Who's The Boss?

Is Business Afraid of the C-word?

I remember looking at her hair and wondering if she was wearing a wig.  It looked like it might be a wig.  Too shiny, too perfect, too angular.  I didn't have any experience with women wearing wigs.  When I was 7, my Great Aunt Bertha slapped my hand when I tried to touch hers after she had taken it  off on a hot day and laid it to rest over an empty coffee can.  Now here I was, straight out of college, working my first real job in the corporate world and I just couldn't take my eyes off of the HR lady's hair.

A few months later, she went on an extended medical leave. She had been fighting Breast Cancer.  She had also been hiding it from the company and her colleagues until it was clear that she couldn't work any longer.  Less than a year later, she lost the fight. 

I remember hearing about her diagnosis from another colleague and instantly remembering the way I watched her hair during my first week at the company.  It was a wig.  I was right.  It felt really horrible to be right. 

I don't know how long the HR lady had been fighting cancer.  I was a new employee.  I didn't know her before my interview.  Some had speculated it was for months before she told. 

As a new recruit to the corporate world, I was still learning the valuable skills of diplomacy and discretion.  Back then, I didn't understand things like lay-offs and health insurance and perception.  I had no clue the amount of the courage it would take to tell your boss; let alone the employment risk that could potentially be created by such news. 

Last week, when an acquaintance on Facebook posted a picture of herself practically bald, I found myself thinking back to that HR lady.  Turns out my Facebook friend has been battling breast cancer for over year.  A person with lots and lots of connections - both in real life and across the internet - she too decided to keep her health status incredibly private.

She wore a wig.  She didn't discuss it.  She created a small support group of closest friends and members of her church.  The rest of the world found out about her health when she posted that picture, with less than an inch of hair growth, now that she is in remission.

Now that I'm not a newbie in the business world, I completely understood why my Facebook friend chose to keep her health status on the down-low.  It takes a tremendous amount of strength and courage and motivation and dedication to fight cancer.  It probably takes giant balls of steel to tell people about it.  But it can also create an tremendous amount of risk.

My Facebook friend continued to work full-time during her diagnosis and treatment.  The main reason she didn't say anything was because she knew that the status of her health could put her employment - and subsequently her family - at risk.  Instead she put on a wig and a slapped a smile on her face and she fought with every fiber of her being.  She fought for clients.  She fought for life.

But it also made me wonder... is business afraid of the c-word?

Silence

"I never hear you talk," said the other swim mom to Cooper in a sweet voice. "Talk to me, sweetie."

I struggled to fight back tears.

At 18 months, Cooper should be talking.

He isn't.

We know he isn't.

We are painfully aware that he isn't.

He's listening. He's gesturing. He's pointing and leading us hand in hand. He's laughing. He's getting frustrated when we don't know what he wants.

But he's not talking.

My willful, rebellious, active boy barely even babbles.

I hate talking about Cooper not talking. I hate this feeling that there is something wrong with my boy. Or worse, that I did something wrong when I was pregnant with him that caused this.

All those months of morning sickness has always left me wondering if we aren't bonded the same way that his older brother and I are.

All those ear infections in his first life... one a month for 7 months in a row... did those cause hearing damage?

Last week, I called his pediatrician. He reassured me that Cooper is doing lots and lots of things. He's following 2-step directions (find your shoes and bring them to daddy). He's physically developing on target (note to self: post video of Cooper jumping on Facebook). He's attentive and active and interactive and perfect in every way.

I was starting to feel better until he asked if I had a pen to write down the number for the Early Start program in our county.

All of the reassurances from friends and family do help. But the nagging guilty feeling that all mother's get when something isn't going as expected is way stronger than anyone sharing how their genius son didn't talk until 2. Or how their twins (who have other developmental delays that Cooper does not exhibit) really benefited from Early Start services. Or how a child in their classroom went undiagnosed with hearing loss until age 8 and now that they've fixed his hearing, his grades has shot up to advanced placement. None of those make me feel better. Or relived that I'm not alone. In my heart, I know that I am not alone. But

This morning I called the Early Start program. Paperwork is being mailed to us as I write these words.

Admitting that Cooper isn't talking feels like the worst thing in the world.

But I know in my heart that the worst thing I could do as his mother is to do nothing. So I'm wiping away my tears and putting on my momma-bear armor.

It's time to end the silence.

Overlooked

I knew this day was coming. I was hoping for one more year. One more time to experience it before it was over. One more season of his youth before he grew up. I knew I was pressing my luck.

Leading up to Easter, I had decided that the visit from the Easter Bunny would be a minimalist visit. I had already taken Darius to the Dollar Store to pick out an Easter basket for the egghunt at Nana's church. On the eve of Easter, I told him that he should leave it out on the table so that The Bunny could fill it after he went to bed.

