Tales From the Carpool

Diabetes is the New Black

2013-08-08T16:36:00.000-07:00

Of all of the people who can tell you what they've been up to, it's a blogger. And, logically, their blog is a tidy source for all of their recent endeavors, achievements and projects.

Unless, possibly, if you also happen to work in social media. Since taking on the massively fun task of curating and creating the content for a major brand's social channels, my own channel has gone...silent. And so I have very little to show for myself. And yet, the journey has not slowed.

And so, here I am, nearing mid-August, doing all the things all of my friends are doing, with a slight twist.

Like my friends and neighbors, I'm making lists. Things to buy: new backpacks, school supplies, new socks, James needs new shoes. Things to do: Katie has senior pictures on Tuesday, marching band camp begins the following Tuesday, the new parent meeting is around the corner. Things to plan: driving schedules, in-laws visiting, home game schedules.

Oh. And things for William. "Things for William" is a very different list. Things for William involve:
- Insulin
- Needles
- Alcohol swabs
- Blood glucose meters
- Testing strips
- Smarties
- 6 oz juice boxes
- Food logs
- "Free" foods
- Traveling food scale
- Glucagon pen
- Medical paperwork

William was diagnosed with Type 1 Juvenile Diabetes on March 17, 2013. It's not in my blog, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I can tell you about the 12+ hours we spent getting him checked in to CHOC through St. Joseph's ER. Not that he was critical; he wasn't. Just because they weren't going to allow a walk-in admit. So we spent 12 hours waiting in the ER with folks who had the flu, upper respiratory infections, injuries, things that needed faster attention than a kid with 350+ blood sugar. While I have nothing but the kindest words for the doctors and nurses we met that weekend at CHOC, I have to say the admit process was abyssmal. But that was a long time ago. That was before we cleared a shelf in the pantry for all of William's diabetes supplies. That was before I found myself measuring baggies of gold fish and pretzels for easy-to-count snacks. OH, that was before I ever counted a carb.

And this is now. Because within a 12-hour admit process our lives changed forever. William's the most, obviously, but all of us. Because now William's life involves testing his blood at least 3 times a day. Shots of fast-acting glucose before every meal. A shot of slow-acting glucose every evening before bed. And, as we are learning, a few highs and quite a few lows. Low blood sugar. Low energy. Just feeling low.

Not only is William adjusting to a new chronic condition, he's also starting middle school. It's going to be stressful. And we've already seen what stress does to his blood sugar. It sends it low. I'm lucky. I mostly work from home. Which means I'm less than three miles away from the school at any given moment. I can run over with missing supplies. I can go hold a hand as needed. But I can't make this whole experience go away. Which, of all of the things William wishes for, is just that: Can you please make diabetes go away.

We've spent the past five months trying to adjust. We've tried to answer the "Why did I get diabetes?" question (his brother and sister were both tested and do not have markers for the condition). We can't. We've tried to answer the "What will happen to me?" We don't know, but we remain positive. We hope that doctors find a cure in William's lifetime. We tell William he's going to live a normal life, albeit one that involves needles and glucose. That he'll have his own family one day and everything will be great. The only difference will be that his family will always have a drawer filled with diabetic supplies.

As we enter the new school year, I make our lists. Mine are different than many parents', but my hopes are the same: that it's a good school year, that the year is filled with friends and laughter, and just for William, hopefully not too many lows. Of any kind. As I fill out the lists and lay out the clothes, ours are just the same as yours--only a little different. Diabetes has become a new "basic," our new normal.

I'm sure that the adventure has just begun.

Even His Computer Needs a Garmin

2011-11-16T21:47:00.000-08:00

We've all heard--or shared--our "my husband won't ask for directions" stories, so I won't bore you with mine (well, unless you want to hear about the time we decided to take a "shortcut" to the Los Angeles Coliseum only to find ourselves driving past the aftermath of a drive-by shooting, but I digress...). This little update is about how 'not asking for directions' extends to 'not calling tech support,' or also known as "how my husband (didn't) spend seven hours fixing the wireless because he was going to figure it out on his own."

Last night, while I feverishly attempted to catch up on work, my ISP (that's Internet Service Provider to those who haven't had to deal with such issues) went down. As in: flatlined. No Internet access means one thing: more sleep!! So this morning, when I awoke actually refreshed, I was hopeful and excited to get back online and continue on the hamster wheel that has become my life. No such luck. Somehow, between the modem and the router, our Internet access was messed up. As in: take your business elsewhere, because you are now living in a dead spot.

With no time to do more than the perfunctory modem reset boogie (which didn't work) I grabbed the remaining kids, dropped them at school and headed to the mecca for all who do not pay for Internet access (ie. anyone under 28): Starbucks. Five hours later, I'll share three things you probably don't know about Starbucks: 1. Their machines are really loud; 2. They blast the A/C (probably so that you'll buy more hot beverages if you stay there for any extended period), and 3. They have totally pissed me off by putting their holiday music favorites on a loop a week prior to Thanksgiving.

Having left Starbucks over-caffeinated, frozen solid and smelling of burnt coffee beans, I picked up all kids, routed them to their next destination and set up shop at my second Starbucks. Sort of a lather, rinse, repeat, only with coffee beans, whipped cream and holiday music.

Upon returning home after 7+ hours at various wi-fi hotspots, I anticipated two things: warm pajamas and Internet access. I got neither. Seems the "better" half (debatable) decided to try to resolve the jacked up wireless on his own. And, seven hours later, still had a great big F+ in the "solved" column.

If only men were women. Within one minute, I had all three computers lined up in the office. Within five, I had tech support on the line. Within 15 I had my issue escalated. Yes, it did take a senior technician and myself more than an hour to sleuth the problem. But you know what? It's solved. And I'm in my pajamas. And I'm online. And I even had time to wash the burnt coffee bean smell out of my hair.

Bottom line: Asking for directions or assistance can save you six hours of shivering in a cold retail establishment listening to contrived versions of holiday classics while downing over-priced cups of java. C'mon guys: ask for directions, help or tech support!!!

**Note: I have one last thing to add: Starbucks' Skinny Peppermint Mocha is about the best thing to happen to a cup since the lid.

Smiley Face for the Win

2011-08-16T12:31:00.000-07:00

The teenager was giving me a bit of lip this morning. Stressed and on deadline (these two go together like peanut butter and jelly, btw) and hopeful to get a bit of sympathy, I handed her a print-out of my latest from-the-client request. I followed up with "Integrate these insights with my original data and provide me with a comprehensive doc, maintaining everyone's original comments and have it to me by 5:00."
To which the teenager offered "I have absolutely no idea what you want, but instead, how about I draw you a big smiley face. Everyone loves smiley faces."

Perfect.

I'm sure everyone will appreciate that much more.

It's my lawn, not your dog's.

2011-08-09T12:16:00.000-07:00

The dog was in the process of defecating. On my lawn. And it's not my dog.

