rolemommyconfessions

Guess Who I'm Inviting to Dinner?

2008-04-09T15:18:00.000-04:00

I don't know about you, but if you decided to become an Obama supporter, you've probably been receiving a ton of email blasts from their camp. The messages come fast and furious - some are inspirational, some tattle on Hillary Clinton's latest misdeed, others urge you to join the grassroots movement and wave an Obama sign in the next state that will be holding a primary, but my favorite one of all has been the "you can have dinner with Obama" messages.

When I first read the invitation and then saw the big honking DONATE NOW button right below it, I realized it was just a ploy to get me to fork over some bucks to the campaign so that he can keep steamrolling his way through to the nomination. What I also realized is that even if I give $25 to Senator Obama, there's no way I'm going to wind up becoming the lucky person who will get to break bread with him on the campaign trail.

And so, I've decided that if Obama is truly reading all the commentary about himself in the blogosphere, that I would invite him over to dinner at my house. But not just any dinner. I've decided to invite Senator Obama to Passover with my family. If he truly wants to know what goes on in the minds of bleeding heart liberals, several Democrats and three staunch Republicans, then I say, spend an evening with the Feldmans and get into that Pesach spirit.

If you get there early, my mom and I will give you a lesson on matzoh ball preparation - follow the directions on the box and add a little seltzer for buoyancy. And then, if you're lucky, you can take a seat next to my dad, Neil who will re-tell the story of the first Passover from our vintage Waldbaums Haggadahs that we still have since 1976. And don't worry if you can't follow along - most of our attendees are not of the Jewish faith since there were lots of intermarriages in our family. My cousin Jeff married Terri, whose Irish; my sister-in-law Sherri, is married to Ed - an ultimate conservative whose family is from Puerto Rico; my father-in-law John is another Irishman; my cousin Lee's wife Sandy is Catholic but she converted to Judaism a few years back; then there's George and Evanthia - my husband's step father who is Greek (as is his girlfriend). So Barack - if you and your family join the festivities, you'll fit right in with our Jewish melting pot.

Come sing songs with us, learn how to use your red Manischewitz wine to symbolize the plagues. And watch how my son, who is just learning to read attempts to tackle the four questions in Hebrew. We've got lots of food to offer - from gefilte fish to chopped liver, to turkey, brisket, matzoh pudding and sweet potatoes mixed with apple compote, walnuts and roasted marshmallows. And here's the kicker - I won't ask you to give us a dime to come and partake in our fabulous meal. You can breeze in like the wind just like Elijah does each year.

So if you can make it to the first seder next Saturday, I'm officially inviting you, Barack Obama, your wife Michelle and your two kids to join in on the fun. And if your children find the matzoh, they can feel free to use the $10 they receive to donate back to your campaign.

Don't feel obligated to attend, because as my Grandma Dora used to say, "If you don't come, you don't have to go home." But if you are in the area, feel free to give us a holler before sundown.

You Had Me at Katie Couric

2008-04-05T07:31:00.000-04:00

A few days ago Beth Blecherman, one of the incredible founders of Silicon Valley Moms Blog, which started out a few years back with a group of mom writers from the west coast and has expanded to Washington D.C., Chicago and New York City, called me with an incredible opportunity - the chance to go behind the scenes at the CBS Evening News and meet Katie Couric! OMG...what was I going to wear???

We all arrived early (looking great I might add) and chatted in the lobby for a while, until our incredibly young and affable guide (one of Katie's favorite digital geniuses) whisked us upstairs and gave us a tour of the studio and control room and took plenty of pictures of us with about 20 different cameras! While we were waiting in the newsroom, the woman of the hour breezed in and was ready for action. We immediately followed Katie into the studio where she recorded a few promos and a quick segment for her CBS radio show, took a picture of our group behind the news desk and when she had a little down time, she invited us into her office for a personal chat. They also shot some video of us with a Flip camera (must-have item for moms) that will wind up on Katie's YouTube page in a few days. Katie's behind the scenes videos are pretty funny - so check them out and get to know what she does when she's not delivering the news!

As we all gathered in her bright and inviting office - she's got pictures of powerful female leaders on her wall (gotta love her), Katie plopped down on the floor and started taking our questions. Right off the bat, one writer asked if Katie could call and surprise her mom and she immediately said yes and left the nicest message on her answering machine - I bet her mom will never erase that one! From there, we tackled tons of topics, from parenting, single motherhood, politics, American Idol, the power and dangers of the Internet and much much more. With every question we asked, I could sense that with Katie Couric, you get the real deal. An impassioned television journalist with the drive to accomplish anything she sets her heart out to achieve. She's got an engaging personality and an incredible sense of humor, and as she passed around a photo of her gorgeous girls, you could tell that at the heart of it, Katie Couric is a phenomenal mom who has always been there for her daughters and will continue to be a driving force in their lives (whether they want her to be or not :>) as they transition from their teenage years into adulthood.

I never thought that my journey away from CBS would one day lead me back through those doors again, but this time around, it was so nice to be on the other side as a writer who was given an amazing opportunity to meet a true Role Mommy. Major kudos to Jill Asher, Beth Blecherman and Tekla Nee, the founders of the Silicon Valley Moms Blog who invited me to become a part of the NYC Moms blog when it first launched a year ago. As I've attempted to reinvent my life and recapture my love for writing, I am so impressed to be in the company of the talented array of writers they've assembled on the site. From authors like Andi Silverman (Mama Knows Breast), Kelcey Kintner, a former television reporter and the gorgeous founder of Mama Bird Diaries, to television scribes Nancy Rabinowitz, to magazine writers like Amanda May and many, many more, at the heart of it, we're a group of mothers who are juggling our crazy schedules with our passion for writing, parenting, politics, entertainment, social commentary - you name it, it's on their site. With over 200 writers to date, Jill Asher, Beth Blecherman and Tekla Nee have managed to create a powerful community and voice for moms in five major cities (they've just added New Jersey too and one of my favorite authors Gwendolen Gross just joined that group too). At yesterday's Katie meeting, I got the chance to meet Devra from D.C., the author of Mommy Guilt and founder of Parentopia, plus Joanne, a lawyer who is best known for her incredible political commentary on Pundit Mom and Holli, who I had actually interviewed a few months back for MomLogic who by far had the best outfit and shoes in the crowd! Jill, Beth and Tekla should be incredibly proud of what they've accomplished so far. They have given a voice to intelligent, engaging and funny moms and for that, I'll be eternally grateful! So if you haven't paid a visit to their sites yet, then do it today...trust me you won't be disappointed Click Here to check out the NYC Moms blog.

