Him (and his own stream of consciousness listening to music in the car): "Can we go to the party on the top of the world tonight? ... Wait, is this a true song? ... Well, maybe we could get everyone we know in the world and have a party on top of the world. ... Wait, it is a true song because after we die we'll go to the top of the world!"
_____________________________________
Me (singing in the car): "Should I join a band?"
Him: "Mommies can't be in bands."
Me: "They can if they want to."
Him: "Well they can't be on the Foo Fighter team. Mommies sing soft songs."
_____________________________________
Me (leveling with him in Time Out): "What's gotten into you?"
Him: "Reid's mind."
Monday, July 11, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
A Day in Americana
Today I stretched my legs out in plush grass under a shady tree in the middle of picturesque Small Town U.S.A., a place where the suburbs are corn fields. I leaned back on my hands and looked up to find not one cloud in the blue sky.
My ears were full of melodic patriotism blaring from bull horns dotting a small town square, and a speaker system propped up on an empty portable outdoor stage in front of the local bakery.
I watched my kids hand tickets to the kind of ride operators who spend their summers driving short highways between small towns, towing carnival parts behind them. They claimed their seats on rickety metal Ferris wheels and homemade barrel trains. They rode over and over for what seemed like forever, waving to us excitedly every now and again when their eyes caught ours. They worked up a sweat in the bounce house, where wee ones placed their sacrificial shoes at the entry – an homage to the gods of inflated plastic and generators. Across the town square I noticed a dunk tank with an excited crowd gathered around. On the other side, a bean bag toss.
Today I sat on a curb for nearly two hours watching a parade, comprised of what was clearly the pride of Small Town U.S.A., weave its way through rows of lawn chairs and parked strollers. I watched sweaty politicians in button-down shirts shake hands with old folks in the crowd while kids scrambled to catch candy tossed their way by clowns and volunteer high schoolers. Between homemade floats came herds of tractors, different models and colors, all manned by resilient, wrinkled men who oozed hard work.
We waved at local firemen and small business owners, sports teams and civic clubs. I chuckled to myself at the irony of the town’s historical society inviting people to “like us on Facebook!”
Today we stood in honor of the vets as they marched past us holding flags. I looked at their faces and wondered where they had been, what they had seen, if they were perhaps looking back at us thinking that we just.don’t.understand. I silently thanked them for seeing what I don’t have to see.
Today my kids ate corn dogs on sticks with a side of root beer float. They shared a tire swing with their cousins and stopped running/crawling/skipping/jumping among a wooden park maze only long enough to shake stray mulch out of their shoes.
Today was full of big times in a small town. A day spent exactly how I wanted to with the people I most wanted to see in America’s quaintest place.
Made possible by the freedom that we gathered there to celebrate.
My ears were full of melodic patriotism blaring from bull horns dotting a small town square, and a speaker system propped up on an empty portable outdoor stage in front of the local bakery.
I watched my kids hand tickets to the kind of ride operators who spend their summers driving short highways between small towns, towing carnival parts behind them. They claimed their seats on rickety metal Ferris wheels and homemade barrel trains. They rode over and over for what seemed like forever, waving to us excitedly every now and again when their eyes caught ours. They worked up a sweat in the bounce house, where wee ones placed their sacrificial shoes at the entry – an homage to the gods of inflated plastic and generators. Across the town square I noticed a dunk tank with an excited crowd gathered around. On the other side, a bean bag toss.
Today I sat on a curb for nearly two hours watching a parade, comprised of what was clearly the pride of Small Town U.S.A., weave its way through rows of lawn chairs and parked strollers. I watched sweaty politicians in button-down shirts shake hands with old folks in the crowd while kids scrambled to catch candy tossed their way by clowns and volunteer high schoolers. Between homemade floats came herds of tractors, different models and colors, all manned by resilient, wrinkled men who oozed hard work.
We waved at local firemen and small business owners, sports teams and civic clubs. I chuckled to myself at the irony of the town’s historical society inviting people to “like us on Facebook!”
