What it means to be beautiful

as published in The Orange County Register on September 14, 2013:

“I hope my teacher’s pretty.”

These are the words my first grader says as we walk up the hill on the first day of school.

I restrain my outrage by visualizing the Barbie-torching party we will be having when she gets home, as surely I can blame such shallow thinking on Mattel. No daughter of mine would slap “pretty” at the top of her wish list when considering an instructor’s merits!

Then I remember: Mrs. Heffernan. My fourth grade teacher was so pretty. Perfectly symmetrical features, bright blue eyes, she masterfully pulled off the prescribed hot pink lipstick and blonde perm of 1987. She also rocked the bib dress – you know the one, with the plunging floral fabric-backed collar accented with a bow at the waist, topped off with a pair of Sam & Libby’s flats with an equally perky bow.

Oh how I loved her.

But was that why? Because she was pretty? I do remember also loving how Mrs. Heffernan would read to us from James and the Giant Peach every day after lunch. And she’d even let us take turns massaging her shoulders while she read. So she must have been smart, too.

Over the years, I had many other teachers who I now remember as beautiful. Ms. Garrick – a rotund Rasta with a loose lip and a deep love for Toni Morrison. She was the first teacher who told me I should keep writing.

At 6’2 with blonde fuzzy hair, Mrs. Jones looked a bit like Big Bird. She had an infectious laugh and introduced me to Walt Whitman and William Shakespeare. We still exchange Christmas cards.

Pat Boothe was the teacher who mentored me the first year I taught middle school English. She was a dramaturg and a hippie and by the world’s standards not supermodel material. But two weeks after the school year ended when Pat Boothe suddenly and tragically passed away, the students who loved her enough to pay their respects overflowed out of the large church building that held her funeral and  into the streets. She was beautiful.

When we arrive at the blacktop of my daughter’s school, we see that she will have not one but two teachers this year in first grade. They are both very pretty and kind, and they greet each child with warm smiles and handshakes as they move down the line of their awaiting class. One wears a ball cap with what appears to be a wig underneath. I presume this is the reason there are two.

I marvel at the inner strength and love for children – including my own – that will pull this teacher out of bed and into the classroom during what will be one of the most challenging years of her life.

And I feel lucky that this year my daughter will learn what it means to be beautiful.

Cracking Up: Watch me, Mom!

as published at www.ocregister.com on November 28, 2012:

“Watch me, Mom!” Blake hollers as he tightrope walks along the six-foot-high wall dividing our house from the neighbors’.

Blake dreams of being a Parkour athlete, and thus commutes through his six-year-old life like a monkey, leaping from couch to chair, trampoline to slide. It’s common for my jaunt to the washer and dryer to be interrupted by a head bonk and a  “Watch me, Mom!” as an upside-down Blake dangles from the pull-up bar mounted in our laundry room.

PHOTO COURTESY MORGUEFILE.COM

Blake bellows “Watch me, Mom!” as he somersaults down the soccer field, scales a basketball goal, and sprints into gymnastics for the first time, beaming like he just won the lottery, because I’ve finally given in and signed him up for his chosen sport.

I live in fear that someday the little acrobat will leap from our second-story balcony to impress a lovely lady. But for now, most of his tricks are accompanied by a somewhat reassuring “Watch me, Mom!” directed my way.

Like all kindergarten girls, his younger sister is in princess training, and spends her afternoons mixing hues of pink with shades of purple on coloring pages. “Watch me, Mommy!” Gracie grins as she holds up her latest fairytale masterpiece.

“Watch me, Mommy!” she beckons as she twists and twirls across the kitchen floor in a pastel leotard and gauzy skirt.

“Watch me, Mommy!” she pleads... READ THE REST:

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Lessons on marriage learned on a trade show floor - Cracking Up - The Orange County Register

as published at www.ocregister.com on November 8th, 2012:

"You have to talk nice to me if you want me to sell your software," I tell my husband as we check our bags at the LAX Skycap.

"What do you mean? I always talk nice to you," Michael says.

PHOTO COURTESY MORGUEFILE.COM

"Not when it comes to techie stuff. When I tell you the remote’s not working, you look at me like I just asked you what country we live in or something and ask, 'What’d you do?'"

