the same time I wasn't. It's getting old, but it's not going away. This is further fuel to the fire. Moms rule.

And frankly, the paradigm power shift happening all around us as the marketing reigns are passed from brands to consumers and, especially, moms is exciting. This emerging “momocracy,” as we call it at FH Moms, is a result of the growing control consumers in general are exercising where and how they interact with brands, with moms increasingly holding the reins, steering brands this way and that and expecting immediate reactions. They’re getting reactions. And when ignored, they’re demanding reactions. Reactions that resonate with marketers for years, apparently.

Handing the control of your marketing reins to Mom may sound scary. But you don’t have a choice. It’s done, because she’s already taken them. The good news is dialoguing with moms is nothing to fear. They quickly activate, but they also quickly advocate when a brand gets it right. When she knows you are listening and drawing her into a dialogue, mom will share your her reins with you.

The truth is moms didn’t gain this control as a by-product of the rise of social media. Brand and product mentions, including recommendations for and against certain products or services have always permeated moms’ conversations. Remember when those conversations used to take place at PTA meetings and playgrounds? They still do. Moms’ reins of marketing power are not exclusive to social media, but social media gives us the opportunity to eavesdrop. Even better, it gives us the opportunity to spark and attempt to guide the conversation. It’s no nightmare. It’s a marketer’s dream.

Thanks to social media, marketing to moms is now evolving into marketing with spokesmoms, developing mom ambassadors, executing partnerships, reviews, sponsorships, giveaways, contests. How can you evolve with mom? Consider changing the word ‘marketing’ in the phrase to ‘listening’ or ‘engaging.’ Ask moms how they’d like to dialogue. Don’t be there just to be there. And for Pete’s sake, don’t e-blast a “Dear Mommy Blogger” pitch.

Forget about Motrin Moms, Maytag-gate or #NestleFamily for a minute. While loud, those case studies are not anomalies. There are all kinds of brand-centric conversations happening in what we sometimes refer to as the momosphere – that social media entity where mom blogs, mom tweets and mom social networks have become a place for content creation with brand and product mentions permeating the flow.

The mentions don’t happen because marketers took control of moms’ blog posts or status updates. Remember, mom was having brand-laden conversations and sharing her opinions with other moms before the momosphere. Mom bloggers have become our co-marketers because the mentions were there before we (the marketers, PR pros and advertisers) were. Behavioral research proves moms want to be the ones with the information; the ones with the persuasion abilities. They have gained huge readerships and hoards of followers because moms seek other moms’ opinions. They want the first looks, the behind-the-scenes, a sense of exclusivity. Social media enables moms to get what they want more easily. Remember, this is a momocracy.

How do we know moms want to be in-the-know consumers, persuading their mom peers to pay attention to the latest brand/product/service they are in to? In partnership with The Harrison Group, Fleishman-Hillard surveyed 3,000 North American women between 21 and 70, 71% of whom were moms. We uncovered some insightful emerging behaviors and attitudes – particularly in the current economy – that shed light on new intricacies in marketing to moms.

Our research goes way beyond the staid statistic that moms make 85% of household purchase decisions. Who doesn’t know that moms buy household supplies? What we uncovered was a nearly universal sense of success, with 90 percent defining themselves as “successful” and fully 60 percent defining themselves as “very successful,” even in a recession. They see themselves as the purchasing authority but also the relationship authority, the quality of life authority, the ones with the information and the persuasion abilities. In fact, 82% said they are the women whom their peers seek out for information, telling their peers what brands to pay attention to. It happens because they each want to be the ones with the information – the ones in the know.

These new leaders in the momocracy, who are setting the household agenda, aren’t particularly responsive to the voice of authority. They told us they believe they are the authority. And, to catch the attention of these pro multi-taskers we have to take an integrated approach, balanced differently than before. She is more digital than women without children, but she multi-tasks her media consumption, and can’t be marketed to in a social media vacuum. Our study showed moms spend 43 hours per week consuming media. Of these hours, 17 are spent online, followed by TV (14 hours), radio (8 hours), newspaper (3 hours), and magazines (2 hours).

Recognizing this, and finding ways to recognize them, is key to unlocking their potential as consumers, and potentially brand advocates. They consider themselves the source of information for their peer groups – what information are they sharing about your brand? What are you letting them in on? What relationships are you forging with them?

Are you even listening?

Boyfriend Material?

2010-04-02T22:09:00.001-05:00

“What can I get you to drink?” the waitress asks us, standing over our table of four, pen in hand, poised over her pad.

“Pinot grigio for me, Bud Light for him, and two mil--” abrubtly she cuts me off.

“Do you know who I am?” she suddenly directs at my son. Then, squatting down beside the table, propping her face in her hands, atop her bent elbows. “Remember me?”

Oh God, what is happening?

My son stars at her, blissfully dumbfounded. I look at him, at my husband, at the face in the hands. The whole exchange feels like five minutes. Did I miss something?

“I’m Tierney’s mom,” she announces.

A-ha moment! We’ve heard of Tierney! Tierney goes to school with Graham! Connecting the dots!

“And Tierney told me that you were her boyfriend.”

Screech! Halt! Stop the presses! Rewind! Como se whaaaa? My son is four years old. But the face in the hands seems to be very pleased with this information.

Dear God, teenage years, please be kind to this mama.

P.S. Tierney’s mom is super nice and even got my boys to eat their peas. In fact, she might be an ideal mother-in-law…

The new mommy blogger is not the daddy blogger

2010-03-30T10:45:00.003-05:00

Dear Readers, please accept my apology. I left you on a cliff.

Although by now you’ve certainly jumped after forgetting all about why you were hanging out there. So let me offer you a hand back up.

A lot of chatter around me lately in these first few months of 2010 (because remember my job is to help clients better market to moms) relates to the year’s HOT TRENDS! BRAND NEW! SHINY PENNIES! But while some say the “new mom blogger” (and I quote because there is frankly NO replacement for the mom blogger – she will only continue to gain steam and savvy) is the dad blogger, I will stake my claim elsewhere.

Dear Readers, allow me to shine a spotlight on the grandma blogger. The nana blogger. The grandboomer blogger. The grammy, mimi, meeha, and vavo blogger.

Internet, we are witnessing a new phenomenon. A trend gaining steam.

Need some proof? What about Mimi, or Sharon, or Nanna, or Nana, or Teresa or this one, that one and the other?

And I could go on and on…

What is fueling this fire, you ask? Remember when you heard for the first time about the Boomer? About the fact that this was the largest generation, comprised of women re-branding their 50s as “the new 30s” and not settling for stagnation in retirement? Yes, these are the women I’m talking about. They are also (gasp!) grandparents.

And guess what. The average age of the first-time grandparent today is 48. This is the new grandboomer. She is not living your grandmother’s grandmotherhood, just like you are not living your mother’s motherhood. She is more likely to help you with caregiving. She is more likely to give your children the gifts you won’t buy them. She is a key player in the village you require to accomplish your motherhood (which now more than ever includes your careerhood, and your empowerment as CHO). She’s already on Facebook, where she not only keeps up with your life and gets the latest pictures of her grandkids, but also? She connects with her girlfriends and old high school boyfriends. Why would we assume she wouldn’t be interested in social media? She’s more social than we are.

Last year the Wall Street Journal took a look at the new generation of involved grandparents, pointing out some 40% of grandparents who live within an hour’s drive of young grandchildren provide regular child care while their mothers work (per a 2008 survey of 500 grandparents by the National Association of Child Care Resource & Referral Agencies, an Arlington, Va., nonprofit). I am a living example of this trend.

And at the 2008 M2Moms (the national marketing-to-moms conference where I spoke last year) I heard Jerry Shereshewsky, CEO of Grandparents.com say grandparents spend on average $1,800 a year on their grandkids. While some of this money is spent on gifts for their children, to enable their children to cope with the needs presented by the addition of their grandkids (including cars, washer/dryers, and vacations!), the key takeaway is mom is focused on necessities of life. Grandparents often are focused on luxuries for their grandchildren.

(I’m looking at you, Mom!)

But wait -- that’s not all. One of the most important reasons the new mom blogger is not the dad blogger is one inherent issue: GENDER BEHAVIORS. Dad is a man. Research proves men just don’t communicate in the same way as women. (This is the part where my psychology minor comes out.) Gasp! I know, you’re shocked. Men don’t talk purdy like us. They also don’t share product recommendations like we do. They don’t see themselves as the resource for all their men friends to find out about what they should be buying.

But grandmothers? Women. Are you following?

And guess what other group is comprised of women – aunts. PANKS (Professional Aunt, No Kids). Aunts who blog are unique in that they love our children, and they purchase for our children. But they are not unique in that they, too, share product recommendations like women do. Have you met the lovely Savvy Auntie? If not, go now. Peruse her site. Understand why she has developed an entire community of aunts talking about their nieces, nephews, things they want to buy for them, and experiences they want to share with them.

No, the new mom blogger is not the dad blogger. There is nothing new about the fact that moms, grandmas and aunts are all women. And there is no shiny penny that will replace our inherent communicative behaviors. Sorry, dad, but you just can’t compete with that.