Today we stood in honor of the vets as they marched past us holding flags. I looked at their faces and wondered where they had been, what they had seen, if they were perhaps looking back at us thinking that we just.don’t.understand. I silently thanked them for seeing what I don’t have to see.
Today my kids ate corn dogs on sticks with a side of root beer float. They shared a tire swing with their cousins and stopped running/crawling/skipping/jumping among a wooden park maze only long enough to shake stray mulch out of their shoes.
Today was full of big times in a small town. A day spent exactly how I wanted to with the people I most wanted to see in America’s quaintest place.
Made possible by the freedom that we gathered there to celebrate.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
All we need is just a little Patience
The boys are at Meeha and Papa’s house for a couple days. You know what that means – I can get to work early and stay late!! Um, I mean… date night! (Workaholism… I’m working on it.)
“Patience” by Guns ‘N Roses plays in my ear buds right now. My loving hubby sings that to me now and again … because after 15 or so years together he knows me so darn well.
When the boys are home, life is a blur. Hectic. Stressful. Keep up, keep up, keep up. Always late. And when they are gone, I miss them like crazy. I like - and I don’t like - the quiet, the slowed down. I loved my extra half hour of free time this morning that is typically spent reminding wee ones to hurry up and brush your teeth and make your bed and you’ll get a quarter! Then Graham says he doesn’t need a quarter. Such motivation that one has.
Nah, I’d rather be in charge of myself so you can keep your directions and your bribing, he says in fewer words than that – sometimes just with the look in his big eyes. Meanwhile, Reid marches upstairs to the bathroom, doing exactly as told, then straightening his comforter without missing a beat.
I miss my big boy’s stubborn independence, as crazy as it usually makes me. And I miss my little boy’s sweet perfectionism.
Patience.
My baby turned four earlier this month. And now people seem to be asking more frequently when there will be a third.
Patience.
I don’t know where we could possibly fit one more thing into our daily schedules. Babies require a lot of time. A lot of…
patience.
They’ll be back tomorrow night. And several days or weeks after tomorrow night I’ll come up for air and look around, wondering when the last time Hubs and I had a night alone, or the last time I didn’t bring my work home, the last time I didn’t feel like my mornings and evenings were spent telling everyone to hurry up.
Patience.
“Patience” by Guns ‘N Roses plays in my ear buds right now. My loving hubby sings that to me now and again … because after 15 or so years together he knows me so darn well.
When the boys are home, life is a blur. Hectic. Stressful. Keep up, keep up, keep up. Always late. And when they are gone, I miss them like crazy. I like - and I don’t like - the quiet, the slowed down. I loved my extra half hour of free time this morning that is typically spent reminding wee ones to hurry up and brush your teeth and make your bed and you’ll get a quarter! Then Graham says he doesn’t need a quarter. Such motivation that one has.
Nah, I’d rather be in charge of myself so you can keep your directions and your bribing, he says in fewer words than that – sometimes just with the look in his big eyes. Meanwhile, Reid marches upstairs to the bathroom, doing exactly as told, then straightening his comforter without missing a beat.
I miss my big boy’s stubborn independence, as crazy as it usually makes me. And I miss my little boy’s sweet perfectionism.
Patience.
My baby turned four earlier this month. And now people seem to be asking more frequently when there will be a third.
Patience.
I don’t know where we could possibly fit one more thing into our daily schedules. Babies require a lot of time. A lot of…
patience.
They’ll be back tomorrow night. And several days or weeks after tomorrow night I’ll come up for air and look around, wondering when the last time Hubs and I had a night alone, or the last time I didn’t bring my work home, the last time I didn’t feel like my mornings and evenings were spent telling everyone to hurry up.
Patience.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Mean Mommy
I have a confession to make.
I am a mean mommy.
My children didn’t tell me this (yet). I just feel it sometimes. I know it. The guilt tells me so.
This is not guilt that has compelled me to admit it to you (or maybe it is).
