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?
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
Meeting Margo
"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?"
"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.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
We drank the kool-aid (a.k.a. the week I became a Disney ambassador)
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.
Disney kept commanding that we let the memories begin and so we obliged. Then they rushed in. And they started flooding.
My reserved baby made new friends.
No detail was overlooked.
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.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Hindsight
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:
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.
Friday, September 23, 2011
What I want for you
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.
“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.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
The Night Before
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.
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.
Monday, August 8, 2011
On being a modern marketeer mom
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!
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!
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