Done and Done

I spent the good part of the day trying to convince a male, 50-something, childless colleague that his assumptions on Life As Mom were incorrect. When a boardroom marketing-to-moms conversation diverted into mom guilt territory, he was almost dismissive, even as the moms in the room leaned into our well-honed patience skills and took time to explain. 

“Why in the world would peer moms have any influence on whether you'd give your son medication?” he said. (I paraphrase.) 

You see, as an illustrative focus-group-of-one example for our conversation and assignment at hand, a fellow mom colleague had shared the hand-wringing experience deciding to medicate her son with ADHD. (While I naturally fist-bumped her across the table. Been there. Done that.) But our older co-worker couldn’t fathom why peer mom judgment would have had any part in the hand-wringing. We patiently explained to our non-parent-yet-self-identified-mom-expert that judgments are heaped upon moms from the moment of conception. (Are you going to find out the gender in advance of birth and if so, what does that say about you? Breast or bottle? Do you have a birth plan? Are you tough enough to go au naturel? To circumcise or not? What is your childcare plan? Oh really? Do you even love your child?) I digress.

So even before my colleague’s son received his diagnosis, she was already aware of the debate around whether parents should medicate their children and the points of view from each side of the aisle. (I wondered silently if male-colleague-who-shall-remain-nameless had ever heard the term vac-cin-A-tions.) Yeah, obviously she researched the options and consulted her doctor. But the inputs for moms aren’t so simple. Every decision we make on behalf of our kids is debatable in the Courtroom of Fellow Moms’ Opinions. Every decision we make is somehow big enough to potentially damage them for life. And whose fault will that be? Dad’s? Ha. How in the world do we survive?

One would think it would be enough to make moms turn away from social media – the major source for the constant barrage of unwarranted opinion and unsolicited advice on the minutia of Everyday Momming. Advice we moms didn’t even know we needed, but our anxiety-ridden brains convince us that we may at some point down the line and so we’ll absorb and file it all away somewhere in the frontal lobe for future reference. How to raise your toddler son so he’ll be a woman-respecting adult. How to avoid pesticides in your kids’ food so you don’t accidentally predispose them to cancer.  Reasons bilingual children are more likely to make more money in their eventual careers. (Aren’t you taking them to regular Mandarin lessons?) I don’t even know if any of this is true, but it’s slewed at me daily and who reads more than a headline anymore? Who pays attention to the validity of every source? What it all adds up to is one aggregate headline: None of us is doing enough.  What a downer. A hand wringer, actually.

Last week, eMarketer reported the findings of a new study (and I do know the source on this one: Edison) showing moms are checking Facebook more often today than ever before – at 10 times per day and mostly via mobile phone. This space that frankly serves as the virtual court of opinion and unsolicited advice is sucking us in more and more. Why?

At the same time, we laugh it off in IRL conversation. We admit to being sucked into a photo gallery of bento boxes that will expand kids’ palettes in more adventurous ways over lunchtime. Is the creative bento box really taking the school cafeteria by storm? Please. We confess that we nailed that GMO-free, certified organic side dish of peas last night, but Johnny only ate the main course – blue box mac ‘n cheese. Meh, best effort. We toast our Type-B mom friends over a glass of wine when we steal a few minutes of happy hour to remind ourselves we’re well-adjusted capable women who, by the way, grew human beings in our bodies. Sometimes we laugh in the face of Mom Anxiety. But the undercurrent is strong, friends.

My colleague, bless his heart, couldn’t fathom that we would get side-trackedly sucked into bento boxes we’ll never construct without proactively having Google searched for ‘creative bento box lunch ideas for kids.’ The hell?

So yeah, dear childless male colleague who shall remain nameless, the next time you are tempted to scoff at the perils of motherhood’s mindset, please remember this: you’ve already been judged in the Courtroom of Fellow Moms’ Opinions and you’re sentenced to time out. And a gag order. 

Lucky Me

This is my man.

My baby daddy.

Here he is winking at me, sitting in a bay-side bar in one of our favorite spots.

