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. 

A Sad Goodbye

If I have learned one thing about motherhood in eight years doing it, it is that nothing should surprise me.

But yet, I am so surprised at how emotional I am about one thing in particular. My sister says it’s the hormones.

For 13 months, I have personally nurtured my baby girl with a gift only her mother can give. And now, that door is about to close. We are both growing and moving on.

When the boys were infants, I worked hard and did what I was supposed to do and went through the motions of nursing them because I had to and at six months, they each were done. They were too busy to sit still and just nurse. They had other things to do and couldn’t be bothered. And truthfully, it felt to me more bothersome than anything else. Finding the time and place to get it done seemed so much more impossible then. It was a chore and I pushed on as far as I could and when that chapter ended, I knew I did my best and gave them what I could and we moved on to formula and on with life. It was matter-of-fact. They needed to be fed and I fed them the way I was supposed to for as long as I could. And then I was free.

But now, feeding my baby isn’t a chore. It’s a bond. In fact, it’s a gift. And it’s ending.

We have survived sinus infections, flu, mastitis, pneumonia, and business trips. I have pumped in cars (parked and moving), in bathrooms, in airports, in offices, and in the Louisiana swamp. I remembered vitamins and counted ounces of water intake and measured and timed alcohol consumption. Whenever we left the house, I would keep an eye on the clock and a part of my brain would constantly be ready to alert me as to when it was time for the next feeding. My nursing cover was always ready to whip out, no matter when or where my baby needed to eat.

We plowed through The Great Incident wherein a certain very important person who shall go unnamed accidentally left an entire month’s worth of frozen pumped milk in a hot car and ruined it. I have never felt so devastated - as if I experienced the death of family member or the loss of a limb. And yet, we powered through and pumped and restocked the supply and soldiered on. Perhaps one of my proudest accomplishments.

Because it was that important. Not just for her consumption, but for our bond. Our thing that only we could have and only I could do for her. I am the only person who could give her the nutrition she has needed to live, to grow and to thrive. I alone have provided her with that, and all from within the cradle of my arms. But now it is coming to an end and so is this unique bond we share. And with it, I say goodbye to this life stage of mothering infants.

And it’s just so surprisingly sad.

A Short Reflection on a Short Year

I'm sitting up (hooray for at least sitting up) in bed, propped up by pillows, laptop glowing in my face, sleeping baby cradling my hip and breathing rhythmically in and out. I can't remember the last time in my life I was so sick. I am on day five of fever, chills, aches, coughs, and surely death's door - the whole nine yards. What a wonderfully ruined Christmas vacation. This is the kind of sick that isolates you to bed upstairs while you get to listen to the family open their stockings and eat their Christmas dinner downstairs. Yes, next year I will be getting that flu shot.

I am alone on New Year's Eve with just my girl, while the guys have gone to a germ-free friend's celebration. What a wonderfully ruined New Year's Eve. But in the stillness of this house, and having read my book, caught up on my People, and watched the entire season one of Downton Abbey, I'm suddenly struck with the realization that I have no other obligation than to reflect on this year.

We are a blessed family of FIVE.

We survived the Great House Remodel. And I even managed not to maul any of the contractors who spent my entire maternity leave in the house with me.

We are fighting the vicious beast that is ADHD and though it's an exhausting daily battle for all of us, I believe we mark a W on more days than not.

We have cultivated new meaningful friendships in the arms of a community.

We got to introduce our sacred beach and annual family tradition to the newest member.

We celebrated 10 years of marriage. We are high school sweethearts who have grown into teammates.

We have contributed time, talent and treasure to local causes that can benefit from what we have to offer.

We are given a daily gift of watching our boys love our girl, and vice versa.

They say the days are long but the years are short and it feels no more true than at this time of year. How do I have an 8-month-old baby? How am I possibly going to remember all the little moments of this precious, fleeting time that I find myself begging my brain constantly to imprint? It's the catch-22 of a full life: it will not last. So here's to hoping 2014 brings more big and little moments that make me catch my breath and hit the pillow hard at night with the knowledge that I did my best to earn it every day. That I worked hard and played hard and prioritized appropriately. And that one year from right now, I will be cursing time, begging it to slow down while also recognizing that my begging means it was again a year full of so much to be thankful for.

Cheers to you and yours and happy new year!

My Broken Boy

Watching him struggle with a pencil in one hand and a piece of paper in front of him, I am a mess of emotions. I want to shake him. I want to scream at him. I want to rip up the paper and tell him it’s okay and I know he’ll figure it out in his own way eventually so who cares about these stupid spelling words. I want to cry.

It takes him over an hour to write four sentences. There are seven more.

I look at the faint blue and pink lines on the thin paper. I hate those lines. The sky, clothesline and ground.  The letters are supposed to fit nicely between them. Letters that you can’t form when ADHD wins. So often, it wins.