My daughter's math problem

2008-04-03T16:52:00.000-04:00

Do you think I'm using my computer too much? Take a look at the word problem my daughter just wrote for her class:

My mom started working on the computer at 2:00. She ended at 4:00. How many hours did she go on the computer for?

Answer: 2 hours.

Mom MD

2008-03-29T07:47:00.000-04:00

I don't know about you, but whenever my husband or my kids get sick, I become everyone's nursemaid. This week, as the weather continues to go from cold to spring-like to cold again, everyone came down with something. My son out of nowhere spiked a raging fever - of course, after hours so we had to take him to a medical clinic to check him out and then my daughter came down with an awful cold and cough and kept taking her temperature every 10 minutes hoping her illness would warrant a doctor visit too.

Then there's my husband, who usually goes for about two weeks at a time before something starts bugging him. This week he probably has a head cold but he's thinking it's something way more serious - he always does. I know I shouldn't just dismiss it as if he's delusional, but unfortunately, my mother-in-law is a fanatic when it comes to getting sick - she's literally at the doctor's office at least once a week. In fact, I think it rivals her appointments at the beauty parlor.

And somehow, amidst all the germs, the coughing, the wheezing, the sneezing and the 102 temperature, I've managed to build up some crazy resistance to whatever they throw at me. Since I went out on my own, I have not caught a cold, which is amazing since I used to catch at least 3-4 colds per season. I guess there are perks to working out of a freezing cold basement home office. But let's get back to the patients.

This entire week I've been giving my kids cold medicine and children's motrin, bouncing into walls looking for a washcloth so I could put a cold compress on my son's head, preparing tea with honey for my daughter and finding the perfect girl scout cookie to go along with it, and telling my husband if he feels sick, then make an appointment with the doctor. You see, I am not only Florence Nightengale, I'm also a therapist.

The funny thing is that while my son was the one who was the sickest this week, he hardly complained (gotta love him), but my DH and daughter could rival each other on who felt sicker. I know I may sound harsh and I may one day regret my constant feeling that people in my house overreact to their illnesses but sometimes it would be nice to just accept a cold for what it is. A cold. And realize that if you have a headache, it's just a headache. Sure, there's always the chance it could be more serious, but my theory is simple on that subject. If you're not coughing up or pooping out blood, passing out or having chest palpitations, then you are as healthy as a horse.

And that's my free diagnosis of the day.

The Short Order Cook

2008-03-23T08:52:00.000-04:00

There is no such thing as the traditional family dinner at my home. Sure, when we go to restaurants, we all eat together and select our favorite meals - me a salad, my hubby, a burger, and the kids - one gets chicken fingers and the other prefers pasta with butter. At a restaurant, it's perfectly fine to choose different dishes, but when the tables are turned, I wind up juggling orders just like our favorite waitress at the diner.

No matter the meal, my kids constantly select different dishes and then, if I make something and it's not to their liking, they even send it back! Last night, it was pasta for my daughter and a hamburger and fries for my son. This morning, it was cocoa puffs and orange juice and my son called out to me "Mommy, I don't like orange juice, take it back!" So instead, I switched his juice for a chocolate milk at no charge.

Back when I was a kid, my mom cooked a meal and we ate it - no complaints. Cornish hens on Sunday, turkey meatloaf on Monday, chicken thrown in a few days later and baked ziti if we were really lucky. But nowadays, since I don't spend much time in the kitchen (except when I'm juggling my kids' orders), the family dinner is now served restaurant style - you pick what you want and I attempt to make it. And, if I burn it or it tastes funny, you send it back and demand a new dish.

I think it's time I take a page out of my mom's playbook - I mean today is Easter Sunday and although we're Jewish, maybe I'll hit the supermarket before it closes and cook up a tasty cornish hen. Then again, maybe we'll hit a diner that's open and I'll force everyone to order the same thing!

Hillary According to the New York Times...the Party is Over

2008-03-22T19:23:00.000-04:00

To the editors at the New York Times:

Can you please stop blatantly endorsing Barack Obama in nearly every article you publish? It's getting a bit obvious. I mean, I even voted for the guy but the effusive praise it's getting a bit tired. I do believe he definitely bounced back when he gave that eloquent speech this week that attempted to put out the flames on all the negative press swirling around his pastor who had made derogatory comments about rich white men and even endorsed a well known anti-semite, but now after all has been forgiven, I'm starting to feel really bad for Hillary Clinton.

Today's NY Times goes on and on and on about New Mexico's Governor Richardson's endorsement of Obama. The same man who spent Superbowl Sunday with Bill Clinton, who was given numerous positions in the Clinton cabinet, turned his back on his old friend, didn't return his calls and drank the Obama Kool Aid. "Yes we can!" Gulp!

Hillary, as much as I'd hate to admit it, if it were up to the NY Times, Obama is going to get that nomination. Plus, that Times article about your involvement in the peace process in Northern Ireland isn't helping your cause either. Sure as a First Lady, you probably made lots of phone calls and had tons of teas with all the leaders in Ireland but when it came time to sign any treaties, you were banished to the tea room and let the men take over to sign on the dotted line. Let's face it. You're not going to win the presidency this time around. That doesn't mean you won't be president one day - but right now, things are not looking to good for you. But if I were you, I wouldn't let the media praise of Obama and all that negativity get you down.

Take the high road like Al Gore. Produce a movie, win an Academy Award and an Emmy and realize that there are better things out there than being President. And judging from the sex scandals among all these politicians, who needs politics anyway - they're all a bunch of pompous power mongers who can't really relate to what the rest of the nation is going through anyway.

And as for Obama - I'm thoroughly impressed by your words, your intelligence and your charisma - I just hope that once you and John McCain get into the ring that it won't turn into a boxing match. You've already got the gray lady in your corner and the reliably conservative NY Post - maybe you should quit while you're ahead and just become the Governor of NY.

The Cinderella Syndrome

2008-03-21T17:54:00.000-04:00

In my new book, Peeing in Peace (yes, shameless plug), we talk about the Cinderella Syndrome - how a mom transforms into Cinderella when she leaves the house and heads into the office. But now that I've been off on my own these last six months, I've begun to realize that the Cinderella Syndrome takes on a whole new meaning when you're launching a new business and have to start all over again.