He assures me he’ll treat me like the boss, though I’d settle for executive assistant. Which for a week, I am. It’s just one of the many roles I occasionally show up to fill as the wife of an entrepreneur.

We’re on our way to a national healthcare convention in Orlando, Florida, where we’ll be selling Michael’s home care software at a tradeshow. I tell some of my friends this beforehand, and they ask if I’ll be wearing a tight black dress and throwing out candy to garner the attention of passers-by. “That’s not why he’s bringing me!” I retort. Or is it?

I’m always up for an adventure, especially of the travel variety. I’ve even gotten excited about road trips to Reno. But there are so many things seemingly wrong with my inclusion on this trip, I’m still second guessing whether I should yell out “I have a knife!” as we pass through security so they’ll send me back home.  READ THE REST:

Lessons on marriage learned on a trade show floor | marriage, trade, cracking - Cracking Up - The Orange County Register

Disney's 'Wreck-It Ralph' gets a high score - The Orange County Register

Family film review as published at The OC Register on November 2nd, 2012:

Disney did not have to work too hard to ensure its latest feature "Wreck-It Ralph" will attract the wee players of the Wii generation, as the pitch for an animated film set in an arcade is a no-brainer.

But the creators of what should prevail as the best animated feature of the year have exceeded expectations in producing an imaginative, laugh out loud romp for all ages with a sledgehammer of a (Pixar-esque) story. I’d even go as far as to say that "Wreck-It Ralph" is worthy to play in the same sandbox with Woody and Buzz.

PHOTO COURTESY WALT DISNEY STUDIOS

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Ralph’s vulnerable voiceover (kudos to the ever-awesome John C. Reilly) will pull you into his corner in the first three sentences of the film as he presents his plight. As the plugged-in villain of 8-bit game "Niceland," Ralph’s been engineered to wreck everything in his path so his game’s hero Fix-it Felix ("30 Rock’s" hilarious rube Jack McBrayer) can fix it all. But when the arcade powers down at night and its various game stars congregate in the power surge hub, we see that the gruffly designed Ralph (who sleeps alone in a pile of bricks) inwardly grapples with his desire to break out of his typecast box in order to win friends and respect.

On a quest to earn a medal that will presumably prove his worth, Ralph befriends Vanellope von Schweetz (a scratchy-voiced, acerbic Sarah Silverman). Dubbed "The Glitch," Vanellope is another pre-programmed underdog who lives in the underbelly of the game Sugar Rush and seeks a medal of her own. But when darker forces emerge and threaten to power down the arcade permanently, they must step outside of their own storylines to save Game Central Station. They recruit the expert combat skills of Hero’s Duty vigilante Sergeant Calhoun (Jayne Lynch), who in one of the best lines from the film, was programmed "with the most tragic backstory ever." And of course Fix-it Felix comes along, eager to wield his golden hammer and woo Sergeant Calhoun with his golden heart.

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Cracking Up: When great neighbors move

as published at www.ocregister.com on October 17th, 2012:

The windows in the house next door have gone dark. The Moody family has moved on.

They’ve been more than just neighbors for the past nine years; they’re like cousins — specifically the ones you hope show up early for Thanksgiving and stay later than everyone else because not only do they bring great pie and engage in thoughtful conversation with your actual family, but Kelly does dishes faster than anyone I know.

PHOTO COURTESY MORGUEFILE.COM

She also makes you Chicken Madeira from scratch when you have a baby. And fixes your daughter’s hair for school when you’re out of town. And rolls down her passenger side window to actively listen to your great or horrible news as she backs out and you pull in, even when you know she’s already late.

And her husband John literally runs over when your son has a 106.5 fever. And he tells you his ladder and power hose are your ladder and power hose. And he teaches you how to carve your own surfboard and plant a square-foot garden, and he encourages your husband to quit the job he hates to start his own thing because really, he’s got a great idea.

And the kids, oh the kids. Together, their four plus ours have walked home from school for eight years and thrown their backpacks on either porch, knowing we’d find them all playing in the Terabithia they built in our backyards. Together, they’ve captured wild pets and removed training wheels and played Kick the Can and broken the no-sleepover rule on the trampoline. Together, they’ve created LEGO mansions and sorted Halloween candy and traded garage sale wares and found each other at lunch when there was no one else to sit by... READ THE REST:

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Cracking Up: Playing house makes being a mom seem fun

as published at www.ocregister.com on October 3, 2012:

“When we get home, let’s play house,” my 4-year-old Gracie says to her two fellow spandex-clad BFF’s as I drive them home from gymnastics.