We've all had moments when our dogs have had to "go." And we've all cleaned it up and moved on. Quickly. But not this time. And not this family.

"Hi!" my husband says, as cheerily as possible, given that he's just pulled up into our driveway and wasn't expecting a family of four, with a defecating dog, on my lawn. "Could you not have your dog on my lawn?"

Note that he did not use the words "GET THE HELL OFF MY LAWN" or "YOU'LL BE CLEANING THAT UP!!" he just politely asked for them to remove their fur friend from my grass.

The mother (I'm guessing) turns and says, in an exasperated and incredulous tone, "He's a male dog."

I'm not following. Is there a rule that all male dogs get carte blanche on your neighbor's lawn? And what is this "get out of pee free" law called? "If you're a bitch, the world is not your urinal"?*

"I'm sorry?" I stutter. "Male dogs don't MARK,"** the unpleasant owner of the, er, bitch continued.

As if this makes it okay for some strange dog to urinate or defecate on my lawn. Because it won't leave a mark? I was still shocked that, instead of saying "oh, sorry" I was getting an "in-your-face" what-for from an arrogant woman, her two smirking daughters and her bemused significant other.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd move along," I say. "This is what the greenbelt areas are for." (I'm just trying to be helpful).

"What are YOU," she replies. "My TEACHER?"***

Her significant other, looks up, surveys my lawn, and adds "Well, and if you cut your grass..."

So now my gardening skills are taken to task? Long grass**** is the neighborhood morse code for "Take fantastic doggie craps over here--no need to pick up!!!"

That's news.

Here's more news: Do it again and I will use your doggie's doo doo to write "I don't pick up after my dog" on your front door.

I'm sure that it's the correct and proper thing to do.

Lesson over.

* Forget "My Life in Really Small Words," this is now the title for my currently unpenned, but sure-to-be-classic new tome.

** Note, had she allowed me to get a word in edgewise, I would have taken her on a tour of our backyard, where our MALE dog has complete and total domain, which has caused it to become a bespotted wasteland of urinary death circles.

*** Personal note: If I were your "teacher" I'd reinstate the "run around the gym until your guts explode" and the "hold-the-bowling-pins-out-to-your-sides-until-your-arms-want-to-fall-off" punishments for mouthy students, just like my elementary school gym teacher used to do.

**** Special thank-you to the lovely young man at Lowe's who pointed me in the direction of a lawn elixir that did, indeed, make my lawn exceptionally green and lush--so lush, in fact, that it requires two-a-week mows, the side effect of which is that it attracts nasty bitches (apologies to the pomeranian) who feel the need to pollute its gorgeous greenness with urinary death circles.

The Art of Saving School "Art"

2011-06-18T15:23:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year again. The one every kid loves and most moms dread. The "cleaning of the classroom" aka last days of school. Most days for the past week my son has brought home a backpack filled with paperwork, art and "treasures."

Today, while he is outside playing (note: this is my ticket to success--if you involve the child NOTHING gets tossed), I am quietly organizing this mound of "stuff" into three organized piles: toss, review and save. Over the years (and over the kids) I've gotten increasingly picky about what I keep. With my first, I kept everything she made, from macaroni necklaces to fingerpainted portraits. When I quickly ran out of storage options, I began to cull through her masterpieces to keep my favorites.

Now, as I wade through my son's fourth grade year, I am wondering: Keep the Mission Report AND the Santa Barbara report, or just the painted tile. Hang on to the Year Planner or not? And where do I store all of these "treasures"?

But most of all, I remain amazed by how much paper still comes home. It would definitely make my life easier--and save more than a few trees--if most of this daily coursework was conducted electronically. Looking at the mound of materials on my kitchen table, I can't help to dream of the day I could store it all on a thumb drive.

Until then, it's off to Target for another bin.

What do you do to solve the "artwork" dilemma?

Moving Forward, Not On

2011-06-11T20:46:00.000-07:00

For more than 12 years, the most visible area of my closet has been dedicated to one task: the storage of uncompleted Creative Memories albums, along with acid-free paper, a variety of exotic paper cutters, acid-free pens and pencils in a rainbow of shades, acid-free stickers corresponding to just about any occasion, and a host of other scrapbooking accessories.

For over a decade, they have been my shelves of guilt.

Daily, as I selected from dwindling array of shoes (chasing kids will decimate the finest of shoe collections), I was reminded of my parental neglect as it pertained to all things photographic. As I selected a work outfit (home-bound outfits are always workout clothes, easy and not in the closet), when I looked up, I would see perfectly stacked plastic bins, each containing each child's photographs, awards and artwork--the very items that were supposed to be encased in those lovely Creative Memories albums stored with my shoes.

I started with the right intentions. With the birth of my firstborn, I set out not only to be the perfect parent, but also the ultimate historian, cataloguing her perfect upbringing. I invested in tools that would transform acid-free, survive-for-decades-or-at-least-the-lifespan-of-said-child paper into perfect concentric circles, that, when perfectly assembled, would look like a pistachio-spumoni-vanilla layered ice cream cone, complemented with circular-cut photos of my child's smiling face affixed upon each scoop.

I purchased acid-free albums into which I carefully documented everything from each of my ultrasound appointments (side note: as the years progress, they look more like ink blot tests than fetuses to me), to all of her firsts, seconds, thirds, and so-on. As parents of multiple children can attest, my first-born has the lion's share of albums. I believe, on current count, she is the proud owner of at least 10, including one devoted entirely to her Kindergarten year and one devoted to teaching her her ABC's solely through pictures of her family and her pets.

My second-born currently owns five albums, including his personalized ABC album, but no Kindergarten-devoted tome.

My third has none. No, wait. In a weekend of extreme guilt and desperation, I recall that I whipped up the ABC album.

Since then, I have diligently compiled all photographic evidence into lovely stackable plastic containers (Thanks, Target, for your co-dependent support!) and have purchased, on random vulnerable occasions (like trips to the Orange County Fair, where I've seen an entire booth devoted to Creative Memories) materials to keep my guilt trip on track.

That is, until yesterday. I am not sure if it was an epiphany, a deep need to Spring clean, or a sudden and comprehensive revulsion of Creative Memories hoarding. Twelve years of materials were moved to my dining room table, along with every photo container. My goal: Everything in the bins goes into an album. Anything left over goes to eBay (the materials, not the photos). It could take me five weeks or five months, but I see a financial upside in my future.

What am I going to do with all of that newly opened up space? Return it to its original designation: a home for my shoes. And in my most Carrie Bradshaw of moments, I carefully dusted the shelves and lovingly placed my tallest, most impossibly non-mom shoes (five-inches of peep-toe, sling-back creme perfection) to get things started.