Never did he say anything.

Never did he question it.

On Easter Sunday, with his modest basket of goodies (a few candies, a chocolate bunny, and a "four-square" rubber ball) in hand, he proclaimed that the Easter Bunny wasn't real.

Neither was Santa for that matter.

Standing there, in the bathroom getting ready to attend my mother's church, I didn't know what to say. I wasn't prepared for this talk at Easter. I was expecting this closer to Christmas. So did I what mother's learn in Parenting 101...

When you don't know the answer, ask a question back!

"Oh really?" I said. "What makes you think so?"

"Everyone knows that, mom."

"Well, if the Easter Bunny didn't fill your basket, who did? If it wasn't magic, then what was it?"

"I don't know," he said. "Someone did. Maybe Dad?"

Suddenly, the idea of Santa being unmasked as his father was too much for me to take. For his whole life, I have been the filler of stockings and baskets, the purchaser of presents, the cash exchanger for teeth.

I wanted to scream at him... YOUR FATHER? YOUR FATHER? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

Instead, I asked him "Dad? You think Daddy is the real Santa Claus? Your dad who drives the long way to his brother's house to avoid paying the toll on the bridge? You think it's Daddy?"

Surely this kid could come the right conclusion. His father is too damn cheap to be the one. Surely, my bright child would see the error of his ways and realize that there could only be one person in our family with the organizational abilities to pull off Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy.

I stood there, curling my hair with hope in my eyes that my sweet, sweet boy would come to his senses. Without skipping a beat, he shrugged and said,

"Well, if it isn't Daddy then I don't know who. Somebody must have done it."

And then walked away to play with that damned rubber ball that I found after driving to three different stores because only I knew exactly what he wanted when he asked for a "four-square" ball.

How could my precious boy overlook the most obvious answer?

His mother has been the one who has purchased every item of clothing, every pair of shoes, every article of swim equipment. His mother has paid for every vacation, every trip to Golfland, every school photo. His mother has bought every cone of ice cream, every Happy Meal, every bag of popcorn at the movies.

His father, while his best playmate and payer of the mortgage, is not the actual provider of things in this house. For years, I have been the one to write "From Santa" on his presents or "From Mom and Dad" on his valentine card. After Darius ran outside to play with Nana's two dogs, I turned to Neville and said,

"From now on, I'm signing every card FROM MOM. If Santa ain't getting the credit, then I SURE AS HELL AM!"

Neville gave me a half-assed hug and whispered in my ear, "He knows in his heart who does everything around here. You just have to give him twenty more years to figure it out."

Perhaps his father is right. Perhaps he just needs more time. Perhaps I should sit him down and actually talk about his whole "Santa isn't real thing." Perhaps, he'll grow up to realize that while his mother doesn't wrestle on the ground or play catch in the backyard that she provides for him in so many other ways. With food on the table. With love in his heart. With 1,672,346 lego pieces.

Or perhaps I will grow old with the realization that our children never really appreciate their mother as much as they should. Even after they become parents themselves. That it's just too easy to take your mother for granted.

Or perhaps I'll stick to my original plan of cutting my wonderful spouse out of any credit for next year's Christmas presents.

Maybe it's time for Daddy to be overlooked.

Funny Girl

As I sat around the table with my eleven cast-mates and our two directors, I had a inkling of an anxiety attack. Strange that I wasn't nervous at all during the audition, but was now incredibly nervous at our first rehearsal. I had written a humorous piece for Listen To Your Mother.

You're not good enough. Your writing isn't good enough. They aren't going to laugh. They will hate it. You will be replaced.

My anxiety attacks usually result in my taking it out on the people who least deserve it... you know, my family. But this Saturday morning there was only a room of strangers. I couldn't snap at my child for making a giant mess in his bedroom. I couldn't pick a fight with Neville about why he always get to sleep in on Saturdays when I worked just as hard during the week too. I couldn't whisper lies under my breath about how I'm the only one who does anything around here.

I don't get caught up in self-doubt all that often. I'm too impatient to let myself dawdle in the impractical. I sat there sipping my coffee, making small talk with these women (and one man) about the embarrassing amount of creamer I put in my coffee. I sat there trying to remain cool, calm, and collected. I sat there trying to stop the self-doubt from creeping in any more.

And then I listened to the first woman read her piece. Before she had finished her first paragraph, I was already tearing up. It was beautiful, y'all. And it wasn't funny. It was moving and touching and graceful. And it wasn't funny. I could do funny. This? This beauty? I wasn't ready for that. I wasn't prepared to cry. I wasn't prepared to go on journey with these people. I wasn't prepared for the courage and the power and the vulnerability.