In unison, all three girls scream, “I get to be the mom!”

Like it’s the President or something. Sure I can reach the top shelf and go to bed whenever I want, but have they forgotten that when we get home and they go off to play house that the moms of the world get to pay the chiropractor, clean out the freezer, and brown hamburger meat?

“Wow, girls, why do you all want to be the mom?” I ask, wondering if they’d noticed the red carpet glamour of my afternoon spent labeling backpacks and breaking down forts and bathing the skunk off of the dog.

“Because she has the purse!” I look over at my real purse -- a stained and stringy-strapped Target special from two years ago that I just can’t seem to toss because it holds everything!Obviously, I’m not a bag person, but it’s not like their pink Minnie Mouse plastic holds the key to the universe either.

“And… why else?” I continue.

They look at each other, their cute little faces scrunching up in confusion.

“Because… it’s the mom,” my daughter finally says. And it’s not even Mother’s Day. I’m loving this, but have to wonder...

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Growing up on the first day of school

as published at www.ocregister.com on Sept. 12th, 2012:

The Friday before the first day of the school plays out the same way every year in my town.

A steady stream of sun-dressed moms drag their sweaty herds of offspring to our neighborhood school at 3:55 p.m. The mood around the class-posting zone is anxious, gnawing, clawing as 4 p.m. nears and The Listis solemnly walked out by a brave team who seem to vanish the second their placements hit the board.

The moms can’t wait for those neatly typed papers that signify it’s real: the utter lawlessness of summer is over and they can reclaim their lives — their workouts, their kid-free erranding. And even more importantly, The List bears the name of the one other adult in the world who will split the burden of caring, sharing and staring down that mother’s child for nine months as he grows up a bit in a little plastic chair, his secular womb.

For the kids, The List means even more. A merciful match can be the payoff for a summer spent finger crossing for the teacher who gives out candy. Or it can seemingly signal the end of childhood when all your friends are placed in one class — the other class, not yours — with the teacher you wanted but didn’t get.

And that’s how things went down for my first grader this year — my shyest, of course. We scanned down sheets of teachers we knew and kids we recognized to no avail. When we finally found Blake’s name on the list of a teacher we didn’t know too well, splattered in the middle of a long list of kids we didn’t know at all, my heart sank.

“He doesn’t know one other boy in his class!” I whisper-yelled into my cell, dragging my husband into the blacktop drama.

“How’s he taking it?” Michael asked.

“He hasn’t — he doesn’t — he’s on the jungle gym right now,” I sputtered, watching my oblivious son’s blonde curls blow in the breeze ushering in what would be the loneliest year ever...

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Cracking Up: Would you rather ...?

as published at www.ocregister.com on September 5th, 2012:

"Would you rather have a mansion or Stevie?" my son asks in yet another round of the kids' favorite car game.

Bad timing, I think as I look back to see eight eager eyes awaiting my answer. We were on our way home from Strands beach where I had spent the afternoon coveting the row of $10 million oceanfront mansions — my favorite of the seven deadly sins. I sighed at the vision of my top pick: a Cape Cod with tan shingles, an infinity pool, and panoramic, ocean views.

PHOTO COURTESY STOCK.XCHNG

To be fair, I then channeled a brief image of our dog Stevie's crooked-teethed, matted-furred, crusty face. How much could I love something that sniffed all our company's crotches, regarded the doorbell as his signal for escape, and doubled our vacation budget in pet-sitting fees? Ugh. This couldn't end well.

"I don't know, kids, what would you pick?" I deflected, already knowing.

A dog like Stevie was all they'd ever wanted. It was me who had said no for twelve years, assuring them they could own 75 dogs for all I cared once they had a roof of their own. And then I got a phone call.

About a year ago, a television producer friend reached out asking for a favor. They were looking for an "all-American family" to be in a new pilot called "The Family Dog." Under the promise the show would never air and they'd provide a stipend enough to make it worth our while, I conceded, not fully actualizing that we might END UP WITH A DOG.