At that moment, I admired how far I have traveled, both as a parent and as a person. My kids and I have walked together for 15+ years. Now, they're traveling their down uniquely singular paths, and they no longer need me to hold their hands. My days carrying baby wipes and Goldfish crackers in my purse are long gone. My days of having time for new adventures lie ahead.

Now, when I walk into my closet, I don't feel guilty about what I didn't accomplish; I feel elated about the days to come. From volunteering for my daughter's marching band, to spending time at my son's daycamp, to attending events that have nothing at all to do with any of my children, I will be both well-heeled and happy.

Eventually those albums in my dining room will be filled with memories. But, starting today, my closet will be filled with the opportunity to make many more.

Guacamole on the side, please

2011-06-01T21:44:00.000-07:00

I quit waiting for my "Mother of the Year" certificate to arrive long ago. It only took a few months for me to shift from "I am going to be the best mother who ever lived" to "I am going to be the best mother I can be" after the birth of my daughter. I'd say that, to be honest, I've since downsized to "I will try to be the best mother I can at this particular hour" on many a day.

And I don't always succeed.

Like tonight. As usual, all hell broke loose sometime between after-school pick-up and dinner. You know those calm, lovely family dinners you've seen portrayed on TV? You won't find one of those at my house. It's usually an all-out food fight, complete with a battle as to who gets the most mashed potatoes and a stern reinforcement from me as to why it's important to use napkins, even if they're paper.

So it should come as absolutely no surprise that the phone should ring in the midst of the chaos. And that my kids should choose to answer. Caller I.D. is a lovely thing: it enables us to ignore people we don't want to speak to, and identifies who we DO want to talk with. And when "Private Caller" comes up, we all know who that is: GRANDMA. Only this time, "Private Caller" wasn't grandma. And the person on the other end of the phone had NO sense of humor.

"Tomas's Taco Stand," yells my son. "How many tacos you want????" No answer. "'ELLLOOOOOOOO.....HOW MANY TACOS YOU WANT??? WE HAVE GOOD TACOS TONIGHT!!!!" exclaims my son, with added emphasis on "good tacos". No answer. "YOU NO WANT MY TACOS???????" My son, clearly positive Grandma is giving as good as she gets, is not going to take stoic for an answer.

Frustrated, he hands the phone to me. "Hello?" I say, cautiously, positive I'm not going to enjoy the next few moments.

"Hello, Mrs. Wildrick."

Yep. Not my mom. And not someone with a sense of humor. I'll leave it there.

'Cause I know any of my friends would have jumped on that and requested two fish tacos, guac on the side.

And, no, I won't expect the doorbell to ring with my special "Mother of the Year" award. But be warned: you call my house, you're likely to get a side of tacos.

Enjoy the Ride

2011-05-30T19:22:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I haven't posted since Halloween. It's no surprise, really, given the rollercoaster of a year I've experienced. Perhaps your life has been in turmoil, as well. If so, I am sorry to hear it, but know that I am walking shoulder-to-shoulder with you.

In the span of that time, I have contributed to some of the most exciting--and visible--marketing campaigns of my career; I have watched my children achieve amazing new levels both academically and artistically; I have watched my friends take on serious crisis, and do well. All while hitting new lows in my personal life that I had hoped I would never experience, but did. Whoever said you can't have it all wasn't kidding.

But I walked through that fire and I've come out the other side. Wish I hadn't have had to make the trip, but that option wasn't offered. I have emerged a bit tired, but definitely stronger.

And, despite the heartache, there's been a lot of humor. Those posts coming shortly.

Save the "boo's" for Halloween

2010-12-12T15:52:00.000-08:00

It should have been a great evening. My daughter was performing at Anaheim Stadium with the Mission Viejo Marching Band. It has been an amazing year, and our family could not be more proud of her.

I wish I could say the same about some of the Mission Viejo football fans that were in attendance. You see, it was an important game for Mission. They were playing Servite, a formidable team, and there was a good chance Mission would not be advancing on. Most of us were there to watch a good game, be proud of all of our children, and enjoy the evening. Then there were the others.

As the teams took the field, I heard more than cheering. I heard booing. From Mission fans. Directed at Servite's team. Not directed at a bad play, or a lousy call; neither team had taken its first snap. Nope. This was just bad sportsmanship at its worst. Especially loud was a man wearing a "Madden's Posse" tee-shirt, yelling "boo" through his wadded up program. Nice way to represent, Mr. Grown Up. The rest of the "posse" followed suit. Tre Madden, btw, is a player for Mission Viejo, so his "posse" was either parents, cousins, uncles or fans. It's okay to be wild about your kid, but to boo someone else's? Not so good.

The boo's came from other parts of the stadium, as well. It made me wonder: What is this teaching our children? In a world filled with people who continue to step it up with the most entitled, self-absorbed antics, this isn't helping. I've seen it all: parents who park in teachers' parking spaces, and then get belligerent when caught; every kind of road rage imaginable (well, I do live in Southern California); parents screaming at other kids on a team for underperformance; parents yelling at coaches; coaches yelling at parents; even a shoving match at Target. To say it's getting out of hand is an understatement.

But last night was the last straw for me. Collectively, Mission Viejo fans looked obnoxious, thanks to the "booers." And, as for Madden's Posse? Well, Madden is supposedly going to USC, so I guess I'm glad I quit going to those games.

Here it is: Nothing says you're a loser like booing at the opposing team. Sure, we've all seen bad plays. We've seen bad calls. We can be disappointed. But let's keep it civil, folks, especially at a high school game.

By the way, Servite won. Guess who left early. Yeah. The booer. Why am I not surprised?

Now...In "Dungeon Blue"

2010-07-27T11:17:00.000-07:00

This week I'm busy prepping for a major website launch (Aug. 3 is coming too fast), writing tons of marketing content and took on a quick press release. Which is why it makes perfect sense that I'm also going to paint my son's room.

Overscheduling is pretty much a standard at my house. My guess is that's how it rolls at yours, too. Give me 15 minutes and I can wipe down the kitchen counters, fold the laundry, clean the cat box, pet the dog, turn off the TV (why do kids leave those on in perpetuity??), put the computer to sleep and answer the door. With time left over. So it really doesn't seem outside the norm to take on a measly little project like painting on top of what looks like an 18-hour-a-day workload.

Background: son left for boy scout camp on Sunday. Practical me thought that having him out of his room for seven days gave me seven excellent opportunities to fix up his room. That's a lot of time, really, right? So I took said boy to the paint store (yeah, he REALLY liked this stop. NOT.) and we selected (better word selection: fought over) the preferred shade. I vetoed (which is why the "f" word came into play) all shades of black and midnight blue. He vetoed all shades "sky" shades. "Black? Black will look like you live in a dungeon!!" I exclaimed. "COOL!" he responded back. Finally we settled on a fairly true blue shade called, ironically, "Safe Harbor." Somewhere between "cornflower" (no way that's gay, he sniffed when I offered this interesting option) and "dover straits" (I am not a sailor, mom!) "Safe Harbor" is going on the walls whether I have to stay up all night to make it happen or not.