I was the last one to read. I'm the closer, people. Which is so flattering because I could buy in to that "save the best for last" line and feel really good about me over something so petty as the order in which we read. More than that, it is terrifying because, holy shit, I have to sit through the most beautifully written and gorgeously performed eleven pieces of work before it's my turn.

I so desperately wanted to hate my cast-mates. Surely, it would be easier to hate them than to fall in love with eleven strangers. My heart was so swollen with love and adoration that it almost felt like it was breaking. The anxiety and the self doubt vanished; replaced by excitement and anticipation. I may make you laugh. Others may make you cry. More may make you remember. Twelve different stories about motherhood. This ensemble is crazy good. Scary good. Sweet Grilled Cheesus good.

I cannot wait for our next rehearsal. Although this time I won't wear mascara.

 

Did I not tell y'all that I am in the cast for the San Francisco show of Listen to Your Mother? Did I leave that out? Well, hello! I am! And you should come to our show on Thursday, May 10th.

How do you define diversity?

This fair-skinned, hazel-eyed, auburn-haired baby of mine is half-Indian. Yes, he looks like an Irish boy. Should it matter?

Darius came home from school the other day saying that our president, Barack Obama, was African. I immediately corrected him by saying that President Obama was African American. Darius looked me straight in the eye and said "That's what I said."

"No, son, that is not what you said" began a long conversation about race, ethnicity, and the labels we give others as well as ourselves.

Darius was confused... His father calls himself Indian even though he wasn't born there. Technically, his father would be Indian American or even British (as he was born there and is still a citizen there). So why would it be any different for our President?

I'm glad that his ignorance became a teaching moment.

Having a degree in Feminism, and understanding the history of the Feminist Movement, I understand that the original feminist movement focused mainly - if not completely - on white, upper-middle class women. Women who had enough power to get more power. That doesn't mean that since then, "other" women haven't benefited or that Feminism hasn't been better at inclusion (an argument for and against both can be saved for another post).

The Feminist Movement would not have been possible without the Civil Rights Movement. That's a fact. For all of us who are women, over 40, pregnant, disabled, and/or GLBT, we would not have any of the rights we have today without the Civil Rights Movement. All of these "protected classes" wouldn't be possible if Rosa Parks hadn't said with her actions "You will no longer treat me this way."

I find it incredibly difficult to have conversation about racism or sexism. In my experience, the topic brings up an immediate defensiveness and a tendency to minimize the impact of racism here in Silicon Valley. Yes, we live in a culturally diverse area. But let's be real...

How many times have you heard someone say that all the Asians live in Cupertino? Or given a suggestion to drive to Fremont to get good Indian food because that's where they all live?

I have witnessed first hand the reaction when a stranger realizes that my child is bi-racial and their uncontrollable response of "But he looks white."

I know that since my sons look more like me than their olive-skinned father, they will get more privilege just because of the color of their skin. That when people tell them they are smart it won't be because "Indians only care about education." Positive stereotypes are still stereotypes.

Where am I going in all of this? I don't know. I don't have any answers. I only keep asking more questions. Most of those questions are my own.

Like, how do I teach my son's that the color of a person's skin should never be a deciding factor in whether or not that person is your friend? Or your boss or your employee or your neighbor?

...Or that color shouldn't matter, but people in the past were treated very differently because of that. That people are still treated differently today. That it is wrong to judge anyone on anything other than the content of their character.

...That we should stand up for others when someone tries to hurt someone with words or with violence. That we should stand up for ourselves.

...That diversity doesn't mean a lack of white people. It means that our community is respectfully represented by all of the cultures that live within our community.

...That being Indian doesn't automatically make him good at math and engineering.

...That having a penis shouldn't factor into how much money a person makes (or doesn't).

How do I get my son to recognize his own inner Rosa Parks and stand up for himself. Or, even better, stand alongside others?

All drains lead to the ocean

Darius so desperately wants a pet. A real pet that he can scratch behind the ears and will sleep at the foot of his bed at night. He has asked at least once a month since he was 3 when he can get a dog. With two parents who are allergic to pet dander, the answer has always been the same:

"When you have a house of your own."

I don't mean to be so cruel about it. But we aren't planning on getting any animals in the near (or far) future. With Cooper still in diapers, the last thing I need is another being in which I have to clean up poop. Darius can snuggle with my dad's cat... who runs and hides every time he comes near after he grabbed (and bent) her tail when he was four. Or he can snuggle with my mom's two dogs... who jump up on him and lick his face and kinda sorta scare him. It's not ideal, but when in life is it perfect?