But you can't haul in five furry friends from rescue shelters to play Bachelor-esque match-making games with your kids for a week and expect not to end with a four-legged addition to your Christmas card photo. D'oh...

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Cracking Up: When mom goes back to school

as published at www.ocregister.com on August 29th, 2012:

This year, we made back-to-school shopping a family affair. Which meant while my husband crammed four kids in a red Target cart and launched them down various aisles in an attempt to make and break new speed records, I spent two hours checking off lists over in school supply.

Four Fiskar scissors, 30 glue sticks, and 96 Ticonderoga pencils later, I thought I’d finally covered it all. But then I realized I’d forgotten someone: me.

PHOTO COURTESY STOCK.XCHNG

Because this year, I’m going back to school.

When I tell people this, I find that most adults and all kids look at me with a flabbergasted cringe that begs, “Why?”

So maybe I’m not the breadwinner around here. And I’ll concede that a Master’s degree in Professional Writing from USC may sound less lucrative than an MBA or Juris Doctorate. But I’ve been waiting for this day for twelve years.

I white-knuckled my way through the GRE, spent two months triple guessing my application essay, and begged, bribed, and pleaded four professional relationships to write a few nice words about me. So I deserve to buy something with three rings and a pocket for myself.

As I survey the bins of wide-ruled and college-ruled, I wonder what else does a student of writing need? They didn’t give me a list. I reach for a blue spiral notebook and as I hold it, it fades into another blue notebook from my past, one labeled as belonging to Jacob G...

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Cracking Up: Do you let your kids add a little pee to the sea

as published at www.ocregister.com on August 1st, 2012:

                                 Photos like this used to seem so innocent...

"We don't swim in your toilet, so please don't pee in our pool."

This sign was a staple of my childhood summers. Growing up in Memphis, Tennessee, where everyone survived the humidity via a backyard swimming pool, moms uselessly zip-tied signs to their wooden fences advertising to all: "Welcome to our –ool; notice there's no ‘P' in it. Let's keep it that way."

But in Memphis, no one had an ocean. After a decade ofliving in southern California, I still struggle every summer with the fact that I seem to be the only one on the Pacific coast uncomfortable with backwashing into the sea.

Some ingenious parents even invented the urban legend of the "pee indicator chemical." Even when I became a lifeguard and learned of its folklore, the vision of a red halo around my waist was a strong enough scare tactic to keep me hopping out for potty breaks. But for the most part, our friends' parents just drunkened their pools with enough chlorine for anyone to care.Regardless, I was raised believing you release your… output… in the proper place, namely inside.

This issue did not come up with my husband in our premarital courtship. Because I don't think the past fourteen years would have actually ever happened had I known before we set up shop that he truly believes a dog's saliva is better for a household than a cleaning service, and that human urine is more sterile than Windex. Obviously, he takes his potty breaks in high tide (and I wash the windows at home).

Others I know take his team...

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Cracking Up: Remembering Grandpa Mac

as published at www.ocregister.com on July 25th, 2012:

"Don't bend the cards."

I'll never hear that phrase again without thinking of my Grandpa Mac. Last week, he became my first grandparent to pass away.

Not only were we not to bend the cards while shuffling, but Grandpa's voice will live on to remind us not to "play out of turn" and to avoid unscrupulous "table talk" with our partner while playing his favorite card game: Hand and Foot.At his funeral, many of his trademark phrases were shared over the podium as his five kids took turns remembering him, and the congregation of his life chuckled knowingly as we predominately heard catchphrases sputtered from his role as officiator of thousands of family card games.

Going to Grandpa and Grandma Mac's for dinner the second Sunday of the month was a ritual for many of their 21 grandkids who circulated through their town while attending college. And just as we knew Grandma would always serve her delicious soft rolls, homemade jam, and Jello topped with whipped cream, we knew as soon as the table was cleared of dishes, a box of Rook cards would fill their void. Grandpa would then shuffle and disperse the cards with the skill of a Vegas dealer as our eyes assessed our hand's ability to win the round, and our ears perked up to his jocular pre-game banter and occasional break into song.

However, once the first card was flipped, the game was on and so better had you be...