I remain fearful of how much Kilz it's going to take to reverse this potentially unfortunate selection, but, for the short-term anyway, Dungeon Blue is the new black.

When Did It Become Summer???

2010-06-18T16:11:00.000-07:00

A friend was asking about Mac-friendly blogging programs. Which caused me to open my blog. Which I haven't done since November 12. Shocked, I wondered, how did this happen?

Oh, yeah. I got involved in a start-up. As anyone who has gotten involved in a start-up will tell you, they take a lot of time. Most-of-your-day time. It's-all-you-do-think-about-and-talk-about time. And, if everything goes as planned, the end result is excellent and the time spent is well-spent. Did I mention you spend a lot of time in them? Which explains why, to me, it's feeling a whole lot more like maybe late March-ish than late June. For some reason, this year, Christmas break was immediately followed by Easter vacation. I thought it odd at the time, but now it makes perfect sense. Christmas break was not only immediately followed by Easter vacation, it is being one-upped by Fourth of July. Nice.

And now that I've come up for air, it's perfect timing. The kids just brought home their backpacks full of half-used glue sticks and sticky pencils; the house is begging for disinfectant, and the dog is happily ripping through anything on the floor. Yes, time may have flown, but my timing is perfect.

The family was so delighted to see me, they greeted me with a mop and a paint brush. Welcome home!!

Thanksgiving for the Non-Traditional Family

2009-11-12T09:07:00.000-08:00

"What three favorite family traditions have you passed or will pass on to your children?" It's an intriguing question that came my way via email, http://www.twittermoms.com/forum/topics/win-a-50-target-gift-card-in, this morning. Which got me thinking.

It's pretty easy to forget that Thanksgiving is only two weeks away; the malls have conveniently skipped this Fall tradition, instead festooning every lamppost and chandelier with mistletoe and ivy sometime around October 15. A quick trip into Borders the night before last found me serenaded by Bing Crosby as I searched for my daughter's latest installment of her favorite Anime series. And when I open up my hotmail account, Land's End has already launched it's "St. Nick Specials". So to say that "Thanksgiving" isn't up there on my radar is an understatement.

Until I smelled gingerbread. You read that right. Gingerbread.

I grew up in a very non-traditional home. An only child living with a broken family 2,500 miles from any relatives, we didn't have big, festive Thanksgivings. We had the three of us. My mother was not going to baste a bird for three people. Occasionally we would drive up to see my stepsister, who at the time lived a very bohemian lifestyle; we once celebrated Easter at her commune.

So when I had a family of my own, I changed things up a bit. Frankly, there was nowhere to go but up. And so I have created new family traditions, that might seem a bit odd to other families, but for me, they're as "traditional" as I can get.

First, it all begins with the Macy's Day Parade. I have watched this parade since I was four. Now, I have my children to huddle on the sofa with, waiting for each float, balloon and band. When I was younger, I was all about the floats. As I have gotten older, I am all about the bands. And the Rockettes. But the best is always the arrival of Santa—to a point that there is screeching from all corners of the house (especially if I happen to be basting the bird), "SANTA AFTER THE BREAK!!!" I've found, from my own experience, that the more old-fashioned Santa appears, the worse the economy. This year, if he comes out looking super skinny, with long flowing robes, you know we're doomed!

After the parade, it's time for my second tradition: the making of the gingerbread houses. Yeah, I KNOW, go figure. But that's what I do. Now, when the kids were little, I made ONE house and then let the kids decorate (read: slap on whatever candies they hadn't already consumed) onto the house. This vision of artistic and culinary expertise then becomes my holiday centerpiece up through New Year's. However, as the kids have gotten older, they're not as fond of a collaborative effort, and prefer to express their individual talents with their own houses. Which means I am making three (four if I'm feeling the need to decorate one). Three gingerbread houses, complete with three batches of Royal icing, takes a LOT of time. And it's a good thing I have a very long dining room table, because I now have to put a runner down the center and stagger the houses between the candlesticks. Fills up the table, but it's fun and festive. And I love asking guests to guess who's is whose. The kids LOVE that.

My final tradition is at Thanksgiving dinner itself. By that time I'm ready for a bubble bath and a nap, but that's probably par for the course for all of us. We take turns going around the table and telling everyone what we are most thankful for. In the past, the kids have usually said some toy or game or their cat. But economic conditions have changed; they've watched their father get laid off and watch his daily efforts to find a new position. They've seen their friends move away as those parents seek employment in other parts of the country. They are more aware of what we do for them, and express their appreciation. They are thankful for the time they have with us.

I've had to create my own Thanksgiving traditions, but I'm pretty confident that they'll be passed along through my children. There will be gingerbread houses and Macy's Day Parades and, most of all, there will be going around the table and remembering why we are all together as a family.

But enough reminiscing; I've got to make my list and head to Target to get stocked up for the Gingerbread House Extravaganza. Thank goodness Target has the prices to keep this tradition alive!!

Be Well. Be Happy. Find Joy.

2009-09-13T21:48:00.000-07:00

I received a call this week. It was one I was not expecting, but was always expecting. You'll know what I mean as you read this. A very dear friend of mine has breast cancer. What was going to be a simple lumpectomy has become something much more invasive. Immediately, I am concerned. Worried. Scared. Usually conversation comes easily to me. Here, I do not know what to say. What do I ask? I can already imagine what's going through her mind. 2,500 miles away, I can't bring a casserole. I can't take over her carpool duties. I can't run some laundry or clean up her kitchen.

I can worry, but really, what help is that? I can call with support. I can hope. I can reach out. But I cannot solve this. For a "fixer" that's really a problem.

As many of you know, I am an ardent supporter of healthcare reform. I am believer in the power of electronic health records. I am shocked by the disinformation spread by the Republican party (hello, death panels? Sarah Palin go home) to defeat potential reforms that would ensure that individuals who are diagnosed with serious illnesses do not go bankrupt nor are they ever classified as "pre-existing conditions."

I know my friend will receive exceptional care. Of that, I have no worries. I cannot say that for other women who are experiencing this same diagnosis right now. I cannot say the same for even myself, who, as a self-employed individual pays ridiculous premiums that continue to rise to a point that I wonder how long I can keep it going.

So my point, as I write this, I guess is this. If anyone can help me find the words I need for my friend, please share. And if any of you were wondering about healthcare reform, please look into it further and do not listen to the amazing inaccuracies being spread thanks in part to large volumes of cash from insurance company lobbyists that are finding their way into the coffers of many elected officials (Democrats included). But know that whatever you decide is fine by me.

And, finally, I truly wish for health and happiness for all of us, and that we all enjoy long, productive lives filled with laughter and joy.

Be well and be happy and be joyful.