Call me “mommy” one more time and you’re headed straight to time out!

2010-03-16T09:46:00.003-05:00

Our children use the term and it is sweet music. In fact, I mentioned in my last post that I don’t want my 4 year-old evolve from calling me mommy to the new version with extra whine: mawm. I just want to be his mommy.

But if an adult uses it, particularly an adult writing for the New York Times (who presumably should know more, or at least do more research about this powerful group of women who self-publish online or else be prepared for the firestorm that erupted over the weekend, evidenced here) or an adult working in marketing for a major brand wanting to enter into a professional relationship with powerful consumer influencers… it stings.

Who woulda thought “mommy” would one day be lumped into the “derogatory slang” category with so many other adjectives meant to label special interest groups? You know the ones I’m talking about.

In this case, I suppose it’s not just “mommy” but more specifically, “mommy blogger.” Is it derogatory? Or is it descriptive? Isn’t it just a matter-of-fact label if you blog about your kids or your motherhood?

I blog (about my kids and my motherhood, as a matter of fact). I am a mom. Of course that doesn’t exclusively define who I am. If someone calls me a mommy blogger, should I put my dukes up? They certainly don’t mean that I am ONLY a mom who blogs... do they?

As Lindsay Maines, (mama) blogger at Rock and Roll Mama, so eloquently put it: “The only folks who can call me mommy came from my naughty bits.”

But still, all those external to the momosphere (mommyosphere?) – like folks in my industry – are compelled to give this group a name. They’re grasping around to come to a consensus while those on the inside continue to build a groundswell against it.

How will it all shake out? Let’s check in on what others are saying (folks on the inside, the outside, the sideways and middle and inbetween), …

Some people make two words one (which, in my mind, is accompanied by a ‘shazam!’ sound effect): mommyblogger. Shazam! (You heard it too, didn’t you?)

And some capitalize it - a proper noun I guess: Mommy Blogger. Mommy Blogger. Jane Mommy Blogger. As in, ‘the.’

Others, myself included, have attempted to push the term towards maturity: mom blogger. Because my kids don’t call me mommy so why do my peers? ‘Could we touch base on the second quarter earnings figures, Mommy?’

While still others want to steer it away from the maternal aspect: female (or woman) blogger. I said I am woman, hear me roar. Not mommy.

And of course, the blogger part might be grating as well, so an even more PC version I’ve noticed recently is: female online writer. Because writing is so much more respectable than blogging, right New York Times?

Obviously not all moms online blog about their kids. Some bloggers have kids and you might not even know it. (What!? Doesn’t a woman with children have nothing else to talk about but her offspring and the cute things they do and say?)

If I blog about my kids sometimes and marketing other times, should I be labeled a mommy marketing blogger? (mommymarketingblogger, shazam!)

But seriously and snarklessly, can we just drop the mommy and all get along?

(On a side note, next time I’m mad at Hubby Hawks, maybe I’ll call him “daddy.” I’ll do it! Ooh, that’ll really irk him!)

He's a Kid Now

2010-03-14T15:44:00.002-05:00

My baby turned four recently. There’s no passing him off as a toddler anymore, brutally evident last week when I picked him up from school and got to spy on him on the playground with the other boys. First, huddled in the corner around a red ball. Then, following each other to the tunnel. Laughing. I realized he was smaller than the other boys in the group.

“Get your backpack, Graham!” his teacher called, seeing me approach. Graham wasn’t fazed.

Harrison’s mom must have approached at the same time, because the teacher then called, “Harrison, get your backpack! Graham, don’t let Harrison beat you!” They both took off in a game of competitive direction following.

Harrison tossed his backpack strap over one shoulder. Graham did the same. “Bye Parrison!” Graham called in a voice reserved for buddies, not moms. As we walked out of the playground I tried to help him put the other strap over the other shoulder.“No mom!” he said, annoyed, pushing me away. “The big kids do it like this!” Gah. Geez. How embarrassing, MAWM. (Though I did bend down to pull up his droopy pants. Gotcha!)

In the car, Graham told me about Parrison and the big boys. How it was a good day because he played with the big kids. About how Parrison is five.

“I think his name is Harrison,” I said. “No, mom, it’s Parrison. It’s PARRISON!” Gah, he was so annoyed with how out of the loop I was.

And I was so annoyed with how I can’t stop time… how I’m sometimes MAWM and not always mama or mommy anymore… how conflicting it feels to want to hold on to my baby and at the same time be proud at how much he’s growing into himself. My kid.

I Won Something

2010-03-05T12:16:00.006-06:00

I don’t enter sweepstakes. I don’t play the lottery. I don’t win things.

Until this week.

This week I won something really big. Well, really big at least within the walls of my employing firm, Fleishman-Hillard.

So in this case you might be meh and I might be peeing my pants. But let me tell you why..

My third baby, the one I call FH Moms, the one I birthed at the office instead of the hospital and that requires food of the intellectual kind instead of the pureed – was named by firm leadership “Practice of the Year.”

Yes, that’s right. A little idea I had was just validated as a really really good idea by the crazysmart leaders of the 28 other global practice groups our firm maintains.

There I was, sitting in a staff meeting, listening to our regional president who was in town from Corporate to give a "State of the Firm" update (which it turns out was a guise to come to town to give me this award), and suddenly she was talking about me, about the practice I started, about the fact it was being bestowed a HUGE honor.

And I suddenly found myself in the mental states of “Oh dear God I did not wash my hair this morning” and “Did I just chew the skin off my bottom lip?” and “Speech! Speech on the spot! Quick! Be pithy!”

And then someone flung the black felt draping off the beautiful glass award and someone else wheeled in a cake and… "wait, I was just home sick with a stomach bug yesterday and uh-oh, now my colleagues are giving me congratulatory hugs and am I giving them flu germs? Shirt to shirt? Is that possible?"

I won something. For being smart and working hard.

Hey mom, I won!

Conversations with an almost-4-year-old

2010-02-20T22:29:00.002-06:00

Me: "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
Him: "I will be a fireman. But I will get so tall because firemen are so tall. And then I won't fit into our house."
Me: "But will you visit us?"
Him: "I will be at the firehouse with the other firemen and I will be teaching fire safety."
Me: "Okay, that's pretty important. I understand. What do you think your little brother wants to be when he grows up?"
Him: "Probably a salesman."
_________________________________

Me: "Don't cover your nose; you need it to breathe."
Him: "Oh I can breathe on my own."
Me: "Your lungs help you breathe."
Him: "I don't have lungs."
Me: "Yes you do, they're inside your chest just like lots of other things inside your body that you don't see (start naming organs...)"
Him: "Is my brain by my eyes?"
Me: "Yes it's inside your head."
Him: "Well I don't feel it. But I do hear it. When I shake my head I can hear it."

Love It, Hate It

2010-02-15T20:31:00.005-06:00

Have you ever heard something that is catch-your-breath sweet and at the same time a punch in the gut?

Can anything do that quite like two little voices on the other end of a cell phone when they say this to a traveling-on-business-again mommy:

"Mommy will you come and cuddle with us before we go to bed?"

Aww. And ugh.

The middle-of-the-night dance

2010-02-12T11:04:00.001-06:00

It’s 3:00 a.m. I hear a whine. In my limited coherency, my overworked subconscious starts going through its unregulated-by-daytime-logic freak out mode. Eyes closed, the questions start: Was that a cry? Is he puking again? Did he sit up or is it going to be on him again? Why is he throwing up so much? Is it a tumor? Something so rare that we’ll have to go doctor to doctor until someone finds the answer? What if he didn’t sit up and he’s choking? Is Hubby getting up? Get up! Get up, body! GET! UUUUUP!

My body finally moves, simultaneously waking up my logic. It tells my subconscious to snap out of it. It’s not a tumor. It’s a virus. And it’s time to change the sheets again. One foot in front of the other, I walk toward the whine.

“Buddy? Do you need to throw up again? Lean over the trash can, okay? Want some water?”

I get him out of bed. He’s hot. He’s limp. Take off the wet pjs and strip the sheets. He waits quietly, face down on the ottoman while I finish. “Water?” his small voice attempts. We’re both going through the motions as if this happens all the time.

Thank God it doesn’t. I pause my nighttime chores for just a second to admire him, his tiny body’s strength.

Hour after hour it comes. Each time, he yells out a warning. “Mommy!” “Daddy!” sometimes one of us literally jumps out of bed and runs in his room. The adrenaline - just sitting on go, waiting to be beckoned. Other times my subconscious wins, muddying my brainwaves. One eye opens and wonders why the alarm clock is so bright. Mind coaxes body up, feet to the hardwood. As if running underwater I don’t make it in time. I find myself feeling around in the dark to find the wet spots. With bare hands, trying to determine - without waking Little Brother - whether sheets and pjs need another change.

I realize that after so many times, there is not even a smell. I ponder how it’s possible his tiny body can do this over and over. Is it normal? And that prompts the middle-of-the-night subconscious to ask the freak out questions. Again.

He lies back down. See you in about an hour, buddy. I don’t say it out loud – maybe he thinks that was the last time. My feet guide my body back to bed.