For his 7th birthday last year, we decided to let him have pet fish. It was a pathetic attempt at letting him have some sort of pet. If taking care of fish is any indicator on taking care of a dog, I'm glad I stuck with the fish.

I, not Darius, feed the fish every night.

I, not Darius, feed the frog blood worms every other night.

I, not Darius, clean the tank every month.

I've also had to be the bearer of bad news when not one... but two fish jumped out of the tank.

Turns out that fish die a lot faster than dogs. If dog years are equal to 7 human years, then a fish year must be equal to 100.

We lost our third fish this week. The big bully one literally must have jumped out of the tank in the middle of the night. Darius found him in the morning, dead on the kitchen floor. Neville suggested that we bury it and I screamed "Didn't you ever see Poltergeist? We will not wake the dead by creating a pet cemetery!" Flushing a dead fish the acceptable burial practice, right?

Darius looked at me, with tears welling in his eyes, and said "We'll flush him. All drains lead to the ocean, right?"

As if the force of the flush would be like fish CPR and the big bully Dalmatian Mollie would be brought back to life.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that he has fresh water tropical fish. If the fish was brought back from the dead, it would be killed instantly in the salt water. I also didn't have the heart to tell him that our waste first goes to the water treatment plant. Or that if his fish did come back from the dead, I'm pretty sure that would make it a Zombie fish. And OH MY GOD, the world isn't ready for Zombie Fish!

Instead, I gave my boy a big hug and stood by him as we flushed the fish.

And said a small prayer of thanks that he's still innocent enough to not worry about zombie fish.

We Are Sleep Training Failures

It's true. I suck at sleep training. Neville and I both suck at it. Neville cannot stand to hear a baby cry. There must be something wrong. The baby must be hungry - even if he just ate 15 minutes ago. Or the baby needs a diaper change - if it was just changed after you fed him. Or the baby is sick - even if he is cool to the touch and shows no other signs of illness. Neville's version of crying it out means letting your baby cry for 20 seconds. He'd never make it to the requisite 20 minutes.

I, on the other hand, am one stubborn son of a gun. I could outwit and outlast a tired toddler that hasn't learned to self soothe. While my milk ducts, long dried up, still tingle when my baby cries; I won't even twinge. I'm heartless when it comes to the crying it out method. I know it won't last forever.

Or so I thought.

We have a tiny house. 1400 square feet that holds 2 adults, 2 kids, 1 make-do office in the family room, 7 fish, and 1 albino frog. 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, and at least 25 different small toys that will impale you if you step on them in the middle of the night. We are quickly out growing this house. The truth is, we practically had already outgrown it when we bought the place four and a half years ago. During the housing peak thankyouverymuch. Making our home now worth about 20 percent less than we paid for it. Which isn't terrible considering many have lost much more. But when you pay Bay Area real estate prices for your home, you know that 20 percent is more than a Harvard education.

Due to lack of space - or really a lack of a 4th bedroom - Cooper's room is our bedroom. While I dream of the day the boys can share a room, with a 6.5 year age gap I know that day isn't anytime soon. Coop's crib is tucked into a corner of our master bedroom. And by tucked away, I mean that it is 8 inches away from our bed.

If we let Cooper cry it out, we have to sleep on the couch for a few nights. There is no way that Cooper is going to self soothe himself to sleep when his parents are within arms reach. Believe me, we tried. So Neville typically goes to stay at his dad's house (re-read the 1st paragraph) and I get to pretend that I'm sleeping on the couch while I'm really timing how long he'll cry before he makes himself throw up. After he seems to get that his parents are assholes and pick sleep over him, he will fall asleep.

After a couple of days, we parents think that we've finally master sleep training and move back into our room. And Cooper realizes that the party has really started and begins to wake in the middle of the night - screaming because his parents are only 8 INCHES AWAY and are trying to ignore him.

Last month, I gave up. I admitted defeat. The kid is too strong and I am too tired to give a good fight. Instead, I bought a King size bed. Now there is more than enough room for our son's 2am requests to co-sleep.

There's only one problem...

Darius has decided that a bigger bed means there is room for a bigger boy.

This post has very little to do with Whitney Houston

I spent Saturday off Twitter and Facebook and kept my phone hidden so that I could get in some valuable family time. When I peeked at Facebook after dinner, my stream was abuzz with Whitney Houston's death. While no cause of death has been named yet, there is speculation that the pop diva of my youth drowned in her bathtub after taking a deadly mix of prescription drugs and alcohol.

Sad? Yes.

Tragic? Perhaps.

Expected? Maybe so.