Celebrating the End of Summer

2009-09-09T16:14:00.000-07:00

As school begins anew tomorrow, I have to reflect on the past 10 (yes, I HAVE been counting) weeks. It's been a long summer. Between myself and my husband (and actually mostly my husband) we have attempted to work while also entertaining our three kids. No day camps, no special outings, no vacations. My husband's position was re-engineered (I don't care what you call it, it means the same thing) and he is job-hunting. So this was a no-frills summer break. As a result, my family learned a few things (perhaps you have encountered the same thing):

• Teenagers are moody, BUT they sleep in late. Thus, you save money on breakfast, which they miss entirely, and lunch, which they miss frequently, but they make up for it in snacks, iTunes and sleepover feasts.

• Teenagers do not require a great deal of supervision, unless there is nail polish and/or sleepovers involved.

• Teenagers do not enjoy babysitting younger siblings, and will complain vociferously if requested to do so.

• 11-year-old boys are very active. Like from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. active. They also are very very hungry. Always.

• 11-year-old boys do not stay on task for more than 45 minutes. Break that across an 18-hour day and it's no wonder my husband was surly by the time it was 5 p.m.

• 8-year-0ld little brothers do whatever their big brothers do, even if it results in them being grounded or put in timeout.

• 8-year-olds eat only slightly less than their older brothers, and even more if sugar is a main ingredient.

• Guitar Hero will keep a group of five or more boys busy for more than two hours, but there will be at least three full-blown arguments over who plays which instrument.

• Little brothers will cry unless they get to play drums.

• Otter Pops are the best invention ever. Better than Popsicles. Better than Fudgsicles. Almost as good as water balloons. Almost. And thank you, Albertsons, for always having the big box on sale.

• Water balloons are a great event. For about 15 minutes. These innocuous little latex fun bags also require a heap of dry towels and five threats about cleaning up the aftermath.

• The pool is the best place to spend a summer night. Just pack up dinner and head for the pool. Three hours go by in a flash, and it gives the house time to cool down.

• Ceiling fans. What did we ever do without them?

• Scooters. What did we ever do without those?

• Backyard overnights in the REI tent: Genius. All you need is a tent, a flashlight, snacks and a couple of little boys. Easiest overnight EVER.

• Yahtzee is a good family game. And nobody can cheat. Can't say the same about Monopoly.

• Microwave popcorn is the greatest invention of the 2oth century.

• Homemade cupcakes are more delicious than anything found in any bakery. Same with brownies.

• Watching Paul Blart Mall Cop with your kids kills brain cells, but you make up for it in laughter.

• Colored pencils + paper = I have more artwork than my walls can handle. BUT my daughter perfected her Simba in the process.

• Target is the perfect resource for...just about everything.

• It would have been great to have been able to get out and get away, but instead the kids learned that summer is long, frequently hot and often boring. They also learned that they like to draw; they can ride their bikes further than ever before; that CVS has the best selection of cheap candy; that staying up late is fun; and that their parents love them very, very much.

So, basically, they learned all the things we already knew. Because we've all done the same exact thing.

Back to school!! YAY!!!

An Inspirational Young Lady

2009-08-25T22:38:00.001-07:00

There is a young girl in my neighborhood who has been diagnosed with Stage 3 Neuroblastoma. You can follow her story here. http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/katiehawley

A brave girl who is an inspiration to all of us; I wanted to share. Let's all say a prayer and keep her in our thoughts.

It's "Back to Swine Flu" Season

2009-08-25T20:41:00.000-07:00

I don't know about you guys, but I left Swine Flu back in May somewhere. I remember I was flying to Seattle and the media was on fire about Swine Flu, but nobody in the terminal seemed to be paying attention. Armed with one painting mask (don't judge) and trial sizes of sanitizer, I was ready to tackle the air. Only thing is, nobody showed up to join me in the battle. So I went commando, as it were; no mask, no sanitizer, just my usual Diet Coke in hand. As I am posting today, it's clear I survived.

So here we are, getting the back to school gear together and hearing about the massive Swine Flu epidemic that awaits on the horizon, like a bad storm. Is it going to blow in, or is it going to dissipate, or maybe just hit hard somewhere else? Given that Congress is on vacation, this is the media's darling. I've also stayed abreast on the status of a Swine Flu vaccine. Currently in trial, it's difficult to tell if it will hit the market in time, if it will be effective, and if it has serious side effects. Today I read that there are projections that the Swine Flu will be in full swing by mid-October, well sooner than anyone could build up antibodies from a vaccine. And that it could infect up to 50% of the population.

So here's my question to you. What do you think? Is this media hype? Are you scared? What do you think of a rushed vaccine? Are you more scared of the vaccine or of the flu? And, if given the option, will you get the shot? Or take your chances?

I'm curious. Because I am pondering all of that. Here's my take, if it's worth anything: Yes, there is a significant amount of hype; yes, I am scared, I am not fond of the word "pandemic"; I don't like rushed vaccines; I am more terrified of long-term effects of the shot at this point; and at this point, I'd opt out and not do the shot. But I don't like making mistakes.

So, fellow moms, what say you. I really really want your opinion.

Shopping for Jeans Is Not in My DNA

2009-08-24T17:38:00.000-07:00

Recently, I had the impossibly rare experience of HAVING to shop for new jeans. Yes, this is documentable proof that it does happen. Your old jeans may literally fall off your butt, leaving you exposed and wanting for new denim. Fashionable denim. Hot denim. Because if your jeans are falling off your ass, your ass is now smaller. And this, trust, is something the world absolutely must know. And it must know it right now. In fact, if your local TV station had an ongoing fashion crawl, mine would have read: Lori Wildrick loses two jeans' sizes. Really. You can see it live right now at Mission Viejo Mall.

But I digress. So, armed with my wallet, a water and a rather obnoxious smile, I drove to the Depot of all things Denim: The Mall. Because, over the course of my lifetime, women have evolved from girdle-wearing Barbie dolls who wore full pantyhose, silk slips OVER a full bra, a colorful skirt/jacket combination and matching shoes/hat/purse/gloves to a uniform of jeans and flip flops and/or heels combos. We can talk about the death of fashion another day. I have to stay on topic here.

Okay, so how hard could this be? First stop: J. Crew. No, it's not logical. But I have a $50 gift card and that's like free money, so, thus, this is my first stop. Their jeans are not sized; they are numbered. Where I factor in the 24 - 29 spectrum baffles me. Luckily a salesperson steps in, sizes me up, so to speak, and hands me a 25 and a 26. And a stack of fresh denim. Oh boy. Finding two pairs that fit AND that almost screamed "hey her butt's not fat" I gave myself a good once-0ver. Can a mom in her 40's really get away with severely distressed jeans? The pair that fit best had a fine four-inch rip across the left knee and numerous "distressed" areas. In fact, they looked like my eight-year-old had worn them for half a year (had he been my size, of course). Disappointed that they fit, but convinced that I would look like one of the Desperate Moms (I'd need the bedazzled t-shirt to finish off that look), I shelved the J. Crew project and kept moving.