We do this dance all night, though he switches dance partners between Mommy and Daddy. Subconcious occasionally tries to cut in. But Adrenaline often pushes it off.

In the morning, I break the news that he can’t go to school. I know all he wants to do is sleep but still he is disappointed. “I won’t throw up anymore!” he promises. I explain that his body still needs time to fight the germs inside.

“Will the germs come out of my mouth?” he asks.

The simultaneous cute and gross of his question erases the blur of our night. We are in this together, little man. Dance partners matched by God – the one who has a way of always making me forget how exhausted I am.

Today is Not Valentine's Day

2010-02-10T10:50:00.002-06:00

Today is Feb. 10. It’s not Valentine’s Day. It’s Wednesday. And thus, it’s the Valentine’s Day party in the toddler room at St. John’s Parents Day Out. Of course it is!

And so this morning, this working mom’s “oh sh*t!” stream of consciousness kicked in. There I was anxiously trying to remember what ‘party day’ was supposed to mean to us. The whole process went something like this…

Find the Sesame Street Valentines Mimi picked up at a fellow retired teacher’s garage sale for 25 cents. Check. Sign child’s name to the Valentines but do not put any names on the outside envelopes to make it easier on the teachers. Okay. Do not include any candy because we never know who might be allergic to what, and besides teachers hate sugar in the classroom. Of course. Is this the one where we’re supposed to include little pencils, stickers, cutesy tokens? Maybe that’s the Friday school. Maybe Mimi knows. (Late for work. Late for work. Late for work.)

Okay, sign for Reid. Find a red marker? Pink crayon? Try to make the script a little more festive?

What would Reid want me to do? (Late for work. Late for work.)

Reid can’t write. Or read. And neither can his little friends at school. But dagnabit those other moms can so here we go.

Black ball point it is.

Flip them all over.

“From Reid”
“From Reid”
Use print instead of cursive, of course. I mean what toddler knows cursive?
“From Reid”
“From Reid”
15 times.

Is that enough? How many kids are there?

Settle on 15 with the logic that those rooms are pretty small and he doesn’t ever come home with bruises from kids climbing over him. Fifteen is probably more than I need. Oh crap, will I need some of those 15 for the Friday school? Wonder if I will I be doing this same tap dance on Friday morning.

Snap drifting mind back to the project at hand.

Feel guilty that Reid’s Valentines are likely going to be sub-par compared to the rest of the class. Remember that I still have to get shoes and coats on the boys and get them into the car. (Late for work. Late for work.)

Insert some granola bar bribery.

Stuff Valentines into his backpack’s front pocket. Make mental note to remember to tell Mimi they’re in there so she can take them out when he gets to school. Say a brief prayer thanking God that Mimi signed up to bring paper cups to the party, bypassing my incompetency.

Make mental note to never go out for PTA president.

Happy Valentine’s Day, dear reader. I mean, uh, Happy Wednedsay.

P.S. Yes, I realize I haven’t yet answered my cliffhanger from two posts ago. Clearly I have other crises to manage and haven’t had a chance, but rest assured (as I know you’ve bitten your nails down to stubs at this point) it’s coming.

What Made Their Buildings Fall Down?

2010-01-28T12:54:00.001-06:00

The dining room table at Mimi’s house was covered with plastic bags, towels, soap, toothbrushes.

“Tell Mommy what we’re doing, Graham,” Mimi prompted.

“Mommy, there are people in Haiti and their houses and buildings fell down. They lost their toothbrushes and their towels,” he explained, the thought clearly processing in his head while the words fell out of his mouth.

“What made their buildings fall down?” he tried to remember out loud, interrupting himself.

“An earthquake,” Mimi reminded.

He asked if there were little boys in Haiti and my heart skipped a beat. Mimi answered simply, yes. His little mind continued to ponder. What exactly? We can only guess. But the pondering - a glimpse for me that my little man has altruism inside there, empathy.

Then, while putting his shoes on: “But mommy, who’s going to help them build their buildings and their houses?”

Who, indeed. I imagined my boy as a man, hand outstretched, hammer ready. He is young, but he is able. He speaks in ‘wants’ but inherently knows ‘needs.’ We all do – survival instincts.

For now, and with Mimi’s gentle guidance, he’s filling plastic bags with basics.

But he’s filling me with pride.

Attempting to Stop the Shiny Penny from Jumping to Conclusions

2010-01-21T15:46:00.002-06:00

Hubby Hawks is a research subject. Or, he should be. Watching him father, I feel as though I am watching a major generational shift taking place in my own home. I’m watching a trend gathering in front of my face. You know that term “The Greatest Generation?” Well, I believe he is part of the greatest generation of fatherhood to date.

Let me explain…

My husband is helpful. Yesterday, I bragged to my colleague in the office that the night before I had come home to enchiladas in the oven. Yes, my husband cooks. He changes diapers. He bathes our children. He plays and reads stories. He packs lunches and backpacks.

I know. I’m livin’ the dream. But let me clarify. When I say he’s helpful, it’s not that he’s helping me per se. He’s helping his children. Because he is their father. He is parenting.

I do all of those things too. (Although for some reason I find giving baths so tiring.) But I am no Betty Draper, thank God. (Okay, and I am a horrible cook. Are you happy now?)

That colleague I mentioned above has a different parenting experience. In her household, some of the antiquated and stereotypical gender roles are still evident. Some. At least, enough for her to be in awe of my enchiladas in the oven.

The Cassandra New Family Report of 2009 underscored the shift to this new involved dad. It showed that Gen X and Y dads don’t see staying at home with the kids as demeaning. In fact, 40% of Gen Y dads believe themselves to be the primary caretaker of the children. When asked how they would choose to spend a free afternoon, they said they would want to be with their children. Moms said they would choose to have alone time.

This is all very exciting. But the research is also giving people permission to draw assumptions… jump to conclusions. Some think the daddy blogger will become the new marketing influencer, the “new mommy blogger.” I’m not convinced. Research shows dads just don’t communicate in the same ways we do. I’ve talked about this before, but maybe you weren’t reading here then. Dads who are changing diapers aren’t dictating what diapers to buy. They aren’t telling each other why they choose said diaper brand, or what that diaper brand is currently doing to green its business practices. They aren’t forging blogging communities and networks to find each other and have these conversations about where parenting and products intersect like moms are. Okay, okay, some dads are. SOME. Not enough to make a statistically significant difference. And that is the point.

And yes, I am fully aware that we have recently entered for the first time ever that point in which there are as many men as women in the workforce. And that the economic downturn forced more men to stay at home with the kids. But getting laid off doesn’t mean those dads were rushing home to start blogging about whether their kids’ chocolate milk should be organic. If I was a dad who was laid off in 2009 and I knew that some marketers equate my loss of a job to my being now part of a rising trend of “daddy bloggers” oh I would be pissed.

How could marketers be so tied to gender stereotypes that they think just because dads today are more involved, more hands on, more helpful in the household (or God forbid because they have lost a job) that they must also now be the same kind of consumer as moms are, having the same conversations in the same places?

Some marketers are too quick to jump on the daddy blogger bandwagon. I consider it part of the shiny penny syndrome that is rampant in this business. With every calendar rotation, the talk naturally shifts to what’s going to be the new trend? What’s going to be the new in thing for our business, to keep the trade media and our competitors talking about us, guessing our next move?

The more things change, the more they stay the same. My husband is not living his father’s fatherhood. But he is also not living my motherhood. And I can assure you he will never blog, tweet, or status-post. And if he does, it’s not going to involve any mention of diapers or organic chocolate milk.

That said, I do believe there is another type of blogger who will start to add volume to the mommy blogger’s voice this year and over the next few years, and I’ll share more on that in my next post.

(Ooooh, my first blog cliffhanger! Are you excited?)

It's Reader Appreciation Day!

2010-01-17T21:07:00.002-06:00

What? It's a new year?! And I haven't posted yet in this entire year?! Well, please forgive me. I'll be back with some random diatribe soon, but in the meantime, thank you dear reader for coming back and visiting us here in the Hawks Nest. Your visits are the bright spots in our days. So on behalf of the Hawklets, thank you!

Fa-la-la-la-laaa, la-la-la-blah

2009-12-24T19:40:00.005-06:00

Graham doesn't know if he wants Santa to visit us tonight. At least, he claims this nonsense every time I've found myself needing to remind him today that Santa is still watching and it's not too late to get on the naughty list. "I don't want Santa to come. I don't want any presents." Okay, suuuuure. And yet another exhibit into my case that he is a teenager trapped in the body of a 3-year old. His getting up at 9:00, 9:30 or 10:00 a.m. every day since I've been on vacation is yet another.

We made cookies for Santa tonight. (Take that, to-do list!!) Well, we made no-bake cookies for Santa. We put them in the fridge and the boys kept asking when we were going to make cookies. "We just did!" I explained. "But there is nothing in the OVEN!" they countered. You just can't get anything by them.