Perhaps I'm blessed that I've never had a drug or alcohol problem. I partied in my 20s with the rest of 'em. I experimented with a few drugs that are known to be addictive. I smoked and snorted and drank at frat parties like every other insecure girl there. And then I grew up. I grew out of it. Now as real adult (you know, one that doesn't call her dad at the end of every month asking for $50), I have a glass of wine maybe once a week. I walked away from all that crazy and I feel blessed that walking away was more than easy. It was effortless. So effortless that when I walked away, I didn't even realize the importance of it.

But I have friends and family that haven't been able to walk away on their own. I've watched them destroy their lives during their addiction. I've watched them try to pick up the pieces. And I've seen that once something is broken, no matter how much glue you have to put it back together, it never quite fits the same way. I've witnessed people closest to me fall back into addiction just when you thought they were pulling themselves together. I've been there to walk beside those whose journey in recovery never ends. Never. I've never been more proud of these people.

One of Neville's childhood friends is an alcoholic. A raging one at that. I've known him as long as I've known Neville. Over the course of the 12 years, he's always been an alcoholic. I've seen him get sick at parties. I've heard Neville's phone ring in the middle of the night because he's too drunk to even walk home. I've had to ask him to leave when he shows up fully loaded at our house to play with our kids. At 33, Neville's friend is dying, slowly and painfully, from his addiction. His liver has begun to shut down. The doctors have given him two years at most - if he stops drinking. Less, if he continues to drown himself in jack and coke.

Neville's friend is a talented guy. He's funny. He's caring. My children love him. He's patient and kind. He's smart. He's drinking his life away. Literally. He's taking forty years off his life - maybe more - by poisoning himself. And it's unbearable to watch.

So I'm not going to wax poetic about Whitney Houston. I'm not going to reminisce about her music - the music of my childhood. I'm not going to pretend that her death was tragic. The tragedy began long before her death. It began when Whitney continued to abuse. It continued when Whitney didn't get help. The tragedy wasn't in her death. It was in her life.

Drug addiction, from what I can gather, is like a death sentence. It's a prison. But here's the remarkable part. The addict himself is the warden. He has the key to his release. It's recovery. It's asking for help. It's a choice that may seem impossible to make. But it can be done.

Just as Neville can't release his friend from his addiction, we can't take pity on Whitney Houston's death. If you want to honor her, stop posting her videos from the 80s and seek out a friend who is struggling with addiction. Help someone see that they are worthy of recovery. They are worthy of life. They are worthy. Period.

For Susan

I can't remember if I ever met Susan in person. I been searching through all of my blogging memories to figure out if we've ever shook hands or looked one another in the eye or hugged. I'm know deep down inside that we most likely never met in real life. If we did, I'm sure I would never forget. It's the craziness that is blogging. We meet so many kindred souls online that it's hard to remember who you know in real life and those whom are just friends on Facebook and Twitter.

It's hard to believe that I'll never get the chance to meet Susan now. At least not until we meet in Heaven.

I "met" Susan in an unusual way. I decided at the last minute to attend BlogHer 2007 in Chicago. Yahoo! had sponsored my ticket, my airline miles were getting me there, but I needed a place to stay. The block room rate was gone and I was going to have to pay through the nose for a room. Kim, who also decided at the last minute to stay in a hotel, and I were going to be roommates. Kim called me to let me know that Susan...

Susan who had just been diagnosed with IBC...

Susan who was now in the fight for her life...

Susan who should have been screaming F^CK YOU to the world...

Susan who should not have cared about BlogHer or hotels rates...

Susan wanted to make sure that her room - the room with the cheaper rate - was transferred to someone else.

Who does that? Who cares about helping someone else when you yourself are in crisis?

Susan does. Because that is who Susan is.

I was floored by her grace. By her generosity. By her. Period.

Susan and I talked briefly on the phone. At the time, she blogged under a pseudonym and held her family's privacy above all else. She made me promise that I would never speak her real name - as I was about to find it out during the room transfer to mine. I remember promising that I wouldn't even look at the form with her name. But I lied. I did look. I saw her name was Susan and I smiled. And I began praying for her everyday, lifting her name up.

For the last five years, Susan has been on my heart and mind every single day. While I'm officially the world's worst blog commenter (as I rarely do it), I've followed Susan's story with total commitment. I have virtually been by her side, virtually holding her hand, virtually singing her praise. I've learned more about breast cancers, cancer treatments, recovery, and chemo from Susan. She has taught us all about the science of our lives.

I've been struggling with how to close this post. Do I say good-bye? Do I say thank you? Do I say how I terribly regret never getting to shake your hand, look you in the eye, and maybe even get to hug you? Do I tell you that I'll never forget you? That I love you? That I'm here, virtually at least, for you as your journey on Earth ends to begin your everlasting one with our maker? I don't know what to say. So I'm just going to say this.