Next stop: White House/Black Market or whatever. You and I know it as 'the place that sells things that are either black or white'. Here, they have sizes. This I understand. And no, I do not understand what a Size 0 is. I'm not a math major, but if you are a zero (which I have continuously admonished my kids NEVER to be; a "zero" that is), that would tell me that you do not exist. So why start there? But, that's the way it is, and I'll say that zero must be the new 1. I remember that size. It was for Juniors. Anyway, nothing too exciting that made me run to the register. So I kept moving. Through the entire mall.

At then end of the mall, having now tried on a minimum of 25 pairs of denim products, I wandered, dazed, into Nordstrom. Into their fashion denim section, actually, where an impossibly tiny salesgirl (hello, Miss Size Zero!) happily flitted from rack to rack like a busy little denim hummingbird. Then she herded me into the Nordstrom fitting room, piled high with 12 pairs of perfectly presentable jeans and chirped "Mynameislindsayletmeknowifyouneedanothersize...."

Hopeful for the best, I attacked the stack. Most fit. Many looked okay. A few looked great. This is when I noticed two things: 1: The price must be based on the designs on the pockets. And 2, fashion denim is really, really pricey. For example, a very nice pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans, $155 (yeah, I'll be cool and leave off the exclamation point that went off in my head) had very embellished pockets. BUT the True Religions were extra embellished and they cost even more. However, the subdued Hudsons were slightly less. So it leads me to believe that if you are going to drop a Costco-sized chunk of change for one pair of jeans, your backside absolutely MUST look like there's a party going on back there. And the more you spend, the bigger the party. And, follow me here, but I am guessing that only the chicks with impossibly tiny butts would buy these, because, to me, a "big party" on a big butt would not have big appeal.

Frankly, I have neither an impossibly tiny rear or a party budget. So I left Lindsay and her perky size zero self to reshelve my rejects and sauntered into American Eagle Outfitters. I had avoided this particular store; it's a teenager store. I'm not a teenager. And I had low expectations, I might add, when the impossibly happy salesgirl came up to me and asked me if I needed any help. I was waiting for her to finish that off with "finding some jeans for your daughter." But she didn't. And she showed me all of her favorites, pulled sizes and again, armed with a dozen pairs of denim, I dragged myself to the fitting room. I was not the empowered, confident woman who had entered the mall hours earlier. Denim had defeated me. Boggled as to whether I should try on "the Artist" (sounds creative) or "the best boyfriend jean" or the simply titled "straight leg", I started all over again.

You know what I learned? Don't be afraid of the teenager stores. And that you can find jeans for under $40 bucks that look damned good and fit fine. And that teenagers will help you, even if you're old enough to be their mom. And that dropping two jeans sizes is fun, but the shopping sucks.

And, finally, that the best part of that day was the oatmeal raisin cookie I scarfed down on my way out of the mall. Sweet. And that will be two extra sets of squats tomorrow. Because, after going through this to buy new jeans, I am NOT going back up in size, lol.

Going on Record About Digital Health Records

2009-08-16T14:07:00.000-07:00

I cut my finger last night. Sliced, really. Well, since the sight of blood makes me queasy, I think I could say that I could have given any good slasher film a run for its money. I was showing my littlest how to use a Swiss Army knife. As my husband has so kindly pointed out, apparently I wanted to demonstrate exactly what NOT to do. Which is it flip the blade closed and have your finger in the way.

The damage was immediate and profound. Blood everywhere. Like Carrie, without the prom dress. My husband, the calm one (and, luckily someone who is not at all afraid of seeing blood or a gaping wound) comes over. "Get your hand over your head!" he barks. "Put some pressure on it!" An hour later, this thing is still giving up the fully Freddy Krueger. Not one to give up on staying home, he starts calling around for an open Urgent Care. At 10:30 p.m., none answer. Now he calls the E.R. "What's your wait like?" he inquires. "It's a typical Saturday night," responds the nurse. "So a cut finger would be low on the list?" he offers. All he gets is giggling and a quick "yes."

Knowing that my digit was not going to be repaired any time soon, Dr. Husband props me up in bed, clamps a brace I used when I slammed my finger in a door around it and says, "Get comfortable. You're sleeping with your hand over your head." I do not need to offer that I had a really sleepless night.

This morning, we surveyed the damage. At least it wasn't still splurting. Nasty, deep and angry looking, Dr. Husband doctored it up like a pro. Then I called my insurance company's 24-hour nurse line. "So when's the last time you had a Tetanus shot?" she asks. I have no idea. I've been compiling all of my family's medical information into our HealthVault account, and since the kids and my husband had a lot more stuff to enter, I was on the bottom of the list. I was the cobbler, as it were, and I had no shoes. "Well, if you can't remember, you probably need one. Get it within 24 hours, though, okay?" And then she very kindly helped me find three Urgent Cares that were in my plan. (Thank you, btw, Blue Shield).

What bummed me out is that I had already picked my Urgent Care. Apparently not in my plan, this one, across from the hospital, had convenient office hours AND, the perky phone message offered: Electronic Health Records! I could get a copy of my visit and drop it into my HealthVault account. Some day I might forget about this bloody mess, but my electronic health record would remind me. But the thought of a high deductible and higher co-pay sent me to an in-plan Urgent Care.

Nice they were, but as I arrived, finger bundled and bored eight-year-old in tow, I was not happy at the prospect of filling out SEVEN pages of paperwork. Stuff I don't need to remember and, as an Urgent Care, stuff they prob don't need to know. Like the date of my last pap smear. Uh, that has NO bearing on my finger. Or the date of my last mammogram. Or whether my mother is diabetic. Had there been an electronic health record, all of that would have been available, I might have been seen sooner and I would not have felt stupid giving absolutely incomplete and inaccurate information (I am not getting into who has asthma and who has high blood pressure and why; I just want my finger sutured).

Luckily for me, the Urgent Care was not too busy and I was out of there in an hour. A fresh shot, a bunch of Steri Strips glued in and an admonishment from the doc (via my husband) to take it easy in the gym for a few days (We wouldn't want this to pop open again. (No, we would not))and I was good to go.

While I was trying to look unconcerned as the nurse prepped my shot, I asked him how he felt about electronic health records. "I like them. This group doesn't use them, but I can see how they would help." I told him that I am a big proponent for them, and am closely following the health care reform progress. "How's it going out there?" he asked, too busy at the Urgent Care to see all of the town hall coverage. "There's a lot of fear," I offered. "That's too bad," he added, handing me some bandages.

He's right. Slicing open your finger on a weekend and knowing that you'd be in the E.R. for 7 hours is a LOT scarier. As is making important decisions about your health based on your insurance coverage, or lack thereof.