He's probably had a few Bud Lights and is clearly wearing a couple days' scruff.

I love it. And him.

Lucky.

Dads in Ads are Pitching to Moms

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.

Life Goes On

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

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.

Moms Can Have Firsts, Too

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

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.

How the drive-in reignited my love for Disney

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.

The Fantastic Mr. Hawks

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.

The new mommy blogger is not the daddy blogger

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.

Attempting to Stop the Shiny Penny from Jumping to Conclusions

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?)

Why I Am an Accenture Mombassador

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.

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

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.

On Defining Expertise

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.

Does Your Child Like Square Butts?

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?

Handy Dandy Testosterone

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

Hubby: "I punched it."

The ‘Back-Burner’ National Crisis?

For the past couple weeks I’ve been doing my best to not blog about Nadya Suleman. Don’t act like you don’t know who she is. You’ve been just as ...disgusted? sympathetic? ...okay, intrigued by her story as I have. But I just didn’t want to go there. Whatever I have to say, you’ve already heard it from the countless others who have taken one side or the other in their judgment.

Then today I decided to see what would appear if I searched simply for the word “moms” in Google News. Guess what – there was Nadya Suleman, of course, being kept company by a college reporter's take on Bristol Palin’s TV interview, a story about a 13-year old boy who has fathered an infant in the U.K., and a report on Travis Henry, the NFL player who has nine children by nine women. (I say ‘the’ realizing that it’s quite possible he’s not the only NFL player in this predicament.)

“Moms.”

I wasn’t necessarily expecting to be hit with controversy from that otherwise safe search term. I would have settled for a tips piece about working moms. I would have welcomed a feel-good feature about moms helping each other through hard times. Even a marketing trends story about moms and social networks. But instead I was reminded that there are a lot of national crises going on today, and some of them happen to center around parenthood and happen to involve little ones. This is not an exclusive club to which we moms belong, even though our members are responsible for raising our future leaders.

For her part Bristol Palin provided this sage point of view: “I hope that people learn from my story and just like, I don't know, prevent teen pregnancy, I guess.”

Things that make you go ‘hmmm’…

Woe is Mom

Recently, I read this (albeit feminist) article about moms in advertisements. While at first I found myself rolling my eyes at the seemingly age-old argument that women are too often diminished in media to being their husbands’ slaves, yadda yadda, I came to realize that I couldn’t think of a single ad on TV right now or in the immediate past that mirrored me or my lifestyle as a mom and wife.

Hubby Hawks and I do our grocery shopping together. We *usually* clean the house together. Okay, sometimes it’s because I’m feeling tired and bossy, but he wants to get stuff done just as quickly as I do and we both like to live in a clean home. We equally want our children to live in a clean home. And by the way, we respect each other. Have you ever noticed an ad for a household cleaning product that depicted both mom and dad cleaning together? No, seriously, I’m dying to know if one exists.

My favorite is the Windex ad, in which the wife cleans the windows while the husband naps and then he wakes up and thinks he is in the wrong house. Bingo! Get the heck outta here if you’re not helping! Quite a strategy, Mrs. Windex!

Maybe Swiffer could think about an ad showing mom dusting while dad mops the floors. As in, at the same time. As in, equality. As in, this millennium. Bonus points – you get to showcase more of your products in the same 30 seconds!

And where are those commercial dads while the commercial moms are cleaning? Are they at work? Are they at the bar? Are they building a new Habitat home? In my mind, the commercial moms are cleaning on weekends. You know, in Commercialville. But that’s because weekend cleaning makes sense to me, as that’s when I do it. You know, in Reality. Surely commercial moms work during the week, and have fun with girlfriends and devote time to their favorite causes as well. They’re not just scrubbing and polishing and waxing and washing over and over like Pleasantville robots. After all, their homes are usually spaciously gorgeous, so if they’re not working, I’d love to know what those commercial dads are getting paid!

Are we the weird ones? Or are those antiquated advertisers?

My Frito Pie Future?