I've been praying to those in my life who have passed before and have asked them to meet you at the Gates of Heaven. And I pray that I should be so lucky as to be greeted by you when it is my journey here is over. You've touched more lives than you could possibly ever know. You are not alone. You will never be alone.

I may or may not be wearing a bra while writing this

When I was Darius's age (shut up, it wasn't THAT long ago), I was a morning person. Sometime during college, that changed. Nowadays, I'm not a complete night owl either. I can stay up until midnight without yawning once. For all you whipper snappers, I realize that midnight is when most night clubs are just getting started. But for a full-time working mom, midnight is practically like pulling an all-nighter.

Transitioning back to school hours has been really tough for me. Getting up at 7:30am is hard when I went to bed at 12:20am. And I realize that all you commuters are now rolling your eyes and saying how easy I have it. I know, I know... working from home full-time is a blessing from God and I need to shut up about how hard it is to wake up at 7:30am when there are people commuting on the road before 5 o'clock in the morning.

I know it's not fair that my commute consists of six steps to my computer. It's not like I asked to work from home full-time. I just lucked out. And I know that lucky me shouldn't complain about it.

But I'm a complainer. What can I say?

Getting up at 7:30am sucks. Making sure that Darius is up and stays focused to do THREE tasks in FORTY-FIVE minutes is truly and utterly exhausting. I mean, did you know that it can take TWENTY minutes just to put on a shirt and pants... a shirt and pants, by the way, that are the SAME every single day because the child wears a school uniform! I swear I'm practically chugging shots of coffee to take the edge off during the morning hour.

At the private school, Neville was in charge of drop-off. On rare occasion, he had a work conflict that put him in the office before 7am when then put me on drop-off duty. A joy really. Half of the time when we headed out the door to school, I was still in my pajamas. Thank god the school had a car drop-off where the teachers open your passenger door and escort your child onto campus. Throw a fleece jacket on top & my giant sunglasses over yesterday's smeared mascara, and you probably wouldn't know that I didn't have a bra on.

Every single time that I was responsible for drop-off, Darius would demand that I walk him to his classroom like Daddy does every single morning. When I was actually dressed and didn't have a morning meeting, I acquiesced to Darius's demand and walked him in. Which I quickly learned was a total waste of time. As soon as the kid got within 100 feet of the playground, he took off like a sprinter in the Olympics. No good-bye Mom. No kiss. No see ya later.

In the car, I get a kiss.

In the car, I get a "I love you."

In the car, I get a "Have a great day."

And did I mention that I don't have to wear my bra in the car?

This year, we've been incredibly lucky to have our next door neighbor walk Darius and her daughter to school every morning. Incredibly lucky. Beyond lucky.

The only problem is that when they knock on the door, I'm never ready. I'm always still in my pajamas. I'm nearly always without a bra. And I don't have a car door blocking the view. Every morning, after I've embarrassed myself at our front door, I say to myself that starting tomorrow, I am going to get dressed as soon as I get up. But then the next morning comes round and I spent 45 minutes getting my eldest child to do three things while getting my youngest child to stop doing 3 million things that will hurt him, break something, or hurt him while breaking something.

Every morning when I hear that knock on the door, I know that I've failed at doing the three things I've been screaming at my second grader to do for the last 45 minutes. Although, I feel even better about myself when the nanny shows up 30 minutes later AND I'M STILL NOT DRESSED.

For the next three days, I have work commitments that require me to be ready and out the door before Darius gets picked up. Which means that my neighbors and my nanny won't know I'm not only wearing a bra, I am also dressed like a professional. With make-up on and hair styled. With high heels instead of house slippers. With a bra on.

I'm starting to feel like I need to take pictures and text it over to them with a caption that says "See? It is possible for me to not look like I've just rolled out of bed when the truth is that I've been up for almost 2 hours."

But who's kidding... there's a strong possibility that I'll be leaving the house with my hair still in rollers wearing a sweater I thought was clean but does in fact have a greasy hand-print from my toddler. That's how I roll these days. One thing it certain... for the next three days, I'll be wearing a bra.

You're welcome.

Learning About Dr. Martin Luther King, One Cupcake at a Time

When Darius was in kindergarten, his teachers did a demonstration about segregation. They sent out an email to the parents to let us know that our kids would probably come up upset because the class would be divided into boys and girls. We, parents, were not to let on that we knew about the demonstration or that the changes weren't permanent. Instead we were to sympathize with our children and then ask them:

"What could you do to change it?"

It was the kindergarten version of the Civil Rights Movement. Two years later, it is a lesson that my son still talks about.