Fighting the Flu (Vaccine)

2009-07-28T23:37:00.001-07:00

Alright, straight up, I'm going to admit it: I am having a hard time with the H1N1 "vaccine". First of all, I've noted that we've gone from "Swine Flu" to "H1N1." I believe that the latter is more accurate. Or it is more sinister. Possibly both.

Now, I've been following this one closely. I've traveled during times when I expected half the airport to be wearing masks (nobody was) or, based on media air time, when we absolutely should have been in lock down (we weren't). I tried, diligently, to comprehend the concern, balanced with the numbers. Yes, 176 deaths in Mexico City is 176 more than I'd like, but that's still lower than the number of deaths for any influenza over the same timeframe. And still, I trusted. There must be more to this story, I kept telling myself. And I looked for more.

Now, there are conversations revolving in the mediasphere as well as the blogosphere that the powers that be are fast-tracking a vaccine. This concerns me. Especially when I read tonight that this same group is determining who needs it most: those under 2, pregnant women, and school-aged children. To me, this is our most fragile group. Fragile in terms of vaccine reactions.

I've never been scared of vaccines. All of my children are vaccinated. Yes, I did insist on getting the MMR vaccines broken out (and made my pediatrician crazy for it). Yes, I did insist on all dead Polio vaccine (no live virus). And yes, I was not convinced that the Varivax vaccine was a good idea, and prob would end up requiring a booster (and it did). And I figure it might have just been better for the kids to get chicken pox.

But this year I got worried. I got worried when a pediatrician I trusted strongly recommended Gardasil for my 12-year-old and I allowed the first vaccination without checking it out. (and then I consequently flipped out when I did the research later after my child was running a high fever. No additional Gardasil for us for now). And I will still worry that one. Forever.

And today I worry about the H1N1 vaccine. I don't like fast-tracked vaccines. I am still looking for numbers that bear out the urgency with which this is being forced. I am just plain worried.

As a parent, I cannot say that I will allow my children to get this vaccine. I could be foolish. But something just isn't adding up yet. And if anyone has any amount of insight, I would love to hear it. Seriously. I want to hear what you think. It's important.

It's Time to Fight for Healthcare

2009-07-24T15:06:00.000-07:00

I received an urgent email today from Kristin at MomsRising.org (if you haven't visited their site, please do so). The coming weeks for the healthcare reform fight are going to be critical.

I've been watching President Obama, and I do appreciate his dedication to the cause. I was hopeful that he would be able to get Congress interested in reform before the recess, but I was not surprised to see that a vote would not transpire. I believe that we need change, and change means we keep moving forward, not stalling out.

As I write, there are families who are going without basic medical care, skipping preventive check-ups and lifesaving tests because they don't have insurance. There are patients who are having to forego treatments because they cannot afford them. There are families that are going bankrupt because the cost of a child's cancer treatment has depleted all of their resources. What price is a child's life? Any parent would tell you the same: I'll do anything for my child, even take on financial ruin. Does it have to be that way?

This issue affects me personally. My mother has been swapped from a medication that was working great (and helping her feel awesome) after being diagnosed with hypertension, to a different medication that is making her feel exhausted. Why? Because the newer drug isn't covered by her insurance, and she does not want to pay the monthly fee for it.

My example pales in comparison to many families, possibly even yours, who are experiencing more difficult issues. But if you want healthcare reform, visit the MomsRising.org site and see what they are up to. We must get moms talking so that Congress hears our voices.

No fun puns today. Just serious business. Let's get talking.

Lessons Learned at Summer Camp

2009-07-21T12:30:00.001-07:00

My son just returned from a full week at Camp Whitsett. Camp Whitsett is six full days of everything a boy (or, more accurately, a boy scout) could want: camping under the stars, hiking, swimming in the lake, earning merit badges and eating bad food. And, without parental supervision, it has other benefits, including never brushing one's teeth, barely taking a shower, spending your daily allowance on chewy candies your mom would never allow, and perfecting the issuance of inappropriate body noises on demand. On paper, this is a boy's perfect week.

So when I sent my son off with his duffle bag, fishing rod and three pre-stamped postcards, I gave him a big hug, confident that he was going to have the best week ever. Said child, already mortified by the PDA (no hugs in public! he hisses), had quickly skampered off to the waiting minivan, already taking in the adventure.

Since this was an electronics-free event, I did not hear from him all week. In his absence, I cleaned his room, sorted his socks, changed his bed, and petted his cat, who sat stoicly on his bed for the entire week, waiting for his boy to return. The house was quiet. The other kids barely fought, and it felt as if three kids had gone to camp, not one. It was a lovely, but short vacation.

We got the call on Saturday, right after I got the one and only postcard I would receive. The postcard read simply: I got my fire chit, I got my whittle chit, I am having fun. Love James. Given that he usually signs off with his first and last name (I guess he is usually concerned that we might get confused as to which James was writing to us), I took it that he might have missed us just a tad. The caller I barely recognized. The voice indicated that it was my son, and that he would be in the Target parking lot for pick-up between 4:00 and 4:30 and that he couldn't talk more, he had to give the phone to someone else. I did not recognize the voice. Void of energy, revealing a depth of exhaustion I've never heard in my boy's tone, I figured it was a bad connection.

I also did not recognize the child that was waiting for me. This was a listless, sunburned, underweight kid who could barely pick up his backpack, much less his over-stuffed dufflebag. This was a kid who literally crawled into the backseat of my SUV, resting his head on the cool leather. Camp Whitsett did it. Camp Whitsett conquered my kid.

Now, I can't set up a tent full of bugs, release an army of raccoons, chipmunks and the occasional bear, force him to put all of his belongings in a bear bag, and make him hike between 5 and 10 miles daily. Nor can I replicate the lake swimming test, the brown food served at the mess tent (well, I might have some luck with that), or make him drink out of a mountain stream. Too bad, because the combination of all of these things totally wore out my son.

In the end, he earned three merit badges and the Beaver Award, a distinction that three of 300 campers achieved. He also mastered his lake swimming requirement, learned that it's hard to fish, discovered that chipmunks like Nutter Butters and insists that bears were in the campground.

And three days later, he is still exhausted, lying on my tile floor watching Sponge Bob and asking for another Popsicle. And I have sent my husband out to REI to buy a tent.

Becoming a mom of few words

2009-07-15T08:14:00.000-07:00

I used to try to explain in great detail the reason(s) why I was hyperventilating over any given scenario. For example, "James! You absolutely should not burn up ants with that magnifying glass and a flashlight. First, it's mean. Second, it's fire season. Third, wait, did I already mention that it's mean?"

I'm pretty confident that after the word "James!" said child had completely tuned me out and was on to his next adventure, at least mentally. That, too, was the beauty of the "time out." It gave said punished child up to five minutes not to rethink what he/she had done wrong, but to give greater thought to what he/she could do next.