We had new master bedroom furniture delivered today - the excitement of the day, particularly now that we are trapped inside during a midwestern blizzard. So the boys just had.to.jump on our new bed. Which led to throwing pillows. Graham just couldn't stop throwing things. He had to sit in time out on his bed and when I came in to talk to him: "I just like throwing, it makes me laugh," he said. My heart melted for my boy. "Well there are certain places where you can throw," I attempted to assure him. "Where are these places? Will you take me there?" he said, eyes wide. I explained that I was talking about the place known as 'outside' and promised that tomorrow we could go out and throw all the snowballs he wanted. Come on, Mother Nature. Hear my plea, one mother to another.

If Mother Nature had a son, he would definitely be Blizzard.

Earlier this week we started our Christmas marination by driving down to Branson per my in-laws' invitation. We experienced a down-home Christmas complete with Silver Dollar City, an old-world Americana fun park, complete with electric light parade, steam engine choo-choo ride in the woods, and choreographed LED light Christmas tree (the futuristic part of the old world). I thought was quite the experience, and so did most of the four-state region. We were often engulfed in the masses, which Hubby Hawks loathes. "Get me out of here!" he would say while simultaneously being brushed against by five strangers. "Merry Christmas dear," I did my job as Blood Pressure Stabilizer. (He is going to LOVE Disney World next year!)

And Merry Christmas to you and yours from the Hawks Nest. And to all, a good night.

Why I Am an Accenture Mombassador

2009-12-15T21:55:00.004-06:00

Oh, Tiger. You certainly fooled us.

Weeks after your scandalous news broke, it’s not the fact that you aren’t the role model we thought you were. It’s not the fact that you are cheating on a Swedish model and having unprotected sex with random women you meet in bars and clubs. It’s not the fact that my husband has always looked up to you (*ahem*).

No, what I’m struggling with now is actually not even your fault directly. You see, it’s not about how you fooled us, but about how some of your sponsors are still fooled. I just can’t fathom why some of them are standing by you, you dirty, dirty liar.

Let’s take Nike, for example, which pays you $30 million dollars a year. You just paid one of your mistresses some of these millions. These are the dollars that hardworking Americans earn and spend on your sponsors’ products. The sponsors hand the money over to you. To sell more of their products. Do they think the American public is stupid enough to want to buy more of said products because you, the now exposed Tiger Woods, are telling them to?

"I think he's been really great. When his career is over, you'll look back on these indiscretions as a minor blip, but the media is making a big deal out of it right now," said Phil Knight, Nike’s chairman and co-founder.

A minor blip. The media is making a big deal. Is Phil Knight married?

Spokespeople are chosen to represent companies and their products based on character, likeability, and some perception that people want to emulate their actions. Do your sponsors really believe that we think you are still likeable? Yes, you are the greatest golfer to every play the sport, but doesn't likeability incorporate the personal, not just the professional? (And dear God, I hope people aren’t wanting to emulate your actions.)

Will moms start to think twice about buying their families Nike shoes considering Nike’s position? Is Nike considering their mom consumers in making the choice to disregard Tiger’s “transgressions?”

Some may argue that Nike believes Tiger’s image will turn around somewhere down the line. But it really doesn’t matter if or when Tiger ever makes a comeback. What matters is that right now, Nike believes that Tiger still personifies the qualities that it wants its spokespeople to have.

Should it matter to consumers that Nike is willing to show more loyalty to its fallen spokesperson than to its own integrity for being associated with an immoral cheater?

Kudos to Accenture for giving its consumers more credit than that.

Family Band

2009-12-12T22:58:00.004-06:00

"Mommy, when you grow up you should be a rockstar. And I will be a rockstar. And we will play our guitars together and sing. And Daddy and Reid will be rockstars and you and Daddy will stand together and I will stand by you and Reid will stand by Daddy. And I will have a big boy microphone and Reid will have a little microphone because he's little and you and Daddy will have big microphones."

Oh dear God, in my son's mind we are not the Hawks Family... we are the Partridge Family.

The Partridge Family of Rockstars.

Liz isn't in the nest today...

2009-12-01T12:18:00.004-06:00

...because I'm over at JessicaKnows.com - the blog of a colleague of mine in Fleishman-Hillard's Sacramento office, where I guest posted. Oh, and Jessica (whose last name is really Smith, not Knows) just happens to be one of Neilsen's Top-50 Power Moms, a major social media influencer and has all kinds of readers from all kinds of places. Check me out over there and leave a comment if you're interested in the discussion! And if not (hi, Hawks family!) and you just read here for Hawklet pictures, I'll be back soon!

Reintroduction of the Raggedys

2009-11-29T00:36:00.005-06:00

Once upon a time a little girl played with dolls. She loved her dolls and cared for them, tucking them into their little beds and ensuring their outfits were well matched. She arranged and rearranged and rearranged again the furniture inside her doll houses. She imagined a faraway kingdom ruled by her all powerful She-Ra and a herd of colorful My Little Ponies. Her Barbies had families and children and a Ken who never removed his tux, just in case he needed to get to a formal at a moment’s notice. Her Little People had neatly arranged streets between neatly designed block houses that were constantly remodeled to suit their ever-changing needs and furniture.

Then the little girl grew up and had two little … boys. They introduced her to an obsession with cars, trucks, tractors, trains. They showed her that little boys cannot play with said transportation objects without making a motor sound with their little voices. They baffled her with their desire to pretend-drive in the real car. They ran circles around her on their little feet and drove circles around her on their little cars. She laughed at how different her little boys were from little girls. She especially laughed when the little boys parked their cars in her old dollhouse, making it a house of garages, and when they tossed her old doll onto the floor in order to put their trucks to bed in her old doll bed.

But one day the girl’s mother pulled two of the little girl’s dolls out of an old storage box. And she introduced The Raggedys to the little boys. And the life-size dolls weren’t tossed to the floor in favor of trucks or cars. Not even for trains. They were giggled over. And carried around. They were hugged and analyzed and they even brought out a “wow!” or two.

And if even for one morning, and if even vicariously, watching her little boys the girl felt little again. Big and little, cars and dolls, boys and girls – the differences weren’t so glaring.

For a morning.

When will VW get the mom memo?

2009-11-28T10:42:00.003-06:00

The soccer mom is dead. She is buried next to the Astro mini-van. And if she wasn’t, I would kill her after watching videos like the one featured in this recent article.

I wasn’t sure whether I should feel offended or annoyed at the video, which is marketing the VW Routan. So I felt both.

The mom in question has an annoying mom-jean, bouncing around, hugging strangers kind of persona. Of course she speaks with a northern Midwest accent, youbetcha. To make it worse, this soccer mom has forgotten her children who are sitting on a street curb alone in the rain.
Did VW miss a little what-not-to-do-when-marketing-to-moms case study called Motrin Moms? Moms don’t like snark. They don’t want to be portrayed as disregarding their children. They certainly don’t want to be shown has having half a brain. They are tech-savvy, empowered multi-taskers in charge of the household after all.

For Pete’s sake, how many times are we going to have to keep regurgitating the Motrin Moms case before other major brands come around?

And they probably aren’t self-identifying as soccer moms anymore, even though kids’ soccer may very well be a big deal at home. Research has uncovered more than 50 mom sub-segments. Yet decades after the birth and death of the Soccer Mom, we still see her starring in mom-focused campaigns.

The Routan mom should be wielding a smart phone (not a clipboard!) where she manages the family calendar and 'to-dos.' And said to-do list wouldn’t include “don’t forget children.” She should be trendy (like her Routan?) and socially appropriate.

Of course moms appreciate humor in marketing. But it’s just not funny when the target is mom and particularly one we can’t identify with. We need to laugh with her; not at her.

Is this the consumer VW folks see when a mom walks into a dealership? Take the sterotype-colored glasses off, VW marketers. Not to mention the fact that if this is the type of mom driving a Routan, do you really think that’s the type of driver persona I want to identify with?

When did making-fun-of-mom become a marketing strategy?

So many questions. Such high blood pressure. (sigh)

Eavesdropping

2009-11-19T09:35:00.002-06:00

Him: “Hey, what’s up.”

Her: “Not much. Got this pretty dress and everything so all’s good.”

Him: “That’s cool. I decided to go casual myself.”

Her: “Yes, I see that. You kinda look like you’re headed to a backyard bar-be-que. Are you?”

Him: “Nah, I’m stuck here for a while at least. I can’t drive.”

Her: “Yeah, me neither. This carpet is making me dizzy anyway. Probably wouldn’t be a good idea to get behind the wheel after my eyes being so close to this carpet pattern.”

Him: “I know, what is up with the carpet? If I hadn’t needed glasses before tonight, I would now!”

Her: “So did you hit the buffet?”

Him: “Yep, loaded a plate with bread and crackers. A little cake. Okay, a lot. I have a carb weakness.”

Her: “Oh, that explains why you have such a gut but chicken legs. Have you been working out?”

Him: “Hey now, I do my share of running, jumping, wrestling my dad, pushing my brother. I get my cardio.”

Her: “Okay, sorry I mentioned it! Sore subject, huh?”

Him: “No worries. Hey, is that the Cha-Cha Slide I hear?”

Her: “Oooh, Let’s go show ‘em how it’s done.”

Wordless Wednesday: Best Friends

2009-11-11T09:54:00.003-06:00

They don't yet realize what a precious gift a good friend is. All they know is they both love zooming matchbox cars and eating corndogs. It's a beautiful thing.