It’s just that while you wouldn’t believe the number of people who have told me over the past five years that they don’t know how I “do it,” I have my days that all the reasons people tell me this (working at a demanding career and having two kids 15 months apart while simultaneously going to grad school at night, yadda yadda) seem to all sneak up on each other and culminate in me blurting out to my little guys to “Hurry up!” and “Move faster!” and “We’re late, we’re late, we’re late!” and “I forgot my phone!” and “No we cannot go back for your hippo or fire truck or anything else!” and “What forms have I filled out and what forms have I forgotten?!” and “Do you have your backpack, did you take your vitamins, do you have a lunchbox? Can you eat that breakfast any faster?!” and “Is this a t-ball day and do you have your t-ball stuff? GET IT NOW BECAUSE WE’RE LATE!” etc. etc. etc.
I hate that mommy.
And truth be told, those “how do you do it?” wide-eyed questions of amazement at my perfectionist, supermom, master of juggling tendencies have, um… dropped off since I finished grad school and the Hawklets stopped wearing diapers. Damn it! I really miss those unwarranted compliments – the ones that make me think the ruse I’m pulling on everyone else is totally working.
I love my job. I love being a mom. I have even found a way to blend those two statements into one. I love that I have created a job in which I can focus on moms.
But that? Also sometimes turns me into mean mommy. The schedule, the constant iPhone, the late-night laptop sessions, the stress that I seem to too easily project onto the wee ones. It’s enough to turn me to MommyJuice. I mean, why do you think there is a wine brand called MommyJuice? IT’S FOR MEAN, GUILT-RIDDEN MOMMIES LIKE ME, OBVIOUSLY!
I don’t want my guys to be stressed out, especially unnecessarily. (Though candidly it does seem like sometimes they are operating at a snail’s pace and unless it’s Sunday I just.can’t.stand.it.) I don’t want them to feel the need to start saving up for therapy due to the obsession with constant lateness their workaholic mean mommy projected onto them as young children.
I want them to know that if they need extra hug time at drop-off, or if they need to go back and get Hippo, this mom will turn the SUV right around because my time belongs to them and my stress belongs at a safe, legally enforced distance of at least 10-feet away from us at all times.
Do you ever feel like Mean Mommy is creeping up on you? What do you do to make her go away?
I am a mean mommy.
My children didn’t tell me this (yet). I just feel it sometimes. I know it. The guilt tells me so.
This is not guilt that has compelled me to admit it to you (or maybe it is).
It’s just that while you wouldn’t believe the number of people who have told me over the past five years that they don’t know how I “do it,” I have my days that all the reasons people tell me this (working at a demanding career and having two kids 15 months apart while simultaneously going to grad school at night, yadda yadda) seem to all sneak up on each other and culminate in me blurting out to my little guys to “Hurry up!” and “Move faster!” and “We’re late, we’re late, we’re late!” and “I forgot my phone!” and “No we cannot go back for your hippo or fire truck or anything else!” and “What forms have I filled out and what forms have I forgotten?!” and “Do you have your backpack, did you take your vitamins, do you have a lunchbox? Can you eat that breakfast any faster?!” and “Is this a t-ball day and do you have your t-ball stuff? GET IT NOW BECAUSE WE’RE LATE!” etc. etc. etc.
I hate that mommy.
And truth be told, those “how do you do it?” wide-eyed questions of amazement at my perfectionist, supermom, master of juggling tendencies have, um… dropped off since I finished grad school and the Hawklets stopped wearing diapers. Damn it! I really miss those unwarranted compliments – the ones that make me think the ruse I’m pulling on everyone else is totally working.
I love my job. I love being a mom. I have even found a way to blend those two statements into one. I love that I have created a job in which I can focus on moms.
But that? Also sometimes turns me into mean mommy. The schedule, the constant iPhone, the late-night laptop sessions, the stress that I seem to too easily project onto the wee ones. It’s enough to turn me to MommyJuice. I mean, why do you think there is a wine brand called MommyJuice? IT’S FOR MEAN, GUILT-RIDDEN MOMMIES LIKE ME, OBVIOUSLY!