Suddenly, escaping your kids so you can put on a trendy suit is not the vision of Cinderella that's conjured up in this truly uncomfortable scenario. This time you are Cinderella, hard at work in your bunny slippers, mopping floors, sweeping up after everybody and constantly being passed over by the people who you thought were your friends when you had a swanky office, a big title next to your name and an expense account.

When you go off on your own, you quickly realize who your friends are and who has no use for you whatsoever. While many of my former contacts still take my calls and respond to my emails, I can now count on one hand the number of times many of them have come through for me.

The funny thing is, the contacts that I've made since leaving behind that big stable job have actually opened the doors to new opportunities and I've found there are people just like me in the same exact boat who have left corporate jobs and are willing to lend advice and support me as I grow my fledgling business.

Other times, I've met people who believe that my former association with a major TV network could potentially help them get ahead. I quickly realized that if I can't help myself get into the Prince's Ball, I sure as hell can't help someone else break in either.

While I've actually become pretty comfortable with my PR business, the worst part about being on my own have been the times that I've had to be my own publicist. I've officially decided - I hate pitching myself - so when I finally got a publicist to pitch our new book, I thought things would be easier. I thought my contacts would be impressed that we went from being self published to getting a real publisher behind us and would instantly put us on their shows. But I thought wrong. Now, instead of being rejected directly by one of my contacts, I'm being shot down indirectly. And hence, that's why I feel like Cinderella before the ball. I keep hoping one day my time will come, but every time I come close, someone slams the door shut and sends me back home to sweep the floors. Or worse, I wind up getting my own clients booked on things but then when it's time for me, I don't make the grade.

Rejection is one of the toughest things any business owner or aspiring artist faces when putting themselves out on a limb or out on display. And I'm determined that one day, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next month, but sometime in the not too distant future, my own fairy godmother will pop in, grab my hand, pick me up off the floor and say, hey - you belong on Oprah! But until that day arrives, I'll just be here biding my time with my mop and broom.

The Seat of My Pants

2008-03-20T18:52:00.000-04:00

I don't know why, but these last few weeks I've felt as if I've been flying by the seat of my pants at home, at work, on the phone and with friends. No matter where I turn, I have been doing things last minute and my husband is pretty much losing patience with my antics. Last weekend, when my daughter had her usual Hebrew school, gymnastics and ice skating class - all in one day, we got sidetracked by a Purim party and the rest of our day got all screwed up. We raced to get to ice skating - got there too late, missed the lesson and my daughter was thoroughly depressed that she couldn't twirl around to her new recital song - which I had failed to download onto a CD because I couldn't figure out how to work my new Macbook.

While my husband glared at me at the ice rink and demanded we invest in a dayplanner, I agreed that I have been a bit flighty these last few weeks. I'm busy juggling two businesses at once, attempting to help my daughter with her family tree school project, procrastinating writing a new book proposal and constantly getting sidetracked with new opportunities, setbacks, triumphs and sad moments in my life.

You see, while I've attempted to go for the brass ring and achieve everything I think I want to be when I grow up, some of my closest friends have confronted things I've never imagined we'd have to face before we even turned 40. Through it all, what I've come to realize is that success on the career front is nothing if you don't have your health. I won't go into specifics but all I will say is I feel fortunate knowing that when the chips are down, my high school girlfriends have rallied around to make sure our friends who are facing hard times are not alone. While my life may be harried, insane, and pretty much going way too fast, I've come to realize that nothing else really matters except for my family and lifelong friends.

Obama Problema...I'm Having Second Thoughts

2008-03-16T11:25:00.000-04:00

I've been spending the morning watching the Presidential campaign through the eyes of YouTube and the New York Times. And a funny thing happened as I clicked on video after video. I learned more about the people who inspired Barack Obama - his mother and his minister. The profile of his mother was quite inspiring - she seemed to have been a selfless individual who devoted her life to making the world a better place for her children. Obama's minister on the other hand, Rev. Jeremiah Wright, personally scares me.

First, a friend of mine told me about his radical views against what he calls "rich, white, men" who control the government. After reading an editorial in the Wall Street Journal, I even found out that Obama's minister fervently supports Louis Farrakhan and even gave him an award on behalf of his church. I also decided to check out some of his speeches for myself. Just do a search on YouTube and you'll find a selection that'll open your eyes and then some. Sadly, his speeches are eerily reminiscent to Hitler - who blamed rich Jews for all of Germany's failings. As a Jewish woman with family members who escaped Nazi Germany and who also has friends who have lost their lives to terrorist attacks, the last thing I want to see is someone closely aligned with a presidential candidate whose views are incredibly antiquated and divisive. It is not supposed to be about us and them. We are all Americans and we are all for pursuing the American Dream. Barack Obama is proof positive that it is possible to succeed despite prejudice but if he has aligned with a minister whose speeches contain loads of references to hate speak, can we trust that he doesn't secretly feel the exact same way?

On a side note, I was watching some clips from Fox News, and yes, I know that Fox is a right wing channel so I am always suspect of their reports, but they did something that was interesting. They asked a group of people to name one accomplishment made by Barack Obama and no one could come up with a single thing. They then asked the same question of a U.S. senator who supported Obama and he was completely stumped too. The only accomplishments his supporters could name were that his speeches are incredibly inspirational and he's one of the first black U.S. senators. Both have nothing to do with the accomplishments he's made to affect legislation in this country.

So, not to burst anyone's bubble - I mean I voted for the guy already so it's too late to change my mind (at least for now), I have to admit that these two glaring points about Obama are quite troubling. Has he ever been involved in high level meetings with foreign leaders or other policy makers to actually help find a solution to the crisis in the Middle East, Iraq, Afghanistan or Darfur? Has he been involved at all in drafting foreign policy or does he have any experience whatsoever that would help bail out our country from its financial woes? He sure can argue with that Ivy League law degree, but is being a master orator enough to solve the terrible mess we've gotten ourselves into with the help of the current administration?

Will Obama truly bring America together or will he favor those people whom he believes have been forgotten and turn his back on the people who have found success by pursuing the American dream? Will he look to his mentors like Rev. Jeremiah Wright - for guidance on issues involving race and equality? Will he have the experience to serve and protect our country or will he be in over his head? Incidentally, in the clip above from MSNBC, Obama recently distanced himself from Wright - saying he was ready for retirement and he is not involved the campaign moving forward. But could his involvement change if Obama wins the nomination and ultimately the election?

I completely got swept up in the hope and inspiration that Obama's offering. But will that be enough? Something tells me, it probably won't.

Hillary Threw Sand in My Eye!