The children were divided into boys and girls. The girls had all of the privileges inside the classroom. They got to use the indoor drinking fountain. They sat in the front of the class. They got to line up first and all papers/supplies were passed to girls first. If a girl raised her hand, she would be called on before a boy. The boys had all of the privileges outside. They got to use the outdoor drinking fountains. They could play on the kindergarten play structure. They had first pick of the balls.

If either gender was caught breaking the Jim Crow Laws of Room 17, the child would lose 5 tokens. Those tokens were hard earned and used to buy little trinkets in the class store. Normally a kindergartner would cry if they lost one... so 5 was a big deal. The kids were told that it was "Separate but Equal." The boys knew the truth. They were getting screwed.

I remember volunteering in the classroom during these two days. And I remember that the boys felt like they had much less power. With only two recesses and one lunch break, the power outside was significantly less than the power the girls wielded inside the class. And, boy, did the girls make sure that the boys never forgot who was in charge. It was disturbing to see how quickly one "class" of students - the girls - took to their new privileges. The boys had been their friends until now. Now it seemed that the girls took pleasure in making sure their boy peers were at the back of the class.

The teachers were stunned by the girl behavior. After doing this demonstration for years, they had never come across a group that seemed so content with the law that the girls had actually asked if these new laws could become permanent. The girls were so caught up in the power of privilege that they not only didn't stand up for their friends; they asked for more power. The teachers and I brainstormed about what to do. How could they get the girls to understand the other side of the coin? While the boys were already making picket signs and planning a march to the Principal’s office, the girls were enjoying being the ones in charge.

Until the arrival of the cupcake. A mother dropped off goodie bags and cupcakes for Alex's* birthday. A boy's birthday. The teachers debated back and forth on what to do.

Who knew teaching moments would present themselves in the form of a cupcake?

It was decreed that since this was a boy birthday, only the boys would get to celebrate. The girls had to sit on the rug while the boys sang “Happy Birthday” to Alex. A few of the girls cried as they watched the boys relish in their cupcakes. Since only half the class was participating in the party, the teachers told they boys that they were allowed to take home the other cupcake.

It was ugly. It was brutal. It was heartbreaking. It also was just what the girls needed. The girls finally understood that segregation hurts everyone.

Then something extraordinary happened. Without any prompting, Alex took 5 tokens from his pencil box, walked over to his teachers, and asked to let the girls participate. The girls who had been mean to the boys. The girls who had previously asked to keep The Jim Crow Laws of Room 17 permanent. Alex got the lesson.

Separate but Equal isn’t equality. Or fair. Or just. Or what we should uphold.

With tears of joy in their eyes, the teacher accepted Alex’s tokens. The girls were allowed to their cupcake.

And the light bulb went off for everyone else.

For the rest of the afternoon, the girls took the 5-token penalty to allow the boys to sit wherever they wanted on the rug and to use the indoor drinking fountain. The boys did the same for the outdoor rules. The kids were fighting for equality but still were paying the price.

The next morning, the kids worked together to protest the law. They made signs, wrote little speeches about why these laws were not fair, and planned a march to the Principal’s office. It wasn’t quite The Million Man March, but it was equally momentous for these 5 and 6 year old children. The Twenty-Seven Kid March through the cafeteria, across the playground, and to the school office garnered a lot of attention from the rest of the school. Their principal listened to their speeches, asked some questions of his own, and let them know that he would make a decision before lunch.

In the end, the laws were reversed and everything went “back to normal” for Room 17. It was a long two days for the kids and the parents both. But I’m glad that my son’s teachers didn’t just read a book about Martin Luther King, Jr. I’m grateful that the kids learned a lesson the old fashioned way… By walking a mile in another person’s shoes.

*Name changed to protect the innocent

2012: The Year of Intention

Looking at the sad state of my underwear draw, it is safe to say that I didn't take care of myself during 2011. 2011 was The Year of Transition. Neville was promoted at work, leaving me home with the kids way more that a working parent should be home with the kids. I returned from my 6-month maternity leave to a job with a new team, new responsibilities, but the same title and pay. Darius moved from private school to public with a few hiccups along the way.

2011 wasn't a horrible year. But it wasn't The Year of Awesome. Change is often good. A lot of the changes we faced were ultimately good. But that space when you are in the middle of it? The transition part? The uncomfortable movement from your comfort zone to something different? Well, that part, frankly sucks balls. 2011 was not an easy year. It made me question our life. Do I work at the right place? Should I work at all? Do we live in the right neighborhood? Do we need to move?