I don’t want my guys to be stressed out, especially unnecessarily. (Though candidly it does seem like sometimes they are operating at a snail’s pace and unless it’s Sunday I just.can’t.stand.it.) I don’t want them to feel the need to start saving up for therapy due to the obsession with constant lateness their workaholic mean mommy projected onto them as young children.
I want them to know that if they need extra hug time at drop-off, or if they need to go back and get Hippo, this mom will turn the SUV right around because my time belongs to them and my stress belongs at a safe, legally enforced distance of at least 10-feet away from us at all times.
Do you ever feel like Mean Mommy is creeping up on you? What do you do to make her go away?
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Ads Gone Wild
Have you ever pondered how fine the line separating "edgy" from "offensive" might be? Perhaps it's just large enough to house "confusing" and "strange" but not quite wide enough for the multitude of specifics you'd have to include if "upside down cow udders making peace signs" was to be encompassed there as well? On that fine line? And of course you have to take into consideration the fact that the line is surely different from country to country, culture to culture. I mean, obvs.
All that to say... what was McDonald's in Finland thinking with this print ad? Moms, does this inspire you to swing the mini-van through McD's drive thru for a real milkshake? Hey, it's got double the flavor after all!
Moo. Or whatever Finnish cows say.
All that to say... what was McDonald's in Finland thinking with this print ad? Moms, does this inspire you to swing the mini-van through McD's drive thru for a real milkshake? Hey, it's got double the flavor after all!
Moo. Or whatever Finnish cows say.Thursday, May 12, 2011
What do I do all day?
I realize if you are not in PR or integrated marketing communications, it's hard to understand what it is I do in this job of mine (hi, honey!), though I can assure you it has nothing to do with saving lives (though occasionally we help people better understand their pharmaceutical options and nutritional choices) or even getting names on VIP lists (though occasionally we work with people you may have heard of to tell people in the media about why our clients' products are awesome).
The most fun part of my job is the social side, particularly when moms are involved. And yes, I realize that is still not defining much so check out my interview in today's Mashable (Mom, that's the Wall Street Journal of the social media industry), where I am thrilled to be sharing my points of view on what social media engagement is, how social media has changed our industry and how we measure whether or not our efforts are making an impact.
It might help. A little? (Okay, yes I have met Lindsay Lohan. And no, there was absolutely nothing special about it.)
The most fun part of my job is the social side, particularly when moms are involved. And yes, I realize that is still not defining much so check out my interview in today's Mashable (Mom, that's the Wall Street Journal of the social media industry), where I am thrilled to be sharing my points of view on what social media engagement is, how social media has changed our industry and how we measure whether or not our efforts are making an impact.
It might help. A little? (Okay, yes I have met Lindsay Lohan. And no, there was absolutely nothing special about it.)
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
A Mother's Letter to the Foo Fighters
Dear Foo Fighters:
I don’t know much about you. I like your songs, but can’t remember their titles. I can picture at least two of your faces, but can’t remember your names. I do recall the music video featuring you as flight attendants, but don’t recall the last time I watched MTV, so I must be digging deep there. So clearly this is not a fan letter, per se. Nope, it’s a warning-letter-slash-request-for-help. You’d better check yourselves, Foos, because my 5-year old is watching you closely.
You see, my baby boy reeeeeally digs you. And, um, he’s five. Naturally you may think he also is into his extensive CD collection featuring the greatest hits of Sesame Street, Bob the Builder, The Wiggles… even Free to Be You and Me (a personal favorite that I used to have on record… ah the good ‘ol days). And oh the Kindermusik songs. They are in his room, in our cars, on our iPods…
But no! Kindermusik be damned! Thanks to his getting a glimpse of you on Palladia, now we’re all Foo Fighters all the time!