2008-03-13T18:00:00.000-04:00

Is it just me, or is anyone else sick and tired of watching Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama pointing fingers at one another as if they were two tattling kids in a sandbox? While they may not literally be saying things like "Hillary just threw sand in my eye," that's the message I've been getting lately as the two candidates punch, kick,

bite and whine their way to the finish line.

At the beginning of the presidential race, I was interested to hear what plans both candidates had in store for our nation. But in the last two months, the campaign has not only turned ugly, it's become downright childish. An Obama aide calls Hillary a "monster" and gets fired. Geraldine Ferraro says Obama wouldn't be doing so well if it weren't for his race and she gets kicked to the curb. Hillary says she'd love to have Obama as her vice president and Barack says, "No thanks, I'm beating you so why would I want to be your #2?" Na, na, na, na, na, na!

The playground politics have got to stop here and now. I do not want to see two political hopefuls be reduced to bratty kids who whine and tattle at every turn. Thanks, Hillary and Barack, but I get enough of that at home. So please stop acting like children and get back to the task at hand. If not, this Mom just might throw her hands up in disgust and give both of you a time-out.

Tivo Tirade

2008-03-11T21:30:00.001-04:00

I don't understand why people swear by their Tivo's. I resisted buying one for a few years and broke down about a year ago and forked over several hundred dollars for the lifetime plan that gets you unlimited recording of your favorite shows. But here's my beef. Why is it when I'm watching American Idol, my Tivo decides that I should be watching a show on Nickelodeon and when I look away for a split second, the channel changes and I've just missed David Archuletta's performance.

Come on Tivo. Stop the insanity! If I wanted to record Fairly Odd Parents, I'd point the damn clicker and record it. But I don't want to. And I don't like your suggestion that I may want to watch Atlantis Square Pantis and you'd like to change the channel in the next minute so that I don't miss a minute of Sponge Bob. I mean Tivo - you don't even know me. You want to change channels on me? Then find me some classics that I will willingly watch - how about Steel Magnolias? Terms of Endearment? Sleepless in Seattle? Anything with Drew Barrymore? I'm not interested in having you jump from Law and Order to the Wizards of Waverly Place so do me a favor Tivo, lay off and stop trying to read my mind.

Why It's Good to Check Your Kid's Homework

2008-03-10T18:54:00.001-04:00

Just Call me Gadget Mom

2008-03-08T09:19:00.000-05:00

I don't know how it happened, but somehow around my house, I became the gadget queen. I'm the only person in the house who knows how to hook up the DVD players in the house and in the car, re-set the Tivo, synchronize iPods, iPhones, nanos, operate the Flip Camera, load up videos to YouTube, fix computers, the list is endless. Certainly this is not necessarily the job of a woman, but yes, I defy stereotypes.

I have no desire to cook - although I recently went to a fabulous Italian cooking class with my hubby - which I'll blog about later today. I am into finding quick ways to clean my house so we're a swiffer and clorox wipe family all the way and I hate seeing the inside of supermarkets and have made friends with Frank, my weekly Peapod Delivery guy.

While I'm still not that proficient at hanging shelves or window treatments, I am the master of gadgetry in our house. When my son wants to play Will, I'm called in to press the appropriate buttons to start his game. If there's trouble in Webkinz world or Club Penguin, my kids call out for me to bring in reinforcements and fix the problem. And last night, I even helped figure out my friends son's new PSP game which he almost broke because he put one of the games in the wrong way.

Since I've become the master of gadgets around my house, all I need to do now is figure out how I can get my hubby into the kitchen and cook up a meal while I'm busy programming the DVR. Dare to dream, dare to dream.

You can never go home again

2008-03-05T18:34:00.000-05:00

Funny how after you leave a job behind that your office mates pretty much stop calling for a few months until something happens that they know will totally tick you off. That's exactly what happened to me last week. While busy taking meetings in Manhattan for my new business, I got an email from a former office confidante who wanted to know where I was and asked that I call her ASAP.

In a matter of seconds, I was dialing her number and in minutes, I was transported back to that toxic place where everyone is bitter and tired of working there but won't actually do anything to make a change. But what pissed me off about the news she shared was that my former boss was actually creating the job I wanted but he wouldn't offer to me while I was there. The reason - I worked in the office three days a week and he wanted someone who would be committed to a five day a week schedule.

But here's my beef: He assumed that I wouldn't even consider the job because of the work schedule - but he never actually bothered to call and ask if I'd come back five days. I probably would have said no, but the fact that I wasn't even considered really hurts and makes me painfully aware that you really can't go home again. Not that I would want to, but it would have been nice to have been asked.

In the meantime, I will forge ahead and build my business, but sometimes news from your past office life can really get you pissed and make you second guess if you did the right thing by jumping off the corporate ladder and into the entrepreneurial abyss. I'm sure in a few months or years I'll look back and say leaving that job was the best possible thing I could have done for my career, but when you're in the middle of rolling that boulder up Success Hill, the last thing you want to hear is that you've already been forgotten from the place where you thought you had made your mark.

My iPod and Me

2008-03-04T22:09:00.000-05:00

Now that my commuting routine has changed and I haven't had a chance to hook up with my morning coffee klaatch, I've been reduced to driving into work in my Jetta, switching stations that seem to play the same 10 songs over and over again. Unless I'm listening to John Tesh - who I absolutely love - I have found other ways to entertain myself while driving into Manhattan. I sing.

But I don't just sing. I sing at the top of my lungs, belting out tunes from my iPhone that pretty much take me back to high school. I've got at least 200 songs from the eighties on my phone, mixed in with some Hannah Montana, American Idol favorites and the random Cheetah Girls single. And yes, when I'm all alone and a car passes me by on the road, they might just see me mouthing the words to "Best of Both Worlds," and frankly, I don't really care.

Being alone in my car takes me back to the days when I used to drive into the city from my home in Brooklyn. Back then I was single, just starting out in my career and had a great looking red sports car that would literally turn heads as I drove by. Today, in my zippy black Jetta, I don't pay attention if people are staring at me. I'm too busy finding songs that are in my key that I can sing along too and pretend in my mind that I'm in a recording studio putting the finishing touches on my latest CD.

For me, there is nothing that compares to driving along the West Side Highway with songs from my past filling my brain. From Chicago, to James Taylor (which my DH pretty much can't stand), to Elton John to 38 Special - yes I am cheesy - I had the best time today singing my heart out on the way to work.