Looking back, I realize that I've really neglected myself in 2011. I've neglected this blog. I've neglected my body. I've grown distant from many friends. I've spent too much time bitching about the craziness that is my life that I've had a hard time finding the things I'm grateful for in it.

So 2012 is going to be another year of change. But this time, I'm starting it on my own terms. We've got 2 family vacations planned. I'm about to embark on a wellness journey. I'm recommitting myself to my other blog. And I'm cutting back on my writing here. No more posts about how hard life is. No more posts telling you I'm taking a break. No more posts complaining about how the dishes never get done. No more half-assed product reviews as a substitution to real writing.

I'm going to be writing a weekly essay here. I can't guarantee that it is going to be the.best.thing.you've.ever.read but I can guarantee that the appropriate time and energy will go into writing it. I don't know if it will stick. Or if I'll even find the time for a weekly post. This is another year of change, after all. But I'm going to try. This isn't The Year of Me as many of my friends have posted on Facebook.

2012 is The Year of Intention. My intention is to change things for the better. Personally. Professionally. I hope you stay along for the ride.

A Month of Gratitude: Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, & Seventeen

I fell of the gratitude wagon this week. In my defense, a work project was about to go-live during the last week before Winter Break. I wanted nothing more than to throw up my hands and surrender. But that would only cause everything I was carrying to fall on the ground and break. And we already know who would be the person who had to clean it up.

I'm grateful for our nanny who never says no when I ask her to stay late. And recently, there's more late days than ever.

I'm grateful for two co-workers who never freak out when I drop an F bomb. And recently, there's been more F bombs than ever.

I'm grateful for my children who constantly remind me that God doesn't give us more than we can handle. And just when I think I'm at my breaking point, they go and do something adorably sweet that cuts through my frustration and straight into my heart.

I'm grateful for pillows and comforters and a warm place to snuggle every night. Even if it involves a pesky toddler who refuses to sleep in his own bed.

Im grateful that I can find the silver lining, for winter vacations, and lots of adult, alcohol-present holiday parties.

Sent from my iPhone

A Month of Gratitude: Thirteen

My teenage godson loves video games.  He's talked about wanting to design video games when he grows up.  Which to me sounds like an oxymoron.  I bet the best video game designers are the ones that have a serious Peter Pan complex and refuse to "grow up."  He knows that I receive video games to review on this blog; he's even helped out with reviewing games before.  But he's been dying to review something that doesn't state E for Everyone. 

Enter Assassin's Creed Revelations.

Admittedly, I know nothing about this video game franchise and it's cult-like following.  All I do know is that I'm the coolest Auntie ever and am making a name for myself amongst gamer-teens in the greater Las Vegas area.  Normally, my godson wouldn't get to play a video game from start to finish in one sitting.  But that's practically what he did for me (with his mother's blessing).  For that, my brownie points are THROUGH THE ROOF! 

Late into the night last night (and by late, I mean until 10pm), my godson and I texted back and forth about the game.  I don't understand a word of what he said, but I'm writing it all down here for 1) posterity, 2) to get him to improve his writing skills, and 3) because other gamers probably know what's talking about.

In the words of a 14 year old boy...

"I think its amazing it has great texture, awesome cinematics, and an amazing story line. I have been a fan ever since the first game.  Revelations is the 5th game of the series.

The hook is a cool new feature.  You can zipline across the cities. I like the ending the most. It just threw me off (ed: sorry, no spoiler alert here).  I hope Ubisoft continues the series and makes another game. 

My only improvement is in multi-player mode.  If the multiplayer comes along when you are about to die, you can press "B" to avoid the other person. But when you press it, you always die no matter what. They should fix that in an update."

As you can see, not many words from a 14-year old boy.  But I'm sure it's way more than he's ever written about a game to an adult.  And way more than the "It was cool" that I was expecting. 

So, thank you to Ubisoft for sponsoring this blog post and increasing my stock with my godson.

Please click here to learn more about Ubisoft. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective. All opinions are my own.

A Month of Gratitude: Twelve

Whenever I've gone on a business trip, I get romantic notions of how my family will greet me when I walk through the door.  In my head, it's wonderful.  In reality?

Neville is usually exhausted from the kids, the house is a disaster, and we're out of bread.  Or milk.  Or both. 

Last week was no exception.  Except the house was perfectly tidy when I arrived home.  For a while I thought this was the doing of my family wanting to show me how much they appreciate everything I do for them (see romantic notions above).

Turns out an appraiser came by that morning.  Neville had spent the previous night cleaning and tidying up for an appraisal.  For a moment, I was miffed (see reality above).  But then I realized...

Who cares why the house is clean.  The house is clean.  And I didn't have to clean it. 

Now, how I can get the housed appraised, say, every Monday and Thursday?