I blame you, Foos. I blame you that my 5-year old said to me last week (from his spot in the hallway at Kindermusik where he was in time out for retaliating against age-appropriate music), “Here’s the deal, Mom - I just don’t like this music. I like rock star music. I need drums and guitars. This? Is not rock star music.”
I tried a meager come back about the fact that all musicians have to start at a place of learning rhythm, and that learning all instruments will help him eventually be better at both drums and guitars, and that these are the benefits of Kindermusik, yadda yadda. But he wasn’t having it. “Rock star music, mom. I want to scream into the microphone.”
It’s not just the screaming. My 5-year old, Foos, wants to wear his hair like yours. Long. He wants to headline an amphitheater concert in a big city in the pouring rain. Like you did. He wants to strap an electric guitar to his torso and head bang. Mmm hmm.
“When I grow up, I’m going to join the Foo Fighter team,” he reminds me occasionally from his booster in the back seat. You know, because he’s five and all, and still sits in a booster seat. But yet loves the hard rock. He tells me these things when other bands come on the radio. Like, oh, the Rolling Stones. Yes you, Foo Fighters, are cooler than the Stones in my 5-year old’s humble opinion.
No, neither you nor Charles Barkley is a role model. But this mom is a wee bit concerned about the glimpse I’m currently getting into my son’s teen years (and having heart palpitations) and so anything, ANYTHING you can do to show my baby that it’s totally cool to be a head-banging heavy metaler while also being an upstanding young citizen who eats his veggies and respects his parents? Yeah, that would be awesome.
Very best wishes with the next album and all,
Mama Hawks
I don’t know much about you. I like your songs, but can’t remember their titles. I can picture at least two of your faces, but can’t remember your names. I do recall the music video featuring you as flight attendants, but don’t recall the last time I watched MTV, so I must be digging deep there. So clearly this is not a fan letter, per se. Nope, it’s a warning-letter-slash-request-for-help. You’d better check yourselves, Foos, because my 5-year old is watching you closely.
You see, my baby boy reeeeeally digs you. And, um, he’s five. Naturally you may think he also is into his extensive CD collection featuring the greatest hits of Sesame Street, Bob the Builder, The Wiggles… even Free to Be You and Me (a personal favorite that I used to have on record… ah the good ‘ol days). And oh the Kindermusik songs. They are in his room, in our cars, on our iPods…
But no! Kindermusik be damned! Thanks to his getting a glimpse of you on Palladia, now we’re all Foo Fighters all the time!
I blame you, Foos. I blame you that my 5-year old said to me last week (from his spot in the hallway at Kindermusik where he was in time out for retaliating against age-appropriate music), “Here’s the deal, Mom - I just don’t like this music. I like rock star music. I need drums and guitars. This? Is not rock star music.”
I tried a meager come back about the fact that all musicians have to start at a place of learning rhythm, and that learning all instruments will help him eventually be better at both drums and guitars, and that these are the benefits of Kindermusik, yadda yadda. But he wasn’t having it. “Rock star music, mom. I want to scream into the microphone.”
It’s not just the screaming. My 5-year old, Foos, wants to wear his hair like yours. Long. He wants to headline an amphitheater concert in a big city in the pouring rain. Like you did. He wants to strap an electric guitar to his torso and head bang. Mmm hmm.
“When I grow up, I’m going to join the Foo Fighter team,” he reminds me occasionally from his booster in the back seat. You know, because he’s five and all, and still sits in a booster seat. But yet loves the hard rock. He tells me these things when other bands come on the radio. Like, oh, the Rolling Stones. Yes you, Foo Fighters, are cooler than the Stones in my 5-year old’s humble opinion.
No, neither you nor Charles Barkley is a role model. But this mom is a wee bit concerned about the glimpse I’m currently getting into my son’s teen years (and having heart palpitations) and so anything, ANYTHING you can do to show my baby that it’s totally cool to be a head-banging heavy metaler while also being an upstanding young citizen who eats his veggies and respects his parents? Yeah, that would be awesome.
Very best wishes with the next album and all,
Mama Hawks
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