So as my kids transition into teenagers, I find explaining my philosophies, thoughts, or random observations rendered useless. They use fewer words, and, so, too, must I.

This shorthand communication is quite effective, I must say. Now, "James. Laundry." at least inspires a grunt of acknowledgement and sometimes, on a banner day, a response like "Yeah, in a minute, as soon as my (interchange electronic devices) iPod, DS, Xbox game/movie/video/whatever) is over." Wow. A complete sentence. From just two words. Amazing.

Additionally, I've found that I often speak in my own language, sort of the mom version of Urban Dictionary. ParentsConnect.com recently posted an article about "momfinitions" (check it out here: http://www.parentsconnect.com/articles/mom-definitions.jhtml) which made me think about the words that I often use. I'm sure you've got your own, but here are a few of mine:

Iposuction (eye-poh-suhkshun): What happens when your tweenager wears her Ipod headphones to bed. Example: Katie, perform some Iposuction stat, it's time for bed!!

Carpoolepsy (carpoolehpsie): The result of sitting in the school's carpool line for more than 45 minutes without a good book and/or a restless pet. Example: "Hey mom, maybe we should swing through the drive thru for a Diet Coke, 'cause you look like you've got a wicked case of carpoolepsy."

Damper (damper): My hamper in the summer, filled with a random array of wet towels, bathing suits, and, occasionally, a cat. Example: "Mom, why did you put my JEANS in the bottom of the DAMPER???? Now they're all wet!!!"

Housepeeking (howspeeking): The act of checking out your friend's, neighbor's, play date's house to compare cleaning skills. (Oh, and don't say that you don't do this!!) Example: "I was at Jane's doing a little housepeeking, and it was so depressing. How can a woman with five kids have more than one room that was absolutely spotless? It's not fair."

Shug (shug): A tweenager hug. This involves the very slightest of motions—as quickly as possible. Example: "James, you're going to be at camp for a whole week, do I at least get a shug??"

Becoming a mom of few words has it's benefits. It's given me time to perfect my "you are so not going to do that again!" stare. My head tilt/hand on hip "cut it out pose" could earn me Olympic gold. And, most of all, it's given me the opportunity to tune in to what my kids say, when they do talk. And that is scary. I mean, enlightening.

And, while you're perfecting your own parenting shorthand, check out some other fun momfinitions at http://www.parentsconnect.com/articles/mom-definitions.jhtml.

Plaid Nation 2009 Tour Has Arrived!

2009-07-09T13:38:00.000-07:00

Well, the Tee, for sure.

As I mentioned in a prior post, the very very cool folks from the Plaid Nation 2009 Tour are about to get their tour rolling, pun very much intended, through some major cities East of the Rockies. I believe they load up the Ford Flex in 10 days, to be exact.

Well, much as I would love to meet them and talk social media, I'm going to have to enjoy the live feed while wearing my new T-shirt. That is, if I can wrench it away from the Tweenager, who, watching me open my bag o' schwag, squealed "ooooooooohhhh, it's orange!!! Can I have it????" And, me, happy to see her in something not black, quickly obliged.

And if you are ready to see some cool social media mavericks in action, check out their feed—and read all about them—at www.PlaidNation.com. And, if you live in the Midwest, check the tour dates and get on out there. You'll be glad you did.

Now I've got "Orange You Glad You're Plaid?" stuck in my head. Bad pun on a bad loop.

New Hair = New Woman. Well, Almost

2009-07-07T20:08:00.000-07:00

For a majority of us, (and you know who you are), we wake up, we deal with life for 16-plus hours and we go to bed, sorta. And, when we look in the mirror, we say "you know, girlfriend, you don't look half-bad considering you were up at 4:00 a.m. dealing with a nightmare, 5:30 a.m. dealing with cat puke, and 6:30 a.m. getting to the gym (you go, you dedicated girl!).

Here's the reality: It's been 12-plus weeks since a colorist saw your hair and 18 (or more) since anyone took scissors to it (not counting that embroidery scissors moment so that you could find your eyes, which does NOT count). The mirror isn't telling the whole story.

This I witnessed first-hand today. On myself. Because, after experiencing the weird and totally creepy experience called the "caught my eye in a cosmetics counter mirror and said to myself 'what in the hell is my mother doing in Macy's at 2:30 in the afternoon??? moment' " I made an appointment, stat, for some salon love.

Two hours later (yeah, it takes some of us longer than others), with newly naturally blonde hair I walked out. Happier and more confident. Clearly hair matters. And time away for a little "me" time totally does a body (and a face) good.

So, when I came home, I did expect some "Wow, mom!" moments. Or at least a "Hey, babe!" mention. Here's what I got:

1. From the Tweenager: You look great! Nice top.

2. From the eight-year-old: Where have YOU been???

3. From the 11-year-old: I scraped my knee in Timmy's pool. Where are the band-aids??

4. And from the spouse: How did your meetings go??

I am so glad that my daughter, the Tweenager, witnessed this. Because later, and in a conspiratorial tone, she asked "Dad didn't notice the hair???" "Nope," I replied. "Dork," she muttered. "I know," I added. "Looks great, though, 'bout time, too." She adds. "Thanks." I offer.

Now she knows. It's not about them. It's about you. Go do something for yourself and enjoy it. You'll feel better. Honest. Just ask my Tweenager.

Now to schedule the facelift. LOL.

I am Not a Car Painter Mom

2009-07-06T21:41:00.000-07:00

There are things you just don't learn until you have kids.

One of them is whether or not you are a car painter. And trust me, you either are, or you are not. There is no in between.

It says a lot about you, this car painting thing. If you are a car painter, your mini van or SUV is regularly adorned with multiple colored lines that tell the world that your kid is in a baseball or soccer playoff; your kid just turned 6, 7, or 13 or simply that mommy loves her new star athlete or honor roll student. Better still, these mommies have excellent handwriting and punctuate their "i"s with little hearts.

If you are not a car painter mom, nobody in the neighborhood knows what sport your kid plays, or even if your kid plays a sport; what age he or she is; or if you have excellent hand writing skills. You are the unknowns (or from my fave book Queen Bees and Wannabes, you are the "invisibles."). Now, I'm all about flying under the radar. But kids, well, I always assumed they liked the attention.

So, yesterday, after another brightly colored SUV flew past me in traffic, I looked over at my tweenager and calmly asked the Big Question (no, not THAT question, but almost as big): Are you sorry that I was never a car painter mom?

Said child actually turned down her iPod (signalling serious talk). "No, mom, thank you, it's the one thing I think you did right. I don't want my name on the car. Besides, James would find the markers and write something really gross." With that, said child turns her iPod back up and tunes me back out.

Cool. Well. At least one invisible spawned another.

But I have to admit that I wish I had cool, legible handwriting to pull it off.

Oh, and James? Yeah. He totally would have ambushed the car. And a part of me laughs and thinks, well, that is totally my family.