Who's The Boss?

We're the Valedictorians of Energy

My husband drives me insane sometimes with his green-minded antics.  He turns down the water heater every night.  At the first signs of Spring, he turns off the furnace and starts telling us to wear a sweater if we are cold.  Our new house as air conditioning - something Neville has already warned we will never get to use.  We line-dry all clothes during the summer and on any sunny days in the winter.  He unplugs all small appliances when not in use and yells at us all if we leave a light on.  If I walk away from my desk for more than 10 minutes without putting my laptop on sleep, I will get a stern lecture from Neville.

In other words, I think he's crazy. 

But I've invested nearly 13 years with the man and put up with way crazier antics (like answering the door in his underwear) that I roll with it.  Of the eye-roll variety, if you know what I mean.

This week, I attended a luncheon with PG&E and Opower to talk about energy and the technological tools they've implemented for their customers to make saving energy all that much easier. 

I'm really I'm all about easy. As a full-time working mama, I do not have the time or patience for things that are not easy.  I'm too busy having a power struggle with my two year old over wearing pants.

Lucky for me (and you!), Opower has teamed up with PG&E to make reducing your carbon footprint as easy as pie.  Well, as easy as eating pie.  It tried to make a pie once and that was not easy.

Grab your last bill and create a profile on  pge.com/myenergy.  If you are competitive like me, you'll either love or hate the My Usage tab.  It shows you how your family's energy usage stacks up against other homes like yours. 

This is where I decided our family is the Valedictorian of Energy Efficiency.  I guess I have to thank Neville for getting our energy usage well below the efficient homes like ours. 

Don't worry, if you aren't married to the Michael Phelps of the energy world, you can get easy to implement tips on the Ways to Save tab.  All of Neville's tools of the trade are on there as well as easy things like opening your blinds in winter or closing them in summer. Or washing in cool water instead of hot.  Or turning off your computer at night. 

It's amazing how all these little changes can really add up in terms of savings... Savings that is both better for the planet but also better for your pocketbook.

Disclosure: I wrote this review while participating in a campaign by Mom Central Consulting on behalf of PG&E and Opower. I attended an informational luncheon and received a promotional item to thank me for my participation.

 

Falling down

This afternoon, after returning from a trip to San Francisco, I took Cooper on a walk around the neighborhood. I told Coop he could bring "Wee-Wee" (aka Woody from Toy Story) along for the ride.

Instead he chose my car keys and his Grandma's AARP card.

Which pretty much sums up life with a two year old.

Why bring your beloved doll when you can stress your mom out by dropping her car keys every ten feet?!?

Boy or Girl

Later this week, we'll find out if Thing 3 is a boy or a girl.

Neville is hoping to make it three for three with another boy.

Darius has decided he wants to experience the joy of having a little sister.

Cooper is happy to give raspberries on my growing belly and has no clue that in four months he'll become the dreaded middle child.

As for me, I just want a healthy baby.  And if it isn't too much trouble, I'd like a baby who could actually sleep through the night.

I think most of our friends and family are hoping for pink. Many ask if I feel any different with this baby than my boys.  But I find that moot.  My pregnancies with each of my boys was radically different.

While this time, I haven't had a single craving for nachos or sliced apples, I have craved cheeseburgers and onion rings, Pinkberry frozen yogurt, and spicy food. 

I sometimes wish we could be those people who could wait the whole 9 months to hear "It's a Boy!" or "It's a Girl!" in the delivery room.  But we just aren't those people.

So instead, I'm looking forward to Thursday, when I'll finally found out if the 10 boxes of boy clothes I have stored in the garage can be tossed or used once more.

Co-sleeping isn't for the weak

I've been co-sleeping with Cooper since the day we brought him home from the hospital. We tried and failed and tried again and failed and tried some more and failed to sleep train Cooper. To get him out of our bed and into his own crib.

But, honestly, if you had the choice between a king size bed or a tiny crib, I'm sure you be just as stubborn as Cooper about it.

For the most part, sleeping with Cooper isn't horrible. Unless he can't find pacifier. Or he wants to sleep *under* the pillows.

Or he decides that his best sleeping position is with those tiny toes dug deep under my rib cage.

I know he'll eventually grow out of this phase. But I also know that I will never reminisce these days when they're gone.

There's no waxing poetic about having your kidneys kicked in the dead of night.

Catching Air

Cooper has been my tough child. First there was newborn jaundice. Then infant reflux. Then a series of ear infections that brought us a half dozen visits to the ER. Then, just when I thought things were going to be normal for Cooper, he wasn't speaking. And a whole new fight began to get him the speech services he needed.

Miss Cheryl, our wonderful speech therapist, has been working with Cooper for nearly two months. Cooper loves her, looks forward to his weekly therapy, and "talks" about it for days after.

And I've seen a change in him. He's happier than he's ever been. He's communicating, trying out new words, and imitating sounds. Sure, he has tantrums like every two year old... But he's a different kid. A totally different kid.

