Wordless Thursday because I was too tired on Wednesday

With My Listening Ears On

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

Listen.

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

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

My two babies are my best proof of that.

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

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

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

And that night I tried it.

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

Guess what I heard.

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

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

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

On Defining Expertise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And being a marketer doesn’t either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does Your Child Like Square Butts?

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

Huh?

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

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

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

It was.

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

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

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

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

Hi. I'm Three.

Hi. I’m three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even though I’m a drama king.

But what do you expect?

I’m only three.

Handy Dandy Testosterone

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

Hubby: "I punched it."