Elmo Says Don't Pick Your Nose

2009-10-16T14:10:00.001-05:00

The morning drive from our house to Mimi’s, where I drop off the Hawklets in the morning is rife with conversation. Yesterday, the conversation was mostly between Graham and me. I was doing the talking, he was doing the wailing. I was explaining to Graham that when one sits at the table in front of his breakfast not eating it, and then is forced to get in the car and leave with an empty stomach because he wouldn’t eat his breakfast, then perhaps the next day he can try eating the breakfast instead of staring it down, and we would all be much happier. These are really philosophical conversations we have on the platform of ‘how the world works.’

Last week, the conversation was between the Hawklets and I was a mere eavesdropper. “Reid, DON’T PICK YOUR NOSE! No, Reid! We don’t pick our noses! Put that boogie back in there RIGHT NOW!”

We’ve been working on poor Reid. He’s just at that stage that the finger and nose seem to have some magnetic qualities. We are often batting his little hands down from his face. Oh, right, and it’s flu season.

But now we have an advocate. Elmo has partnered with the U.S. government to back us up. So now when we tell Reid that his fingers and nose can’t come into contact, we reinforce it with “Elmo says!” He is catching on. Sometimes, we see a little finger start to make its way up and then his eyes meet ours and his little voice says “Elmo says” as the little finger retreats, back down to whatever object from which the sudden urge to nose-pick distracted him.

Thanks to all of this, Elmo is actually becoming quite an authoritative figure in our household.

I ask Reid to stop standing on his chair. He asks me: “Elmo says?” I say: “Yes, Elmo says get down.” He gets down. Voila!

Sort of like the new Simon Says game. Elmo says take a bath. Elmo says brush your teeth. Elmo says don’t hit your brother. Elmo says no wrestling in the bathtub.

Hey, Elmo is powerful. Even the government thinks so.

Wordless Wednesday

2009-09-30T11:18:00.002-05:00

"Be right back, Mom, we're just going around the block."

So Much Gratitude

2009-09-27T22:29:00.004-05:00

It was a long day. In other words, the boys passed up naptime for the-longer-my-eyelids-are-up-the-more-hyper-I-get time. Which made bedtime quite delirious. Which also made bedtime prayers quite bizarre. They went something like this:

"Thank you God for lightbulbs. God, and thank you for Target. And Lowe's, where the race cars are. Thank you for wheels on Reid's crib. God, thank you for shoes and socks. And thank you for Old McDonald's. And for food. I like milk. Thank you for Addison, and Addison's milk. Thank you for blinds and clocks. Thank you for books and toys. Thank you for our ottoman and rocking chair. They go together. And Jesus, thank you for God..."

It went on like that for quite a while. Until delirium finally succumbed to dreamworld. Sort of like a drunk finally passing out.

(Oh, and thank you, God, for sleeping, peaceful Hawklets...)

Overachieving Already

2009-09-25T09:54:00.003-05:00

"It made the children laugh and play, laugh and play, laugh and play, it made the children laugh and play to see a lamb at school," I sang, proud of myself for getting all the way to the third verse, oh yeah.

He listened. Absorbed.

"Would you laugh if a lamb came to your school?" I asked.

"No."

"Oh, okay," I said, trying to remember the words to another song to keep things moving along. He had already had a testy morning. ("No Mom, don't park in the garage!" "No, I don't want to wear these shoes!" "Reid, DON'T TALK TO ME!")

But then, the rest of his thought spilled out.

"Because I would pet it. And then I would put a collar around it and attach it to one of those things (a leash? uh huh) and then we would go for a walk and I would walk next to it and pet it and then we would come back to my school and it would lie down on the floor and I would attach it to a string with black lines so nothing else could get to it and there would be a strap up here and I think that would be a good idea."

No.

The best idea.

Where have we been?!? Here's your answer

2009-09-21T10:12:00.015-05:00

I think about a year ago at this time I was apologizing for my lack of posting. There's something about this time of year, the blend of summer into fall, that kicks me in the mom jeans and reminds me that I take on too much. And then I laugh and shrug it off and take on more because I thrive on having just a little more on my plate than I can handle. I come up for air every few weeks or so and tell Hubby Hawks that I just want to be a stay-at-home mom and he responds, "No you don't," and I say, "You're right, I don't," and dig back in.

It's that time again. Let's call it my annual apology. But the truth is, in the past several weeks life has caught up with me.

But two weeks ago, I took a chance to catch up with my life. In other words, we enjoyed a whole week of vacation. An unplugged vacation at that. No laptop (except one night of finance homework! Dear God, I'm taking finance!), no phone calls, no e-mail or blogging (though I admit I allowed myself a once-a-day glance at Twitter and Facebook, okay, there, are you happy?).

We went to one of my favorite places in the world - the family beach house that five generations of my mom's family have now enjoyed. And what exactly did we do? Allow me to explain...

We took turns flying airplanes...

We learned about people rescuing injured sea turtles...

We ran... we ran a lot...

Until we fell down every once in a while and posed...

And then got back up again and kept running...

And jumped. We jumped up and down and over waves and laughed as we jumped...

And we focused on what really matters.

Apology accepted?

My Dealer Turned on Me

2009-08-20T09:53:00.003-05:00

My beloved drive thru turned on me today.

I pulled into the Starbucks as I do every day, ordered my grande non-fat no-whip mocha, as I do every day, and waited for the barista to tell me it would be $3.84, as they do every day.

But today, something interrupted the flow.

“There’s been a little price increase” said the voice inside the speaker. “That’ll be $4.06.”

Wait, huh? Excuse me? Baking powder?

Starbucks must not have gotten the memo. There is an economic crisis going on. We are entering a recession. People are still losing their jobs.

Seattle is a part of this country, right?

But Starbucks decided now is the time to raise prices.

I tweeted about this immediately. Oh, take that! I’ll tweet you! And then I’ll blog you! And you’ll see!

I asked the barista at the window, after handing over my $4.06 if this was a national increase or local. And if it was on the entire menu or specific items. She clearly hadn’t been having a good morning thanks to the news. She informed me it was national and on almost every item and that her store had just been informed of it THIS MORNING. And then she instructed me to get online and send a complaint to corporate!

I considered doing a little math and figuring out exactly how much extra this will cost me over a year’s time and how many regularly priced mochas that amount would equate to and... Ugh, math.

(Which reminds me, my finance class starts tonight. Ugh, finance.)

But still.

Dear God, Starbucks, I feel guilty enough that I buy a grande mocha from you EVERY.SINGLE.DAY and how much that takes from my family’s budget. Why don’t you twist the knife a little more? Why don’t you pour some lemon juice on my paper cut? Huh? And while you’re at it, why don’t you just draw up the divorce papers my husband will be signing when he decides he can’t support my addiction to you anymore?!??

Consider it complained, barista.

A Whole Lotta Love

2009-08-14T09:54:00.001-05:00

Lately I’ve been concerned about how much gunk may or may not remain on the Hawklets’ teeth after they’re “brushed.” It just doesn’t seem possible that they’re ever truly “clean” and after several wrestling matches, where I’m cradling a Hawklet in a half nelson with one arm, toothbrush positioned in front of his sealed lips in my other hand, trying to persuade him to sing “E-I-E-I-O” ( the best thing I could think of that requires them to flash their teeth, at least every other letter), it’s easy to conclude that, yes: there has got.to.be.a.better.way.

Either that or I resign to the assumption that their teeth are still too new to start rotting already and surely there is some built in protection against cavities in such new teeth? Surely?

I mean really. What DID those cave babies do?

So last weekend I took a tip from Mimi. I got battery-powered spinning toothbrushes with awesome characters on them that are plaque fighters and make cool motor sounds and have on and off buttons!!

It worked.

It worked too well, in fact.

Now, I cannot get them to stop brushing their teeth. I am reminded of a book called The Wish Giver I read in elementary school in which a boy wishes to “put down roots” and starts to turn into a tree. Wish granted! You want toothbrushing children? Sure thing – how about they do nothing but brush their teeth! Problem solved!

They can’t bear to leave the toothbrushes in the bathroom. They brushed their teeth all over the house that first day. They put their toothbrushes inside their cars and drove them around. They rinsed them in every sink in our house – these new beloved toys called TOOTHBRUSHES.
Reid spin-brushed the inside of his ear. Eeeww.

“NO MOMMY, I’m NOT DONE BRUSHING MY TEEEEETH!” Graham screamed when I had the audacity to try to wrap things up. “I NEED MORE TOOTHPASTE! I NEED TO BRUSH THE FRONTS! I NEED TO SLEEP WITH MY TOOTHBRUSH!”

I explained that we leave toothbrushes in the bathroom by the sink. I assured him the very first thing he could do in the morning – just as soon as he opened his little eyes – was brush his teeth. That his toothbrush would be in the same spot where he left it, anxiously awaiting his next use.

This just wasn’t reassuring at all. Because when so deeply in love, nothing really can alleviate the pain of separation.

“BUT I NEED MY TOOTHBRUSH. I LOOOOOOVE MY TOOOOOOOTHBRUUUUUSH!” he sobbed.