And then, on the way home, I get to play some more tunes - today it was Michael Buble and Good Morning Baltimore from Hairspray. As much as I love my train commute, I have to admit that driving alone into Manhattan definitely has it perks. Sure I'll never get discovered singing all alone in my volkswagen but who cares - at least there's no one in the car telling me to stop because the music is hurting their ears.

I'm a Crappy Disciplinarian

2008-02-28T21:21:00.000-05:00

Funny that MomLogic ran an interesting post today about discipline throughout the decades and tonight I failed miserably at keeping my kids in line. Picture the scene: A toy store. We're on a mission to buy three gifts for parties that are scheduled this weekend, the store is closing in less than 20 minutes and my kids are like kids in a candy/toy store. In a word, wild. After spending 10 minutes getting gifts and cards, the kids meandered to the front of the store and then the touching began.

My daughter was obsessed with the webkinz display and kept on "girlhandling" every animal she saw. My son in the meantime was attached to the candy section - pawing the sour gummy worms and chocolate and while I attempted to pay I tried to use the sternest voice I had to keep then in line - but do you think they listened and put their hands down? Oh no. Not my two little angels. It wasn't until the store manager told them to stop touching the toys that they finally stopped. Thoroughly embarrassed, I grabbed our gifts and we left the store and I proceeded to inform both of them that they wouldn't be seeing the inside of a toy store for several months and they shouldn't expect any more goodies until their birthdays (in April and May).

Then we drove home and I realized that I had bought them a gift (before they had acted up) and while I initially planned not to give it to them, I was tired and I acquiesced and gave them the toy anyway. Bad move.

Later that night when my husband came home, he instantly sent the kids to their rooms and after having a heart to heart with my son, he discovered I bought them a gift despite their horrendous behavior. And so, now I'm being made to feel guilty for buying my kids a gift as punishment for misbehaving. Okay - I know - I'm a pushover but I had been working all day and all I wanted was peace and quiet. Is that so bad? I guess I should have put the toy back and let my kids cry about the fact that they were going home empty-handed, but instead, I did the opposite and now feel like a total loser. I can't keep my kids in line in public and my husband thinks my kids walk all over me when I tell them to stop being bad. I'm not a bad mom. Just a tired one.

Boynton Beach Memories, Take 2

2008-02-25T21:05:00.000-05:00

For those of you who have been following Role Mommy for awhile, you may remember that last year my family and I took an unexpected trip to Florida after my dad suffered a heart attack. Thankfully, my dad survived and he's back on the tennis courts and golf courses in Boynton and looking as young as ever. You may also remember that when I wrote about my experience last year, I tried to capture the essence of Boynton as overheard by the many senior citizens who populate the cafes, beauty parlors, supermarkets and malls. And so, this year, when I returned to Florida for a few days my comedy antennas were ready to pick up some priceless material and here are a few of the conversations that took place within earshot of my table.

Scene 1:

Man and friend sitting at the Palm Isle Cafe talking about their final resting place:

Man: So my wife and I bought our cemetary plots.

Friend: That's nice.

Man: Oh, but that's not all. We arranged so that if I go first, I get the front of the plot.

Friend: What if your wife goes first.

Man: I still get the front.

Scene 2:

Woman and friend sitting at Lucille's Barbeque talking about fruit

Woman: I really enjoy eating oranges.

Friend: That's nice.

Woman: But I don't eat any old oranges. I like to buy my oranges near that store over by Walmart. Sometimes I'll eat more than one orange a day, but then it gives me gas, so I try not to have more than one a day.

Woman: That's nice.

Scene 3:

My dad giving us a tour of Wellington street in Delray Beach

Dad: You see that hospital over there? That's the hospital where Uncle Harvey had his heart attack.

Me: That's nice

Dad: Oh - and you see that medical center over there? That's where your Aunt Bevy had her cataract operation. And over to the left is the hospital where your Uncle Abe just passed away. And a few blocks down is the hospital where Aunt Kay visited before she died.

Me: Dad...can you change the subject? Your world famous Florida hospital tour is making me very depressed.

Technology Addict

2008-02-18T15:46:00.000-05:00

I have a big confession to make. I am an addict. But not just any addict. I don't pop pills, I'm not a boozer and while I love chocolate, I'm not an overeater either. So what's my addiction? Technology, that's what. I am hopelessly addicted to my computer, my iPhone, my blackberry and my cell phone that my husband is going to wring my neck if I don't stop typing on the keyboard and put the gadgets away.

It started out pretty innocently. A few years back, in an effort to master my work/life juggle, I invested in a BlackBerry and proceeded to use it so that I could be with my kids, run errands and never miss a moment of the office goings on. But then, when I quit my job and started my own business, I started loading up on more technology. An iPhone for my anniversary, a MacBook pro, my old BlackBerry which I couldn't give up and my verizon cell phone. Does one person really need all that technology? I know I could downsize, but for the life of me, I can't seem to give up my habit.

When I'm out with my husband and the kids, I'm sneaking furtive glances at my BlackBerry to see if the red light is flashing. When I'm back home, I flip on my Mac to check my emails or to IM with friends. Then I'm cruising YouTube, or playing Webkinz with my kids or writing my blog or researching a story and by the time I turn around, the day has flown by.

Today as I sit her typing away, my husband and kids are at the Brooklyn aquarium enjoying a day off with the dolphins. Should I have gone along for the ride and given the gadgetry addiction a rest. Absolutely. But for some reason, I can't seem to shake my addiction and it only seems to be getting worse.

Tomorrow we leave for Florida so hopefully I'll have the willpower to put everything away and not look at a single email until I return. Okay, that might be a bit harsh but I do know I've got to do something. It's time to get my head out of my iPhone and start enjoying the world around me. I know it's a cliche, but I have to say it. Life is too short. For the sake of my family and myself, it's time to put the BlackBerry away and enjoy a technology free existence...at least for a few days.

The Meaning of Success, Leather Couches and Procrastination

2008-02-16T15:19:00.000-05:00

I don't know why I procrastinate. I just do. If given the choice to head into my freezing cold office to write something scintallating, that spells right, has proper grammar and will make people laugh, I will most likely think of 15 other things I can be doing at that moment before planting my butt in a chair and hunkering down. Frankly, the older I get, the more I get sidetracked.

I'm supposed to be writing an essay about what it's like to be a successful female entrepreneur but I've been procrastinating on that assignment the moment I landed it. What does it mean to be successful? Hmm. Successful is as successful does. (thank you Forrest Gump). Do successful people work in basement offices with space heaters and get yelled out by their DH every time they forget to take the plug out of said space heater after a long day procrastinating?