Hubby Hawks was a wrestler. He is from a family of wrestlers -- five of the seven boys in his family wrestled in high school. And they were all good. And now two of them, Hubby included, are wrestling officials in their "spare" time between December and February. It's his opportunity to get back on the mat, be in the midst of weekend tourney excitement, the shouting, the old wood gym smell, the Frito pie lunches, the bleachers of middle aged parents weilding video cameras, the sweat, blood and sometimes tears.

Even though wrestling is apparently part of his DNA, he has always said that he does not care if his boys want to follow in his wrestling shoes. He wants them to find their own passions. In the meantime, I'm having a blast sampling the options with them. Sure, in our backyard you'll find the t-ball set and the basketball hoop and the baseballs and bikes, yadda yadda.

But what I find more exciting are the sports you can't buy at Target. Last year, we completed our first round of swimming lessons and discovered we have two water babies. Then last week, Graham took his first horseback riding lesson. My little two-year-old trotted around an arena on a full-sized stallion like a real equestrian. I shared the saddle with him, sitting behind him and beaming with pride that my little toddler was telling this massive animal to "go faster!"

In the meantime, attempting to not assign Reid a label already at just 18 months, he so far actually appears to be...wait for it...a wrestler. It's nearly shocking to see him actually almost doing it right, taking down Graham in the family room. As in, actual technique. (Yes, you may be surprised to know there is actual technique for barbaric acts. There is a "right" way to go about annihilating your opponent.) This 18-month-old may not need any of dad's covert coaxing into wrestling after all. Watching him take down his big brother, I found myself glimpsing the future, smelling the sweat and Frito pies...

But I was brought back to earth when I came across this article about what parents will pay on their kids' sports. "Your kid won't be as good if you don't pay for all the extras," one dad says within. Kids' sports is no longer about fun, exercise and character building; it's about transactions -- an industry with a new array of products. Parents apparently have no choice but to engage with it all if they are to give their kids a chance at making a school team. There are 40 times more kids participating in baseball traveling teams today than there were just 10 years ago. What will this industry look like 10 years from now? Are sports still about kids having fun, or is this a hotbed for sports marketers?

Lucky Me

Over the past six weeks, I’ve been away for overnight trips every other week. Luckily, I am married to one of the most hands-on dads I’ve ever seen. Hubby Hawks tackles dinners, baths, PJs, tooth brushing, stories, diapers, sippie cups, breakfasts and car seats maybe better than I do. He can be found mingling with the other moms in the cul-de-sac watching the kids ride bikes in the street while I’m banging away on my lap top or off at night class working towards my graduate degree. He fills me in on the latest neighborhood news.

Hubby Hawks grew up in the middle of eight kids in his small town Catholic family and although I’ve never seen his dad cook dinner or change a diaper, somehow he came away with zero sense of traditional male-female stereotypes. He cooks nearly every night and thank God for that or the rest of us might starve. Or we would eat things like tomatoes or protein bars for dinner and surely that can’t be enough to sustain two growing boys.

We both are dedicated to our careers, but somehow Hubby Hawks manages to leave it at the office and I’m always carrying mine around. It buzzes at me constantly on my blackberry, the looming Wi-fi penetrating all sides, my lap top begging me to it. Somehow, he doesn’t see the point in multi-tasking whereas I am an addict. I envy him.

Recently, in the midst of my latest marketing-to-moms research someone asked me: why moms? Aren’t dads more involved now more than ever? Aren’t parents more likely to share traditional “mom” roles? So, why focus on moms? Is anyone really just focused on moms anymore?

The answer is a resounding yes. While I celebrate the ground we’ve covered as moms and dads who are -- both sides -- responsible for developing the little people we’ve created, the data shows that moms are still making 85% of the family’s purchase decisions. Dads are more willing to change a diaper, but moms are more likely to decide what kind of diaper dad will be changing. The decision-making doesn’t stop at baby products. Moms are deciding what kind of vehicle the family will drive, where they should bank, what healthcare services they will use.

I thank God for the gift I’ve gotten in such a wonderful husband and father. And I’m also thankful that this wonderful man will put whatever brand of diaper on our boys that I choose.