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Cracking Up: Grandpa's heart bleeds red, white and blue

as published at www.ocregister.com on July 4th, 2012:

I inherited my mom’s love of good books, my dad’s love of roller coasters, and my grandpa’s love of the red, white, and blue.

When it comes to patriotism, Grandpa Davis is a flag-waving, parade-marching, my country ‘tis of thee Marine. And I pledge my thanks to him for teaching me what it means to be an American.

The day Autumn's grandfather was elected President of the Bodfish Chapter of the 1st Marine Division Association.

While there, we parents keep a close watch on our young kids as Grandpa’s house hides a mini-arsenal of wildly appealing weaponry. Ever a proponent of his Constitutional rights, Grandpa jumps at the chance to take his grandkids to the shooting range, and jokingly threatens to shoot us if we neglect our right to vote.

For as long as I can remember, the 4^th of July has meant a party at Grandpa Davis’ house—his delegated hosting role only natural as the one relative who served in the armed forces and once owned a firework stand. Every year, we all know to show up at Grandpa’s to eat our KFC and wave our sparklers. Upon arrival, we find his day-to-day patriotic home décor further enhanced by a whole Party City aisle of extra flags and streamers, and a sea of appropriately colored, berry-speckled cakes.

Though no longer on the battlefield, Grandpa feels it’s his mission to spread his Semper Fi spirit wherever we go. Whenever Grandpa spots a fellow Marine, he distributes one of the many refrigerator magnets he carries advertising that not only are Marines good-looking, but they’ll kick your a%$, too. Grandpa regularly gifts us with rare military coins or holiday light strands of bullet casings, and floods our email inboxes with tear-inducing stories of patriots who perform brave acts in the name of our country.

While Grandpa’s “Oorah” may sound dangerous, he’s a marshmallow inside. A few years back at a Marine auction, Grandpa Davis set his eyes on an item that he didn’t need for its intended use, but that suited his penchant for patriotic paraphernalia: a starred and striped walking cane. I’m sure he was thrilled when he outbid his opponent, bestowing the cane to his Americana collection.

But when he went to claim his prize, Grandpa was told that the woman who bid against him had real difficulty walking due to her multiple sclerosis...

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There's just something about a Marine in uniform

as published in The Sun Post News on June 22, 2012:

There's something about seeing a Marine buying toothpaste at Walmart that makes me weep inside. Every single time.

The idea that these strong and courageous heroes allocate part of their monthly stipend toward such a mundane human task makes me feel somehow unworthy, yet connected as we stand in the same aisle. As I watch them price-check the plastic tubes, I suppress my awkward desire to offer to pay for their items and instead resolve to find them in the parking lot the next time they host a car wash. It's the one car wash I get that I don't check for missed spots afterward.

Not that these men would miss them.

Even when not in uniform, you can always spot a Marine around town – their shoulders broad as a bull's, their hair fastidiously shorn to the scalp, the modest bravery in their countenance that somehow emanates even as they buy toiletries at a superstore.

When people ask why we love San Clemente, my mind instantly turns to visions of the palm trees at T-Street, the sunset down Vista Hermosa, and the Marines. And now that I have sons of my own, every time I see a man in uniform, I think of what my sons could become.

I'll never forget my oldest son's first haircut. As we entered Jerry's Barber Shop, I was already emotional at the thought of saying goodbye to my toddler's wispy blond baby hair. And then a Marine walked in.

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Camp Mom: A good fix for summer break

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 27, 2012:

Am I the only mother out there who dies inside on the last day of school? Does two months of 24/7 family togetherness make anyone else a little bit … twitchy?

Sure, there’s that whole we get to sleep in, don’t have to do homework or pack lunches “sell” to summer vacation. But not really.

Time to debunk the myths:

1. Sleeping in? Actually means staying up late... as in the kids. It’s hard to duct tape your kids into their beds at 8:45 p.m. when the sun’s still out and the neighbors are still on the slip’n slide.  After a day of full sun family entertainment, I seem to be the only one passed out drooling on the couch by 9 p.m. while the rest of them party through all two hours of "So You Think You Can Dance." So really, I’m fine getting up early again if it’s to SEND THEM TO SCHOOL.