My son struggles with barriers in his brain that I can’t comprehend because they don’t exist in mine. And they make me angry at him. And then reminding myself it’s not his fault they are there, I get angry at myself for my misguided frustrations. I love my son. I hate his ADHD.

It’s bedtime. I tell him he must stop now and turn in unfinished work. And he cries, anticipating his teacher’s disappointment, whom he adores in spite of the fact that he is not the prized student. The boy cries because he didn’t finish his sentences, but yet, he can’t (?) won’t (?) finish.

Will he ever? He is smart, so smart. He asks the right questions and comprehends, inquires, analyzes, problem solves. But follow a simple direction? Write some words on a piece of paper? He stares at it. He asks about noises, and erasers and why is this pencil so sharp and Mrs. Bundy has paper like this, and my Stompeez are slippery and what is Reid doing and, and, and…

I email his teacher with the heads up. I search for solutions beyond medication. New strategies. Tweaks. Options. Diet changes. The medication is on only during the day. It’s off at homework time. Our time with him is off time. And oh how it throws everything off. But still I have a love/hate relationship with the little blue pill he takes each morning. It helps and even he knows it. But he is so little. What about the long-term? Is enough really known? What if?

I try to keep my focus on ways I can help my son. I try to separate ADHD from my relationship with him. I try to silence the white noise of society’s judgment. His parents should be stricter disciplinarians. My child would never. Such behavior problems. Too much TV. Or, those who think ADHD is a cop-out label. Every other kid “has” it, right? The squirrely kid? The kid who doesn’t want to follow directions? The kid in her own world? Oh, of course, it’s ADHD! Someone once asked how we had Graham “diagnosed.” In quotation marks like it was made up. A mask. Are that many pediatricians throwing meds at first graders these days that this real misery has become synonymous with some imaginary state?

ADHD is very real here. And it is horrible. And it will never leave my son alone. Just like him, dancing around that lined piece of paper, it will never finish.

Boogying with the Best

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!

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

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?

Elmo Says Don't Pick Your Nose

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.

Reflections on My Reflection

When you look in the mirror, do you like what you see?

It’s one of the things I love to watch my Hawklets do – they get excited to see themselves in the mirror. They stick out their tongues. They smile. They point. They’ve never done anything any differently when they gaze at their reflections but stop for a minute, linger and flirt with themselves. They have absolutely no reason to want to change anything in that vision bouncing back to them. But what about the rest of us? At some point we lose this love affair with our reflections. We succumb to marketing messages that we need this in order to be a better wife, mother, person. We need that to look better, dress better, spend more, eat less. We need to change. We are not good enough.

I don’t want these messages polluting my Hawklets’ love affair with themselves.

Over the past few years, Dove has done a ground-breaking job attempting to make us all feel better about what we’ve got in a way that sells soap. Remember when sex sold? You know, the age-old marketing ploy that robbed you of your self-esteem? Your desire to gaze into the mirror and smile back? It’s not a new campaign, but the genius inside the reverse psychology Dove packaged up into a marketing powerhouse continues to wow me.

When asked, moms have actually named Dove as the no. 1 brand for health. For health? For health. This is not a brand prescribed by doctors. Unless you’re battling chronic dirt, soap can’t cure what ails you. Yes, hand-washing is important in germ fighting, but we’re talking about soap…shampoo…lotion…these things are not meant to remedy the ‘sick.’ But Dove is the perfect example that savvy marketing and brand positioning can elevate you to the perception that you are about more than being clean, smelling good, and accomplishing a daily ritual. Savvy marketing can make moms think you provide them with the balance for which they are constantly searching. That you can make them emotionally feel something. That you offer heightened self esteem. That you offer an escape from pressures to be perfect. These are heady issues. And this is soap.

Wow.

Dove, on behalf of moms everywhere who delight in seeing their kids love the little people who look back at them from inside the mirror, thank you and keep it up.

Another First Checked Off the List...in the ER

I am a mom of boys. As the sweet, precious young child I was, I didn’t step foot in a hospital ER until I was 18 and my shin met the jagged edge of a glass shelf in the sweet, precious gift shop where I worked in high school. I was a good girl who played with dolls and castles and didn’t cause trouble.

But now I have two boys. They like to jump off couches, slide down stairs, tackle each other (and inanimate objects) and generally test the limits of their teeny bodies. Already.

And now the older Hawklet has moved on to testing the limits of his internal organs. One day he’ll learn that ethical scientists don’t experiment on themselves.

Last night as Hubby and I were finishing dinner, my Hawklet, who had lost interest in food quickly into the meal, walked back into the kitchen from the toy room chewing on…something.