Do successful people go off on tangeants? I mean, I can start writing about a topic that interests me, like say, home decorating, then in mid-stream, as I'm writing about a chocolate leather couch, my mind starts wandering to my pantry and I fantasize about a treat that would really help me craft some mouthwatering adjectives. Then, after I've inhaled the last chocolate cake square from my box of Weight Watchers snacks (1 point for anyone who's a WW lifer), I'm back to business, writing about things that strike my fancy. But then the mail comes. And I realize - I better pay some bills. So I whip off my writer's hat again and do a little online banking for a good 15 minutes. Ah, now that my mind is clear, I can write.

Now what was I writing about again? Oh yeah, chocolate couches and what it means to be successful. Forget the couches, let's just talk about success. Are you successful if you make a lot of cash? But what if you're working around the clock and you never get to see your family and you hate what you do but you're still making a boatload of money? Is that success?

Is a person who makes half as much as a workaholic but does what they love the true success story? While money is nice, I do firmly believe that before you can truly make wads of it, you've got to figure out how to crack the code of making money at pursuing your passion. Some people have made a fortune doing just that - just look at all those people in The Secret (no, I am not linking to that book because they don't need to increase their sales on my watch) who preach on about how positive people attract other positive people and blah, blah, blah. I actually never believed the BS in that book until I started giving it a shot and I do have to admit, that positive kharma is infectious. You do wind up attracting lots of successful people, but a lot of times, those people are penny pinchers who want to use your positive energy to help build their own empire or inflate their ego. So when you start using those tools from The Secret, be careful - steer cleer of users there are many of them and don't start doing business with people unless you know them for at least a few months and can trust that they won't drive you nuts.

It's sort of like dating. If you met a guy for the first time and thought he was amazing, would you marry him right off the bat? No, you'd be an idiot if you did. But why is it that in business, if we meet someone we really like we'll hire them on the spot or take them on as a client and then three months down the road realize they weren't as great as you thought they were.

As I attempt to build my business from the ground up (literally), I've begun to grow wary of hiring people to help or taking on problem clients, unless of I've known them for years or they've come highly recommended from someone I trust. I'm trying not to overextend myself and more importantly, I am focusing my efforts on doing what I love. It's certainly not a cakewalk because doing what you love doesn't pay the Con Ed bill but someday, I know it will. And when that day arrives, I will hopefully have moved my empire from the cellar to a room with a view. Dare to dream. I better go, this successful entrepreneur needs to shut off her space heater before it burns her leg.

Am I Right, Am I Wrong?

2008-02-13T22:10:00.000-05:00

I received some sad news today. My uncle Abe, who used to take my brother and I around in his Wise potato chip truck and who was best known for his infamous phrase, "Am I right, am I wrong?" passed away last night after battling a host of illnesses that left his body too weak to fight anymore.

While I'm not broken up about my my uncle's death, I do have to say that it's sad that his final years were spent combatting the effects of several strokes, diabetes and the breakdown of his kidneys. From what I remember of my uncle, he was always an incredibly opinionated man. In fact, he pissed off so many people in his time that I remember holidays when you could cut the tension with a knife because Uncle Abe opened his mouth and uttered an insult that left a family member ready to bolt for the door.

I guess my uncle didn't really care that he was making people angry at him when he spoke his mind. Abe escaped the Holocaust, hiding out with his family as they attempted to escape Poland. And somehow, they managed to get out. And so, when he came to the United States, he didn't care who he offended, he was free, he was safe and he was alive.

Over the next several decades, Uncle Abe made lots of friends with his biting sense of humor and generosity but if you crossed him, well, watch out. Abe's relentless insensitivity hurt many of my family members - so much so that my parents actually stopped talking to him and my aunt for several years.

When my mom retired, she eventually mended fences with my aunt and now that Uncle Abe is gone it'll be interesting to see how things will change now that he's not around. It is sad that at the end of his life he truly was a shell of the person he used to be. So I choose to remember my Uncle as the spitfire he was. Sure he was a loose cannon, but when I think back on the time I spent with him what I do remember is that he always was good to me. I guess that's what counts - remember the best in a person once they're gone. In the end, Abe's famous line, "Am I right, Am I wrong?" is a testament to his life. Whether he was right or he was wrong, my uncle lived his life on his terms.

The Raffle Ticket

2008-02-12T17:39:00.000-05:00

Is it just me or have kids become obsessed with gambling? Or is it just my kids? Let me explain. Whenever we go to the diner, my son and daughter beg me to shove 50 quarters into "the claw" and inevitably, we never win anything. You can watch that metal thing swaying in the lucite box with tons of stuffed animals crammed inside just there for the taking and no matter what my kids do, they never win.

Another thing we never win - raffles. I must have spent hundreds of dollars on raffle tickets over the years and no matter how you slice it, I've never won a single prize. A few weeks ago, my kids even had me spend 20 bucks on raffles for games they already have and they were stupefied to discover they had lost...again.

But here's the icing on the cake. I don't mind if I'm the one buying the raffle tickets or wasting my hard earned quarters on the claw, I draw the line when my kids have been given money to spend at the Valentine boutique and they proceed to hand over $10 to some woman selling raffles and she willingly takes the cash from them without another adult present.

I mean, I know I'm an idiot if I buy a raffle ticket that'll get me no prize, but is selling raffles to little kids even legal? I don't think so and if it is, it should be outlawed. When my daughter inevitably lost the money in the raffle drawing she came home that day in tears and frankly, I was steamed. I still haven't figured out who I should air my grievances too (most likely the PTA president) but either way, I'm cutting out the raffle habit pronto. Maybe then we can have extra cash for the monster gumball machine or some month old skittles that they peddle from the machine at the movie theater.

The Face Plant

2008-02-03T08:05:00.000-05:00

This week, in my haste to squeeze in too much in one day, I managed to do something I haven't experienced since I was a kid. I fell down the stairs. But it wasn't just your average tumble where you grab onto the railing and stop yourself mid-stream. Oh no. I was too busy carrying my Jenny Craig pizza in one hand and diet coke in the other to protect my fall.

Picture the scene. Me, balancing my yummy pesto pizza, a tall glass of my favorite beverage and a sharp knife while navigating the stairs and subconsciously thinking about all the things I had to accomplish that afternoon. I made it to the third step and then somehow, my foot slipped and I went flying right along with my food. The diet coke splattered across the left half of my basement carpet, the mozzarella cheese landed on the bottom step, the knife flew in another direction and I tumbled face first to the ground without having my hands free to break my fall.