2. Don’t have to do homework? Only the kids win on this one. You find me a mom who doesn’t spend two hours of every summer day preparing for the pop quiz of "What are we going to do today?" and the science project of "Determining the Appropriate Amount of Aloe to Combat Third Degree Sunburn." When the kids are home, believe me, mom’s still doing WORK.

3. No packed lunches? YEAH, RIGHT!!! Not only will you be packing them, you’ll be packing twice as much for all the kids’ friends who snuggle their way onto your beach blanket. And then you’ll be loading them into appropriately chilled coolers with sand drains so you can haul/roll/drag them through three acres of parking lot and down rocky terrain and past two lifeguard stands ‘til you find an open two-foot by two-foot square.

Arguably, summer is only a break for the kids. So this year, this mama came up with a survival plan for me/them called "Camp Mom." I didn’t realize I was such a joy to be around until I threw out this clever idea about a month ago, and my kids asked if they could go to summer school instead. (I checked, unfortunately they’re not qualified for the free kind.)...

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Camp Mom: A good fix for summer break - OC Moms - The Orange County Register

Cracking Up: Digging for treasure in a backpack

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 20, 2012:

I’ve spent a year’s worth of afternoons asking my kids how was their day and what did they learn at school, only to be answered with "fines" and "nothings."

Well this month, like every other parent in Orange County, my counter is being splattered with evidence of all the fine nothings they learned at school. And in digging through the notebooks, collages, and projects, I’m learning a lot about my kids.

Like what makes 32 of my third grader’s friends special. The Star of the Week program is always a classroom crowd pleaser to give each kid his moment to shine, and thus one I fully support (except at 10 p.m. the night before I realize it’s my kid’s turn and we haven’t started our photo poster). But I didn’t know that during each kid’s week, the rest of the class journals about that friend.

I love this. I love discovering that whilst my son Gavin’s sloppily printed "spetial" transformed through the year to a beautiful cursive "special," he recognized that "Nathan is special because he likes lasagna," "Kate’s special because her nickname is Kate the Great," and "Justyn’s special because his mom’s house has a dog and his dad’s house might get one." This spiral green notebook is a keeper as it holds within it budding friendships, potential wedding video ammo, and at its core the building blocks of community and respect...

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Cracking Up: So what if we're not breeding Olympians?

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 13, 2012:

                                                    Let's hear it for the participation trophy!

The track meet was going like any other sporting event to which my kids don a jersey. Sure, I love to watch them play. I even try to smile as I holler "Wake up!" "Stand up!" and "You’re running the wrong way!"

It’s quite painful, really, and it’s all my fault.

So after watching my daughter not place in first, second, third, fourth, or even fifth in a foot race at the track meet, I was a bit surprised when she leapt up the bleachers with a huge grin.You see, my kids inherited the B-team, third string gene from me. They prefer the stage and any type of screen to all sports. But in a perpetual effort to athleticize them and "find their thing," we actually spend most sports seasons playing the game of bribery: "You have to play the whole game if you want a snack!" and "Those who quit mid-season do not get to sing karaoke at the team party!"

"Did you see me? I broke a school record!" she exclaimed.

"For what?" I asked, wondering how one sells a baton drop to the hall of fame.

"For the world’s shortest long jump ever! One inch! I tripped when I hit the sand," she announced proudly. I couldn’t help but echo her giddy laugh. At least she’s finding the joy in her bragging rights.

And so did I. My athletic claim to fame is that as a child, I played on the same soccer team as women’s Olympic gold-winning forward Cindy Parlow. That’s right, we rubbed shoulders as we stuck oranges in our teeth at half time in the third grade. But that was the closest I ever got to her, as she played forward and was so amazing even back then that the ball NEVER once came on our side of the field.

Too bad because I’m sure I would have offered some mad skills on defense, where I was strategically positioned to sunbathe the entire season. There, I also started a side business making dandelion bracelets to hoc post-game with the other three directionally-challenged green jerseys...

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Tweeting for the Pulitzer

as published at www.humorwriters.org on June 12, 2012:

Despite the ever-progressive state of the technological age, it seems if we want to achieve real success as writers, we actually must regress back to behaviors we learned in, like, high school.

In the olden days, writers wrote. They moved to the forest to cabins with no electricity and hunted or trapped their own dinner or better yet never ate at all because they were too busy chain-smoking and ignoring everyone they’ve ever met and WRITING. The more angst and reclusivity, the better their work.