Problem: we don’t know what that something was. Was it plastic? Was it a button? Was it sharp? Was it a toy? Was it a battery? Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes. That’s all the response we got. This was all right after we had begged him to spit it out and he gulped and announced what later made the nurses and doctors chuckle:

“Now it’s in my belly!”

Oh dear. And while I might have assumed that it was likely something small and likely plastic and likely on its way to my little boy’s little bowels, soon to meet his diaper, the nagging thought of an article I read eons ago about a little boy dying after swallowing a tiny piece of plastic that had previously affixed a price tag to a piece of clothing overran my thoughts. The even-keeled professional on the other end of the NurseLine agreed.

“Since we don’t know what it was, I have to err on the safe side and say you should go to an ER and have him scanned. If it was something sharp it could tear ulcers in his stomach, and if it was a little battery, it will need to be extracted.”

Sweet. A few hours and several SpongeBob stickers later, we crossed “X-ray” off his list of firsts. Been there, done that. The diagnosis? We are good, erring-on-the-safe-side parents, and he is a curious little guy who probably swallowed a tiny piece of plastic that will make its appearance very soon.

This morning he tried to confess:

“Remember yesterday when I ate Reid’s car?”

Almost Conscious Thoughts

This morning I was up from 3:00 – 5:00 a.m. with my baby hawklet who was having trouble inhaling around all the green snot clogging his nostrils. Occasionally said snot likes to run down the pathway between his nose and upper lip and taunt us until we finally get a split second to swipe at it, perpetuating the raw redness congregating at his airways, but at night, it just likes to clog and be a bully, forcing the hawklet to learn how to breathe out of his mouth. Not as easy as you’d imagine.

In that lovely, wonderous window of pre-dawn bonding time, standing over his crib and rubbing his chest, I semi-consciously pondered my re-introduction to VapoRub as a mom. To clarify, I can actually only assume it’s a “re” introduction because I honestly don’t remember my mother ever applying VapoRub to my chest as a child. I know, my rural upbringing left me seriously deprived. But my babies love that gunk like I love my mocha. I’m sure they would drink it if they could (though they’d probably have to chew it rather than drink it, or perhaps spread it on some toast like jelly). In fact, it could be that my baby has replaced his binky addiction (yes, we gave it up cold turkey last week – Merry Christmas!) with a VapoRub addiction.

Sweet, sweet VapoRub. I’m adding you to my favorites list right alongside the drive-thru.

Moms on Drugs

Have you ever considered your "choice" ache and pain reliever? Are you an ibuprofen brand snob, finding yourself partial to Motrin, or Advil? Or perhaps even Walgreen's brand? Do you choose Tylenol instead? Does it all really matter?

Last week, a highly vocal and organized force appeared out of the Internet to say vehemently, "Yes! It does matter!" Oh. It does?

Let me get you up to speed if by chance you only read here for the Hawklet pictures, and you couldn't care less what happens in the world of marketing to moms.

Over the weekend, some moms who have a megaphone called a blog or a Twitter user name came across an online video advertisement for Motrin. Have you ever had a conversation with someone about Motrin? I'm guessing not. Because Motrin is just one of a host of options for general aches and pains. It's not something ground-breaking, sexy or controversial. Like Viagra. Right? So, for something like Motrin to spark a controversy is kind of a big deal. Well, that's exactly what it became thanks to said moms with digital megaphones.

These women were PUT OFF by the snarky sarcastic tone of this particular ad, which likened "baby wearing" (you know, wearing your baby on your body via a front pack or sling) to two negatives: 1) causing horrible back and shoulder pains and 2) serving as an accessory that allows access into a sacred club. "I am now officially a mom because I am wearing my baby." Whoops. Motrin apparently didn't consider the fact that babywearing moms are not in the mood for snark. Nor do they believe babywearing is the root of these evils. Rather, it's a wonderful bonding experience and convenient way to hold baby close while having your hands free to tackle other more meanacing issues, like dishes. (No snark intended! Dishes don't do themselves!)

Johnson & Johnson's McNeil Consumer Healthcare division markets Motrin, and its VP of Marketing made the decision to pull the ad - a month after it was first posted - because of the explosion of angry moms blogging and tweeting in outrage about this otherwise unknown online ad over the course of a couple days. In other words, using social media, passionate moms took on a healthcare giant, and won.

So while this has been a fascinating case study in the power of the momfluential, and specifically in the social networking space, what I don't get is why these moms aren't as passionate, as organized, and as vocal about things that I dare say matter more than the tone of an online ad. Why not get this organized about children without healthcare insurance? How about contaminated drinking water? There happens to be an economic crisis going on - how about organizing around that? Or, hey, even the fact that Baby Gap doesn't have a motorized door? Have you ever tried to hold a giant glass swinging door open with your foot while using all of your weight to maneuver and push a loaded double stroller through it? Hello, Baby Gap??

Now there's something to get tweeting mad about!