For all intents and purposes, I should have broken my ankle, been stabbed through the torso, or blacked out from a mild concussion. Miraculously, I managed to escape major injury except for a fat lip, a bump on my forehead and nose and some minor bruises on my arms and legs. Within 10 minutes of my tumble, I had to shake it off and hop in my car to head to an assignment in Manhattan. Still in shock, I grabbed a few chips of ice and a paper towel for my bloody lip and raced out the door.

When I arrived home a few hours later and had a moment to grab an aspirin, I thought about what had happened to me earlier that day and realized it's time to make some changes in my life or else next time, I won't be so lucky. Nothing like a face plant to make you painfully aware that you need to slow down. Or at least not carry a personal sized pizza, steak knife and diet soda while walking down a flight of stairs.

If it Looks Like a Duck

2008-01-26T08:11:00.000-05:00

While my daughter was at school yesterday, I was given a very important assignment - purchase a duck webkinz for her friend who was having a birthday slumber party that night. My daughter was so concerned I would get her request wrong that she actually drew me a picture of the duck and slipped it into my pocket.

After dropping her off at school, I worked all day and by the time I turned around, about five hours had passed and I hadn't yet picked up the present. And so, for a few fleeting moments, I stepped away from my keyboard, hopped in my car and drove to the closest place I could find that I thought carried the brand spankin' new webkinz duck.

I arrived at a trendy store in my neighborhood populated by the snottiest teenagers I've ever met. Since the boutique normally sells overpriced jeans, t-shirts, outerwear and dresses for kids and teens, they had no use for little old me who was searching in the back of the store for a duck webkinz. As I dug through the pile of stuffed animals, I found what I thought was the duck my daughter had asked for. I proudly walked it up to the register and when one of the girls told me they were on sale and were charging $20 for two webkinz, I thought I had found the bargain of the century and picked up a unicorn to add to my perfect birthday gift.

As I was checking out, I decided to make a little small talk with the pretentious teens behind the register.

"I'm so glad I didn't have to drive all over town for that duck webkinz," I blurted.

"Oh, you mean the platypus?" commented one of the girls, whose hair was hanging over one eye - I believe that was some kind of hair fashion statement, but to me, it just looked weird and messy.

"Platypus? You mean there are other ducks?" I responded, having a sinking feeling in my stomach that I bought the wrong webkinz.

"Oh I don't know if there are other ducks, we just have this one," the teen responded, as she handed me a cellophane bag with my tissue paper wrapped webkinz tucked inside.

When I returned to the school to pick up my daughter, she immediately asked me the telltale question.

"Did you get the duck?"

"Sure I got the duck, it's in the house."

"Well what does it look like? Does it have chubby cheeks?"

"It kind of has a long neck."

"Mommy!!!! That's not the duck. That's Google, the Platypus!!! We need to get the duck. Where did you get that webkinz?"

I told her the name of the store and she knew in an instant where I had gone wrong.

"Mommy, that store only sells old webkinz. The platypus is from last year!"

Mystery solved. The reason that overpriced store was selling webkinz at a cheaper price was because all they had were the outdated stuffed animals that no kid who is plugged into the webkinz craze would purchase in a million years. What a rip off.

So what did we do after my daughter realized I had inadvertently purchased the wrong duck? We hopped in the car of course and zipped off to the neighborhood toy store, arriving minutes before they closed.

As my daughter ran inside and scanned the shelves, she instantly found it.

"The last duck!!! We found the last duck!!!"

After asking the man at the cash register for what seemed like the Hope Diamond, he handed it over and my daughter shared the story of her mothers duck blunder.

"I'm so glad you have the duck. My mom bought the wrong one and I knew that you had the duck and that's what my friend wanted for her birthday. I can't believe we got the last duck!"

With our crisis averted, we took our duck, went on our merry way and headed off to the slumber party and the moment we arrived, my daughter's friend took the package out of her hands, ripped off the paper and was thrilled to receive her duck. Don't kids wait until after cake to open presents anymore? With that, I knew I had made my daughter's night because she had selected the right gift and I went home to figure out what I was going to do with Google the Platypus.

Moral of the story...just because it looks like a duck, doesn't necessarily mean it's the right duck.

The Overachiever

2008-01-18T21:47:00.001-05:00

I confess. I take on too much that I can actually handle. All the time. When people stare at me, smile and say, "Wow, I just don't know how you keep it together," I look back and say, "I'm just really great at multi-tasking." Well at this stage of my life, I am officially immersed in multi-task overload. I'm busy trying to pursue my dream of one day becoming the next Nora Ephron (never gonna happen), while running a PR business, taking on a new writing gig, planning a big event for next week, raising an eight and a five year old and attempting to keep my cat and my husband happy.

Usually, I take on challenges and thrive on pressure. But the hard part is when all of my worlds collide, I turn into a big bawling mess. Today when I closed the door to my office, called my mom and all I got was her answering machine, I wanted to break down in tears. Luckily, she called back about 45 minutes later so I was able to cry to her about all the work that has piled on at once and how overwhelmed I was and she offered me the perfect advice. "Take a breath. Go home. Turn the computer off. And enjoy your family."

Enjoy your family. Isn't that supposed to be what it's all about anyway? I quit my job so I could launch my own entrepreneurial venture and be at home with my kids more. And now I find myself like Adam Sandler in the movie "Click," where all he's doing is fast forwarding through life and not enjoying any of the milestones that go along with it.

Well, I for one don't want to miss any of these moments. I love my children and my husband. I am amazed every day by my kids' accomplishments. My son makes my heart melt - today he was the class president - and my daughter is absolutely amazing. She can crochet, ice skate, is a budding gymnast, but most of all, she is a sweet child with a good heart.

And at the end of the day, that's what it's all about. No matter how hard you work, or how successful you become in life, the people that truly count are your family. As women, we are taught to strive to have it all but sometimes, it's okay to stop and smell the roses. It's okay to want to be with your kids and not be working round the clock to make an important deadline. It's okay to take a vacation. It's okay not to work.

After reading some of the latest posts from one of my favorite writers, the Self Made Mom, I've come to realize that working moms are so hard on ourselves and on those that drop out of the race to become SAHMs. But what we don't realize is that until we try it ourselves, we shouldn't judge what other moms decide to do with their lives. I know that I've mocked moms who bake for PTA functions or lead Brownie and Girl Scout troops, but what I should have done was thank them. Thank them for being there when I couldn't. For looking out for my kids and for being a role mommy. Yes, working or at home, all mothers have the potential to be role mommies. As long as you pursue your passion or do what you love, you are capable of anything. But be careful of taking on too much too soon - my biggest foible - and admit that we are not strong, we are not invincible. We are women, we cry and you know what, sometimes a good cry can make everything better. Just ask Hillary Clinton.