It’s an expression of love I haven’t seen before. For the battery-powered spinning toothbrush. If only I could bottle even a bit of that passion and sprinkle it on myself in the monotony of day-to-day life. Like when I’m Swiffering or driving to work or, well …

Brushing my teeth.

60 Reasons

2009-08-12T11:09:00.002-05:00

Celebrating 60 years of my mom today, with 60 reasons why I love her:

1. Because of the look on her face the day she was anointed “Mimi” by my son.
2. Because of how sweet it sounds to hear my boys call my mother “Mimi.”
3. Because she never tells me how to mother, tells me what I could be doing better, or compares my style to anyone else’s, even though I know sometimes I could use the advice. Sometimes.
4. Because she made me collect "points" growing up to cash in to do fun things, and she gave me a clothing allowance and expected me to stick to it.
5. Because she cares for my boys during the day so that I can pursue a meaningful career with a little less stress. Nuff said?
6. Okay a lot less stress.
7. Because when people point out how generous she is to do this for us, she actually tells them that she’s the lucky one to get to spend so much time with her grandsons.
8. Because she’s always got wine.
9. Because she cooks the BEST Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, including special requests from picky sons-in-law.
10. And without help from us lazy children with zero cooking skills.
11. Because she kept all of mine and my sister’s artwork from elementary school and it now decorates the grandsons’ playroom at her house.
12. Because she has a playroom for her grandsons at her house.
13. Because she told me once, in high school, that money actually does not make the world go ‘round.
14. Because she taught me about faith, then stepped back to let mine blossom in its own way.
15. Because she put me on a plane to Madrid so I could go see the world. And she knew I’d come back.
16. And when she came to visit me, she brought me my favorite American shampoo and snacks.
17. Because of the look on her face when I, at about 16, asked her if she’d ever smoked pot in the ‘60s.
18. Because she somehow managed to raise two girls by herself, on a rural Missouri farm, while retaining her sanity and her calmness.
19. Because when I was in kindergarten, she was the mom who supplied apples for snack time, instead of cookies.
20. Because she still has a great relationship with her childhood best friend.
21. Because she dedicated her career to the success of children with both special needs and special gifts for too little income.
22. Because she still receives letters from former students telling her what a difference she made.
23. Because without meaning to, she taught me about the realities of marriage and what I wanted in a husband.
24. Because she ensured we were able to take family vacations every year to fun and interesting places.
25. Because she is so darn sentimental.
26. Because she ponders for so long about what to get my husband for Christmas every year.
27. Because she loves to read.
28. Because she forced me to listen to NPR every day growing up, against my Debbie Gibson-loving teenie-bopper will.
29. Because she always let me decorate my room however I wanted, including rearranging my furniture weekly.
30. Because she told me a story once of being at a Janice Joplin concert and leaving a bottle of liquor on the stage.
31. Because she bought me every.single.one of the Babysitters Club books.
32. Because she appreciates nice things without being pretentious.
33. Because she loves my husband as if he was her own son.
34. Because after she and my dad divorced, she did her best to ensure I maintained a good relationship with his family.
35. Because she has more toys at her house than I have at mine.
36. Because she’s a California girl.
37. Because she taught me about politics.
38. Because of her spaghetti sauce, fried rice, gravy and rice, and even crockpot chicken.
39. Because she let me bring friends to the beach every summer in high school.
40. Because she totally put up with my screening her calls in college.
41. Because she leads by example.
42. Because she is so giving of her resources to others in need.
43. Because in junior high when my sister and I just wanted to win the class can drive contest, she would not allow us to get food items that we would not personally want to eat.
44. Because she has cared for so many animals in her life, from pigs to chickens to cows to cats to dogs to a horse - many of whom were like children to her.
45. And she guided us through the heartache of umpteen pet deaths growing up.
46. Because she bought us the Ronco food dehydrator and never asked why we never made the fruit roll-ups or beef jerky we promised.
47. Because she introduced me to Jane Fonda and low-impact aerobics.
48. Because she dropped me off at Sandstone Amphitheater to meet friends for my first-ever concert at 15, on a wing and a prayer I would make it home later.
49. And I did. And she still asks herself why she did that.
50. Because she’s 60 and she just joined Facebook.
51. Because her middle name is Posey. It’s just loveable!
52. Because she took care of all of my tiny wedding details when I no longer had mental capacity for doing so.
53. Because she slapped my face the one time I ever used the “f” word in front of her.
54. And I deserved it!
55. Because she let us bring the baby chicks home to the farm after they hatched in our third grade class incubators.
56. Because she was such a Murder She Wrote fan.
57. And Dallas.
58. Because she believes in me, my abilities and my potential.
59. Because I know she is proud of me.
60. Because making this list was a breeze.

Happy birthday, mom! I love you!

Peanut Butter

2009-08-02T19:15:00.001-05:00

“Mommy! Peanut butter!” he demands out of nowhere.

Daddy has just heated up some spaghetti.

“You want peanut butter instead?” I ask.

“No! Mommy! Peanut butter!” his demands are just as curt as before.

“Okay, I’ll make you peanut butter, sheesh!”

“No mommy,” now whining ever so desperately, “peanut buuutterrr.”

He points to the floor and my light bulb goes on.

“Ooooohhhh, you want to BE peanut butter! Okay!”

A sweet, sweet smile slowly takes over his porcelain face as he realizes I understand.

I lie down on the floor, arms outstretched, and he runs into them. I’m the bread. He’s the peanut butter. We are stuck together.

Forever.

Ramblings

2009-07-20T00:30:00.001-05:00

Last night, we went to California Pizza Kitchen, after opening the fridge to discover some water, lettuce, condiments… maybe some salsa? You get the picture. Maybe your fridge looks the same? Or, maybe not and you’re perfect, in which case we can’t be friends anymore.

We parked on the roof and walked down four flights of parking garage stairs. Graham pointed out that someone left their beer on the stairs. We pretended not to notice the urine smell. I was horrified that Graham was using the handrail as he bounded down each step.

“Stop touching that! Don’t hold the handrail!” I blurted.

His safety-first conscious (the part that mysteriously turns off right before he steps out into oncoming traffic) put a look of confusion on his face. “But mom, I’m supposed to hold the handrail so I don’t fall down. Do you WANT me to fall down? WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?” I imagined him interrogating me. We washed hands inside the restaurant after I took the chill pill my husband offered and decided that washing away germs was the lesser evil when compared to falling down stairs.

Nothing like urine smell to kick the appetite into gear.

Sitting in restaurants waiting for food is not a kid-friendly activity. Thus we carry around the bag of tricks. It also holds diapers and wipes. Snacks. Matchbox cars.

These are the things that used to preoccupy the Hawklets. Not anymore.

(They do preoccupy Hubby Hawks, though. He showed me the hairstyle he gave to Wooly Willy. He was so proud.)

So with a table littered with matchbox cars, we shifted focus to the kids menu and crayons. The menu offered tic-tac-toe. So I decided it could become a teaching moment.

When did I become my mother?

Graham was interested at first. “Okay, I’m going to be ‘X’ and I’ll put an ‘X’ right here!” I demonstrated. “Where do you want to put your ‘O’?” I asked excitedly.

He saw right through. “I just want to put a ‘K’ there.”

While I’ve never actually read the rules to tic-tac-toe, something just didn’t feel right about that.

Today when putting books back on his shelf he noticed his “Baby’s First Bible” and decided it looked interesting. He wanted to take it in the car. But remembered as we were pulling out of the driveway.

“Wait! I forgot my God book! I forgot MY GOD BOOK!” he wailed.

“You can love Jesus even if you don’t read the Bible,” Hubby reassured him.

I guess we’ve been on a kick around here lately, because Reid now adds an “Amen” to the end of the ABCs. Sometimes he claps for himself and cheers, “Yay!” and other times, just a succinct “Amen.” It really adds some umph to an unexpected moment so now I’m thinking about adding “Amen” to the end of conference calls or emails.

Or blog posts.

Amen.

What Happens When Dad's Away

2009-07-12T10:23:00.001-05:00

Apparently, this week the Hawklets learned a new word: “Toyota.” So now there’s an ongoing discussion between them as to what is and is not a Toyota.

“Is that a Toyota?”

“Hey, there’s our car. It’s not a Toyota.”

“No, Reid, our car’s not a Toyota, it’s gray!!”

Hubby has been away this weekend. I am a golf tournament widow. My intellect took a little weekend off as well. So the Hawklets and I have been enjoying eating whatever we want for dinner. Tonight, that meant McDonald’s drive thru for them. For me, it meant some mozzarella and then a bowl of Raisin Bran when the mozzarella wasn’t enough to tide me over. Graham was willing to give up his Happy Meal to help me with the Raisin Bran. As much as I appreciate help, I just couldn’t bear to allow him to give up his nutritious McDonald’s dinner to eat some cereal.

Last night, it was peanut butter. They only wanted one piece of bread though, so I can’t say they ate peanut butter sandwiches per se. Sort of open-faced peanut butter. I think I had some cherries.

I hope Hubby comes back soon so we can start eating normally again.

We had to make a Target run because mommy needed some nail polish and the Hawklets needed some milk. (Wow, I just re-read that sentence and pictured us all barefoot. I promise we were all wearing shoes.)