Today we went to a birthday party. Cooper interacted with the other kids. He shared toys. He waited his turn. And when things got too chaotic, as they often to at a party with a dozen three year olds, Coop found a quiet place to find his center. I was floored by my child.

At the end, when all the kids had long left for an afternoon nap, Cooper entered the bouncy house. There he played with his cousin, laughing and giggling, and catching air.

May he always find a soft place to land. The sky is the limit for my boy.

While things change, they always stay the same

I attended an online workshop this week for women in the corporate world.  Most of the seminar was cliche (find your courage, blah blah blah), but this one point stuck out.  The trainer quoted this from the Atlantic Journal, written in 1833:

"The world is too big for us.  Too much is going on, too many crimes, too much violence and excitement.  Try as you will, you get behind in the race in spite of yourself.  It is an incessant strain to keep pace and still you lose ground.  Science empties its discoveries on you so fast you stagger beneath them in hopeless bewilderment.  The political world is new changing so fast that you're out of breath trying to keep pace with who's in and who's out.  Everything is high pressure.  Human nature can't endure much more."

The more things change, the more the stay the same.

Interesting to see that this idea of balance hasn't existed for over 175 years.  Time to let go of the concept of work-life balance, don't you think?

Let's debunk the b-word.  This isn't about balancing on a tight rope.  This is about making priorities, living amongst those priorities, and recognizing when the priorities have to change. 

As Maria Shriver says, you only get one wild and crazy life.  To put YOUR wild and precious life at the end of the line is no longer acceptable.

2012 Halloween Recap

2 costumes for Darius: 1 not at all scary for school and 1 super scary for trick or treating.

4 tantrums by Cooper about wearing a Halloween costume.

27 trick or treaters knocked on our door (a new record for our neighborhood).

14 said thank you.

1 couldn't remember if she was a cheetah, a jaguar, or a leopard.

6 candies eaten by Cooper.

1 new word: "Tink-You."

Two

The life and times of a two year old...

Mom: Let's get dressed.

Two: Nooooo

Mom: What shirt do you want to wear?

Two: Choo-choo

Mom: [gets shirt] Let's put on the Thomas the Train shirt.

Two: Noooo!

Mom: It has a choo-choo on it.

Two: Car

Mom: You want the car shirt? Okay, you can wear that shirt. [gets shirt]

Two: Nooooo!

Mom: Which shirt do you want to wear? The cars shirt or the choo-choo shirt? [holds up both shirts]

Two: No!

Mom: Do you want cars? Or do you want the train?

Two: Choo-choo!

Mom: Okay, let's get dressed!

Two: NOOOOO!

 Rinse and Repeat

Is this thing still on?

Tap... Tap... Tap... HELLO?... Testing... Testing... 123

Man, I can't believe it has been nearly six months since I wrote on my little blog.  I don't know what caused the major time away. 

Maybe it was being so fulfilled by the Listen to Your Mother event in San Francisco that left my heart full...

Maybe it was fighting for Cooper to get the speech services that he so desperately needed...

Maybe it was general burn out...

Maybe it was trying for baby three, something I didn't even know I wanted until I suddenly wanted it...

Maybe it was because blogging has moved so far away from story telling into the world of monetization that I was just tired of SEO and product reviews and corporate connections...

This year, I tried a new format of just a weekly essay.  While it was awesome to give myself a week to write a single post, it was still harder than ever to write.

I was over blogging.  I was over my blog.  I still am in a lot of ways.

The weekly format also made me feel like I couldn't share the non-sequitur stuff of my past posts.  I suddenly was no longer sharing the quirky conversations I have with my kids.  Or photos of their beautiful faces.  Or whatever comes to mind that I want to share.

I also shied away from nearly all product reviews and corporate sponsorships.  I was tired of having my voice influenced by brands. And while it has been a bruise to my ego when I'm left out of events, I also know that I purposefully took a step back from the monetization of blogging to focus on the writing of blogging.  Only to find that my general burn out had nothing to do with brands and products. 

My lack of writing was purely due to my own decision to just stop writing.

Turns out, I miss it. 

I've been thinking a lot about this lately as I regularly post on Silicon Valley Mamas where my writing is more hyper-local than personal.  I've talked with friends who gave up on blogging years ago.  I've talked with friends who are still very much active in the blogging world.  I was left feeling more confused than ever.

I didn't want to shut down Who's the Boss?.  But at the same time, I didn't want to write anymore.

When I finally thought about... really sat down and thought about it, I knew that I wasn't ready to give up blogging.  But I was tired of feeling that I had to write a certain way.  Or post about certain things.  Or somehow meet the needs of the people who read this blog...

So I've decided to take my blog back.  If I want to write about the horrors of potty training, I will.  If I want to write about a brand that I love, I will.  If I want to simply post a picture of my kids, I'm gonna. 

I'm taking it back. 

Whatever strikes my fancy... Whatever I feel like sharing... Whatever makes me happy...

I'm taking my blog back.  And it feels good.

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.