Hi, I'm Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My bubby calls me Bubby.

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

Eavesdropping at the Zoo

By Guest Blogger, "Mimi"

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

... is Graham. Your name ...

... is black sheep."

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

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

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

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

The kid just LOVES the carts.

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

And they proceeded to help themselves.

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

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

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

Am I that busy?

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

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

“Did you know Reid can count to 10?”

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

Wordless Thursday because I was too tired on Wednesday

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.