Reid decided he wanted to walk. Graham obliged my direction to ride in the cart. A couple of elderly women made conversation with them. They pointed out that Reid was such a big boy to walk by the cart.

Graham couldn’t let that one go.

“I’m a big boy, too! I go pee on the potty!” he assured them.

I spent most of yesterday convincing them that cleaning and playing are essentially one in the same. “Who wants to get the vacuum out of the closet?!” I asked excitedly. “I do! I do!” Graham called, running towards the door.

I had to force them to take turns with the Swiffer Wet Jet. It was just too much fun. I probably expended as much energy managing the turn taking as I would have just swiffering by myself.

I actually hate that thing, but Hubby insisted on it. So I’ve tried to convince myself that the film it leaves on our floors is a film of cleanliness. Perhaps a G-force barrier, keeping germs from penetrating. Still, the whole time I’m pushing it around, I can’t help but think I’m cleaning the floors with a giant maxi pad on a stick.

This morning they explored all the treasures we keep hidden in the basement while I did laundry. They found several old garage sale leftovers. First up, a pair of 5-lb. dumbbells. “Look, mom, we’re gyming!” Graham demonstrated.

Next, an old barbeque brush. Graham needed to brush my hair with it. “Well, mom, it’s not working. Your hair’s not getting pretty,” he sighed. “You should cry now.”

But it was actually the two of them crying after they had each hit each other over the head with the “barbeque broom” as Graham called it and I had to re-banish it to the basement.

Is Hubby home yet?

Yes, Virginia, there is a Thomas

2009-07-05T17:25:00.007-05:00

"He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy...

...Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood."

Bathroom Humor

2009-07-01T19:33:00.006-05:00

Breaking the silence following a rather noisy bout of 3 year-old flatulence on the potty: "Sounds just like a motorcycle!" (um, his quote, not mine)

I suppose this might be one of those moments only a mother finds amusing...

...a mother, Howard Stern, and a pre-pubescent Boy Scout troop.

The Look

2009-07-01T10:52:00.001-05:00

This just in: Mom of six gets highlights!! (That b*tch! She must not care anything for her children if she chooses to coif herself! )

Remember mom jeans? Not cute. Why are they called mom jeans? Because women without children don’t wear them? Well… do they? Or is it because moms are naturally supposed to have upside-down-heart-shaped tushes and thus need the appropriate pants to compensate for the new morphed shape? A side effect of pregnancy and pushing, maybe? A mom stamp?

Naturally, moms are supposed to be frumpy and flabby. They are supposed to be dowdy with a pooch. They are supposed to be … oh sorry, I temporarily slipped into an alternate universe!

Is it news now that moms get manicures? Get their teeth whitened? Should Kate Gosselin be ridiculed for wanting a tummy tuck after housing six human beings inside there? I think not. There are far better reasons to ridicule Kate Gosselin that don’t include the fact that she got a tan, highlights and a manicure and thus no longer “looks like a mom.” The fact that she has changed her ‘mom look’ is not a news story. Come on, tabloids, I expect more from you!

I didn’t look so hot after giving birth to one baby. I can’t imagine what gross creature I would look like after giving birth to six.

I am a mom but I can also attempt to be the woman I was before being a mom (poor Hubby would probably appreciate that attempt). I have pushed two human beings out of my body after all. The least you can afford me is a mani/pedi/highlight/teeth whitening without ridicule.

Hey, I’m a mom – I have superhuman powers! I can certainly pull off both mom and woman simultaneously. Oh yes, hear me roar.

Should I be concerned?

2009-06-17T16:20:00.000-05:00

"Remember, Mimi," he said, "we don't talk about boobs."

Hi, I'm Two

2009-06-12T18:01:00.003-05:00

I’m my mommy’s baby. And I was quite a surprise to her. Then when I was born, I shocked everyone with my surfer blonde hair. These were just my first surprises of many.

I am sweet. No, really. I am usually smiling or looking very interested in whatever it is I’m supposed to be interested in. I very obediently go to time out when I need to. I am very kissable and I give great kisses. I also love to give slippy sloppies, which I made up. I give them on cheeks and they are both similar to and different from kisses and they involve a lot of slobber. I am inventive like that.

I also have this spot right between my chin and my neck where I am the most ticklish. And I love it when my mom buries her face right there and gets it. When she does, I laugh from a certain place at the back of my throat and she knows it’s the right spot.

I’m my big brother’s shadow. Most of the time. I will follow him around, mimic his words, his actions, play with whatever he wants to play with. And then just at the most strategic opportunity, when I’ve made him believe that he is in total control, I’ll grab his beloved car or tractor and stare him right in the eye, frozen, to test what he’ll do in return. Usually he cries like a baby to mom or dad.

When I cry, my face scrunches up, like it has since I was born, and I remind my mom of that time of my life and she smiles a little, even in my devastation.

But I’m not a baby when I take down my big brother and wrestle him around on the floor and show him who is boss. Fifteen months means nothing to me! I’ll take him on!

I’ll take the stairs on, too. One time I fell down them – oh yes, all 15 of them. Hardwood.
And I was fine.

I’m not clumsy, but I’ve given my parents their fair share of scares. Like the time I had everyone – doctor included – convinced that I might have diabetes. So my parents did finger pricks and glucose monitoring and smelled my breath and watched my wet diapers.
And I was fine.

(But, hey, who doesn’t love carbs? Are you with me?)

And though I’ve come unscathed from several near-misses, I do wear glasses. Well, most of the time – when I haven’t lost them, broken them, or chewed too many scratches into the lenses. I have nystagmus so my eyes shake and nobody but me knows how things look through my eyes. One day, I’ll let everyone in on my secret, but for now, I’ll let them keep guessing and figuring out ways to decipher what my eyes need and how they can help. A lot of times, people tell my parents how cute I look in my glasses. And my mom says, “thank you” and then struggles with that as a compliment. Because she wishes I didn’t have a reason to wear glasses in the first place. Though I am pretty cute.

In fact, I look sometimes like Ralphie from “A Christmas Story,” and sometimes like Dewey from “Malcom in the Middle.” And of course, other times like the kid from “Jerry Maguire.”

And my mom has a picture of me that she swears looks like George W. Bush. Hmmm…

My parents call me Doogie. I don’t know why and neither do they, but they always have.

My bubby calls me Bubby.

But I’m just me. I’m Reid. And I’m two.

Eavesdropping at the Zoo

2009-06-10T15:20:00.003-05:00

By Guest Blogger, "Mimi"

Graham to sheep: "Hi! My name ...

... is Graham. Your name ...

... is black sheep."

The obligatory stealing-a-candy-bar-from-the-grocery-store moment

2009-06-09T13:07:00.000-05:00

Hey, you, grocery cart manufacturers. Guess what? My kids love your innovative designs. Grocery carts today are nothing like the metal grid boxes of my childhood. Particularly those that incorporate the plastic race car.

In fact, the older Hawklet begs us to go to Lowe’s constantly so he can “be Jimmy Johnson.” He even recognizes the street if we start to head in that general direction and gets excited in the car. We don’t watch racing at home. He just loves that Jimmy Johnson car cart at Lowe’s. And therefore he begs us to take him to Lowe’s. Wow, you Lowe’s marketers – good job!

I ask him what we need to buy at Lowe’s and his response is “everything and everything.” Now I love home improvement, but that’s maybe my limit.

The kid just LOVES the carts.

But those of you who thought that it would be such fun to put the “car” on the bottom of the cart – down at the floor level – rather than up top like the geniuses at Lowe’s? Now, come on. We’ve finally gotten past the point that they just walk out of the cart as we drive up and down the aisles. So that was an accomplishment. But last week – a different story. Last week my two race car drivers were hidden as we pulled through the grocery check-out lane. Down there in the narrowest of areas in the grocery store – the area in which they are surrounded by juicy tabloids, batteries, Tide-to-Go, and CANDY. Where they are hidden from watching parental eyes and where it’s just too easy to reach…out…and…touch…that…beloved…delicious…CANDY…

And they proceeded to help themselves.

And down there in their little race car, my two little drivers made it all the way to the real car before Hubby and I knew anything of their little trick. In fact, just like a little raccoon, Reid had already eaten right through the plastic sleeve around his selection – a Crunch bar. Graham, so much more responsible, was holding on to his Hershey bar. Saving it for later, perhaps. Mmm – hmm.

Upon foiling their plan, Hubby pivoted right around, carrying one, dragging the other, back into the store for the obligatory apology. He paid for the partially eaten Crunch – 40 cents (nice job, Reid, selecting the one on sale). Then Graham apologized to the grocery clerk and asked if she would buy the Hershey bar for him. I don’t think either of them cared much and obviously didn’t feel any shame or guilt.

Just another day in the life of a toddler boy. Another day, another milestone.

Am I that busy?

2009-06-04T11:33:00.002-05:00

Two key emails have come to me from Mimi at work over the past couple weeks:

“Did you know Reid can sing the ABC song?”

“Did you know Reid can count to 10?”

Am I that busy or am I parenting a genius? A little of both?