Oh, to be Harper Lee.

Now, if I want to make it as a writer, my muse is a homecoming queen. Because everyone “likes” her.

Social media has invaded even the most lonely of professions, and just like the quill, the solitary life has been expelled from the writer’s toolkit by the landmines of the “Like Me” world...

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Tweeting for the Pulitzer

A father who tells time by the hours spent with his kids

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 7, 2012:

When it comes to gifts, my husband doesn’t ask for much. If I forcibly cajole him into providing a birthday or Father’s Day gift idea, he usually appeases me with, "You know I like to collect watches."

Funny, for a guy who is never on time.

But Michael has a special gift when it comes to the extra hours he squeezes out of his day. Daily and without fail, they belong to his children. His time with them is generous, timeless, and intentional.

Time and responsibility frequently slip away when Michael takes the kids on a hike to the water tower or turns a two ingredient grocery run into a four store supermarket sweep to find the best-stocked Redbox, or falls asleep on their floor at night reading a few bonus chapters because the story’s just getting good. These are all perfectly legitimate excuses for missing appointments and meals and bedtimes in his mind.

In the long run, I suspect he’s right.

As the one who logistically spends the most time with our kids, I often feel the opposite — that I'm at my limit, that I need a rest, that I need some alone time. Recently after spending six hours in the car with our 6-year-old who speaks 6,000 words per minute, I collapsed in my husband's home office chair, ears    ringing, and moaned, "That kid sure loves to talk..."

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A father who tells time by the hours spent with his kids - OC Moms - The Orange County Register

Cracking Up: A vacation that never was

as published at www.ocregister.com on May 30, 2012:

The treehouse "Dwell" in Ojai; available on vrbo.com...another too good to be true option when you wait 'til the last minute...

"What are you guys up to this weekend?" the text from my friend read.


The idealism had all started Friday morning of the Memorial weekend holiday when my husband emerged from our home office after two years spent buried in his new business to announce he was ready to bug out of town. This glorious news greenlit my favorite hobby: trip planning. BUT ... 


"Ideally, planning a surprise to take the kids somewhere fun! Realistically, working in pajamas," I replied, wondering if my favorite flannels had yet made it through the dry cycle. 


"Before I spend four hours planning the perfect getaway, I'm going to need a commitment and a credit card from you," I said, safeguarding my efforts from the reason and logic he loves to hurl at my "great ideas." 


He handed over the plastic and I was off. But a quick search on every Lastminutedealsforloserswhowaitwaytoolong.com site revealed … nada. Besides an $8,000 a night suite in the central coast, every "family resort" adventure in the western hemisphere had been booked solid for months. Overachievers. 


So I branched out to a land of Plan B trips, finding this route included many options my kids might find "memorial..."

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Cracking Up: A vacation that never was - OC Moms - The Orange County Register

Cracking Up: Baby fat I adore

as published at www.ocregister.com on May 23, 2012:

There are some things sisters just shouldn't share: toothbrushes, boyfriends, mood swings … But my two daughters have found the joy in sharing the one thing sisters should: clothes! The problem is, one sister's 4, and the other 11.


"Mom, why is Gracie wearing my shirt?" our oldest Alex asked on St. Patrick's Day, when little Gracie came down dressed for preschool in a sparkly green top.


"You put that shirt in your 'too small' pile," I said.


"Yeah, but I wore it in fifth grade! What size is she?"


And a double check revealed that indeed, my 4-year-old should most appropriately be shopping at Forever 21.


Meet Gracie: the baby of our family, and our Amazon woman. The sensitive would term her "long torsoed." Her brothers prefer the nicknames "Juicy," "Jelly" and "Bacon." They're still in time-out for that one. But our little marshmallow is the mascot of our family.


Gracie is hands-down the most loving child you'll ever meet. She's all about jumping on your neck and giving you a squeeze. But somewhere in that long torso, she's packing lead. Unsuspecting relatives frequently emit a guttural "Ughhhhh" when she leaps into their lap. But no one gives better hugs, so she's worth the deadlegs...

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Cracking Up: Baby fat I adore - OC Moms - The Orange County Register