Wordless Thursday because I was too tired on Wednesday

2009-06-04T07:59:00.001-05:00

With My Listening Ears On

2009-05-22T14:40:00.001-05:00

I won’t tell you where, because that would be like giving away too much information about how big of a nerd I really am, but I heard someone say the other day that they decided instead of talking to God in prayer that they would listen for a change.

Listen.

“Huh. So you listened to silence and called that prayer?” I skeptically thought. “How very profound of you, Bible beater.”

I try my darndest to be prayerful and to be thankful and to recognize in everyday moments that we are not in control. He is.

My two babies are my best proof of that.

And I try to be open – with the openest of arms – to wherever I am being led next.

Even though it’s not necessarily to the church pews on Sunday mornings. Because God knows spending my church hour disciplining rambunctious boys in the foyer isn’t necessarily getting me closer to God. It’s just putting me in a foul mood for the rest of my weekend. And I’m okay with that because I know that God doesn’t live at church. He lives everywhere.

So I thought about it. The listening thing. I wondered what you could really hear when you listen to God in prayer for once, rather than doing all the talking. Relationships are two-way streets after all.

And that night I tried it.

Lying in bed, I closed my eyes and prayerfully listened.

Guess what I heard.

I heard my husband breathing next to me. And I heard by babies breathing in the next room. I heard nothing else but the rhythmic chorus of peaceful breath. Sort of like a spirit in motion.

And what I heard reminded me that I am surrounded by love, by what really matters. That nothing else is more important. That he loves me because he gave me these three most wonderful people.

I listened to God and he certainly took the opportunity to make sure that I heard.

On Defining Expertise

2009-05-21T09:27:00.002-05:00

Quote of the day, from an internal presentation by a vendor: “…I mean, you don’t take product advice from strangers. You’re going to trust the recommendations of your friends more than you are from someone you don’t know personally…”

Oh. I am? And tell me more about me, Mr. Man, please. Introduce me to myself. Tell me what goes through a mom’s mind, from your personal perspective.

Because a few months ago, when Hubby and I were on the hunt for a new digital camera, from whom did I seek product recommendations? Virtual strangers. Moms whom I’ve never met personally who blog and post pictures on their blogs. Pictures that I like. Using cameras that apparently take good pictures. And we spent several hundred dollars on a camera recommended by such virtual strangers. With beautiful photography as evidenced here.

So there, Mr. Man. Welcome to the world of mom authority.

A common danger in marketing is that marketers sometimes like to answer a question or approach a problem from a personal place. “I don’t like that ad concept because it feels a little too [insert personal emotion here].”

But what does everyone feel? Maybe not what you feel. Are you marketing to a person like you? Or are you marketing to a market?

And what do men know about women? Ah, the age old question. How about a new one – what do women know about moms? Can you be a marketer to moms if you are not a mom? Yes, of course. But as many times as I say that, I find myself not completely believing in the statement.

A man can be an OB/GYN. A Caucasian person can be a professor of African-American history. But is their expertise restrained to surface level? A book level? Would personal experience make their authority stronger? As biased as it sounds, I think so.

More and more dads are blogging. Men are of course marketing to moms. Men are even creating social networks for moms to engage with each other. Like this one. That's right, the CEO of the second-largest and fastest-growing social network for moms is not a mom. Nor is he a dad. He is not even married. He is an entrepreneur to saw an unmet need for the mom market and pounced. But if he were a mom, would his personal experience being part of the target audience better inform his marketing decisions? Perhaps. Do I trust the authority of a mom who is telling me about moms more so than a 30-year old single male who is telling me about moms? Absolutely, 110%.

Being a mom does not make someone an expert in marketing to moms.

And being a marketer doesn’t either.

But being a mom marketer and a marketer to moms? I’d like to think that’s formulating something.

Conversations with a Three-Year-Old, Vol. 4

2009-04-30T10:29:00.004-05:00

Him: “Remember when I was a baby and I was in your belly and I pushed your belly out?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “And Reid was in Daddy’s belly.”
Me: “No, Reid was in my belly, too.”
Him: “But who was in Daddy’s belly?”
_______________________________________

Him (pretending to drive, with me in the passenger seat): “Here we go, mom!”
Me: “Where are we going? California?”
Him: “Nope.”
Me: “Texas?”
Him: “No. We’re going to TARGET!”
_______________________________________

Him (staring at the t-ball, holding the bat, ready to swing): “I am going to hit you now.”
_______________________________________

Me: “Have a good day today.”
Him: “I will. And I will sit in time out.”
Me: “You don’t have to sit in time out if you’re a good boy.”
Him: “Yes, I will sit in time out.
Me: “No, you won’t. Just be good.”
Him: “I will push my butter (a.k.a brother). And then I will sit in time out.”
_______________________________________

Him: “One day, I will be thiiiiiis tall, and I will be Daddy!”

Does Your Child Like Square Butts?

2009-04-27T12:33:00.005-05:00

A couple weeks ago, Hubby and I were wrapped up in our weekly "Lost" watching ritual (truly the only show we both are addicted to - between E! News and ESPN, we somehow meet in the middle at "Lost") and out of nowhere we were slapped by it. The dancing king mascot. The hotties stuffing phone books into their Daisy Duke shorts. The Sir-Mix-a-Lot (he’s a rapper, mom) cameo. The demoralization of a beloved cartoon character. Oh yeah, and Burger King wants us to buy kids meals.

Huh?

Yeah, you know – kids and square butts. I always think of the two together. You don’t?

Actually, I should mention that we don’t use the word “butt” in our house. It’s “bottom.” That’s my mother coming out of me. Which I am fine with.

I digress. Sitting there, still slightly confused as usual by the current "Lost" storyline, and suddenly finding ourselves even more confused by the use of phone books inside shorts and Sir-Mix-a-Lot in an ad, we turned to each other with furrowed brows and asked, “Was that a commercial for a KIDS MEAL?”

It was.

As I anticipated, the next day the blogosphere was abuzz. Moms were outraged, not only at Burger King for its obvious lack of appropriateness in kid-marketing tactics, but also at Nickelodeon for offering Sponge Bob up for such a crude spot that objectifies women. I mean, if I want my toddlers to learn about objectifying women, I’d expect that kind of education from MTV or "The Girls Next Door." Not you, Nick.

And then, it happened again. Last night, a couple weeks after our first square butt encounter, we saw it again. And this time, even Hubby was perplexed: “I can’t believe they haven’t pulled that ad.”

Note to Burger King: even my testosterone-filled husband finds your kids meal ad offensive. Something is really off here.

Other folks think we should all lighten up. What do you think? Should the fact that Burger King at least got people talking be considered a win? Or, was the hype worth the associated negativity? The use of Sponge Bob and tape measures sizing up female dancers’ square tushes certainly didn’t make me think about veering my car of toddlers towards the BK drive thru. You?

Hi. I'm Three.

2009-04-22T12:08:00.003-05:00

Hi. I’m three.

I am curious. I’m curious about whether I can get away with things that I know I shouldn’t do. I am curious about when the girls across the street are going to be outside next so I can ride my bike with them. I am curious about how I can capture any of the attention people give my little brother.

I have my mom wondering if the best resource for dealing with me right now would be Love and Logic or Raising the Spirited Child. I like to keep her guessing. Because I’m three like that.

Sometimes I’m spirited. Sometimes I just like to raise hell because I’m a boy and it’s fun.

I like to scream the same sound repeatedly at the dinner table. My voice sounds funny when I do that.

I’m not afraid of anything or anyone. But that scares my mom to death.

I’m a daddy’s boy, though, so it really doesn’t bother me that I worry my mom. I like to say that dad is “my daddy” and mom is “Reid’s mommy.” My dad then assures my mom that one day I will snap out of this phase. And she doesn’t believe him.

I think it’s funny when my mom and dad kiss each other.

I also think it’s funny when my brother laughs. It makes me laugh. And then neither one of us can stop laughing. In fact, the laughing just gets louder and more uncontrollable. But those are the belly laughs that my mom loves. But I don’t really care about that because I am daddy’s boy.
I have mastered the potty training thing, but sometimes I like to pretend that I haven’t. I get attention then - when I pee in my pants. I like attention. And I like to keep my parents on their toes. So it works out well that way.

I like to do things by myself. I call it “be myself” and my mom doesn’t even correct me. Because she likes to hear me say that I want to be myself. Because she likes who I am. Even though I like daddy more than I like her.

I am currently obsessed with driving. I will try to open car doors – doesn’t matter who the car belongs to – to get inside behind the wheel and pretend that I’m driving somewhere. If mom and dad tell me I have to get out of the car I start throwing a fit. I can really throw a good one! After all, they interrupted my pretending. And I really like to pretend.

I also like to shout ‘surprise!’ whenever I walk into a room. Sometimes people shout it back. I guess they don’t realize that I already surprised them, so they can’t surprise me back. Overall, I just like a warm reception. And people like me to walk into the room. They like having me around.

Even though I’m a drama king.

But what do you expect?

I’m only three.

Handy Dandy Testosterone

2009-04-05T17:31:00.005-05:00

Me: "Hey, how did you fix the DVD player?"

Hubby: "I punched it."