Lost and Found

2008-01-12T16:42:00.000-05:00

A little update on our MIA Nintendo DS. After forking over $200 for a brand new DS with two new games, my son's original DS miraculously resurfaced. So now we have three nintendos and two of the same Mario games. My husband sees it as an opportunity to become proficient at Nintendo so he's going to start giving the thing a try. Come to think of it, if I can track down a version of Ms. Pac Man and Donkey Kong, I'll be all over it too.

So I'm a kid at heart - at least if I play long enough maybe I can take on my son to a Mario Super Party 8 challenge!

Let's hope that this lesson in losing prized possessions will stop with the DS. Something tells me it won't...

GONE WITH THE WIND...THE TALE OF THE MISSING NINTENDO

2008-01-06T22:03:00.000-05:00

It's a sad day in Feldman-ville. My five year old son, who has been addicted to his Nintendo the last two months and can show his friends how to maneuver through eight levels on Super Mario Bros., and even has a blister on his index finger from playing the darn thing so much, has officially lost his prized possession. He had it before we went out to dinner with our friends and their kids tonight but after he got the chance to ride home with them in their car, he jumped out without his Nintendo and then when he attempted to find it, it was gone.

Into thin air - his favorite toy has just completely disappeared. I can't imagine how no one has been able to find it. I made sure to check the table at the restaurant and even the floor and even called the maitre'd but there was no sign of the Nintendo.

And so, my little boy went to bed in tears tonight - his favorite toy in the whole wide world is gone. Gone with the wind. I bet Rhett and Scarlett never thought their romance would be reduced to a story about a missing Nintendo but such is life when your world revolves around technology. And now, my dilemma is do I buy him a new DS with 4 new games or let him mope around the house until his next birthday?

I know I should teach him a lesson and make him appreciate his toys by showing him what can happen when you lose them, but when he flashes those puppy dog eyes at me and the tears start flowing down his precious cheeks, I just melt. Something tells me I'll be hitting Target tomorrow for a black Nintendo with a handy dandy Sponge Bob carrying case. And this time around - like an episode of the Brady Bunch we're instituting a new rule pronto...Mom always said - don't bring the Nintendos outside the house!

A Partridge in a Pear Tree

2007-12-18T19:50:00.000-05:00

I have a supermarket confession to make. I hate running errands on the weekends and usually spend my time online ordering all of my groceries on Peapod.com. Usually, my online food shopping expedition makes my life incredibly easier. All I need to do is whip out my jumbo list and pretty much check off all the items I THINK (operative word being "think") I need for the kids' school lunches, breakfast, dessert and a random dinner item here and there. Well, for some bizarre reason, this week my grocery shopping went a little haywire.

First off, my husband decided to run to the supermarket and pick up a few loaves of bread and some milk just as I had sent in my order, so I knew right off the bat that we'd have a ton of extra multi-grain and raisin bread this week. But somehow, when it came to my fruit order, I have no idea what kind of synapse disconnect my brain was experiencing at that moment. Was I busy sending someone a blackberry message? Was I on the phone? Was I reprimanding one of my kids? The answer is a mystery. All I know is instead of ordering four delicious anjou pears, I ordered 41.

Yes, 41 pears. I don't even think I've eaten 41 pears in my lifetime but now I'm going to have to come up with a bunch of different recipes so we can finish the pears without them going rotten. Hmmm....we could have pear soup, pears on a salad, pear with figs, plain pears, pear juice...are there any other recipes for pears? I guess I'll have to surf around the web for some more recipes, or I can just give them away as snack to my son's class this week. Forget those choke-able grapes, I've got a perfect fruit for every kid in class...who wants a pear?

Maybe that's where the whole Partridge in a Pear Tree got started. Either way, I'm pretty sure that next time I try to do a little online grocery shopping, I double check my order before I purchase fruits in the double digits.

To send us a favorite pear recipe, don't be shy, email it to me at beth@rolemommy.com or to return to Role Mommy, Click Here.

Holiday Radio Rant

2007-11-30T22:44:00.000-05:00

Can someone explain why the moment Thanksgiving Day arrives, radio stations decide it's time to dust off all the holiday CDs and torture listeners with every rendition of Little Drummer Boy they can dredge up? From Rod Stewart to Barry Manilow to Mariah Carey to Madonna to Josh Groban (who happens to be the only singer who should be allowed to sing holiday songs), I can't tell you how many times I've gotten into my car in the last two weeks only to find myself being tortured by another version of "Santa Baby."

It's not like I'm a Scrooge or anything. In fact, I happen to enjoy a nice rendition of "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire" from time to time. But if I have to hear one more Jewish crooner singing another Christmas tune, I'm going to hurl. Wouldn't it be refreshing to hear Barry Manilow or Barbara Streisand for that matter belt out their own version of "Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel?" Sure the song is a little redundant, but maybe it's time for someone to spice up some Hanukah tunes so we can have some equal opportunity holiday radio play during the month of December.

Just imagine going out for a leisurely drive on a crisp fall day with your family, you flip on the radio and the next thing you know, Hannah Montana is singing Hava Nagila. Sure we still have the Adam Sandler Hanukah song that was a hit back in the 90's but other than that, no one has taken a stab at rocking out the festival lights like they do with Christmas. So I say, let's give a shout out to some other holidays. Hey - I'm sure there are some Kwanza songs that they can be playing on the radio. And maybe, Barry Manilow can rediscover his roots, cook up a few latkes, gather around the Hanukah bush and entertain us with some festive jingles straight from the holy land. And for those of you struggling to think of a Hanukah song that you can sing with your family, here's a tune that'll get you into that crazy eight day spirit.

Hanukah, oh Hanukah come light the menorah,

Blah, bi di blah, oh blah bi di blah, I sometimes read the torah,

Gather round the candles, but don't touch the flame,

I wish I knew the words to this song cause it now sounds kind of lame,

Oh who am I kidding. I guess I'll be brushing up on my Menorah tunes along with Barry and Barbara. Then again, maybe the three of us can record a new version of Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire. If you can't beat 'em (or remember the words), then join 'em.

Happy Holidays!

The Double Whammy

2007-11-15T21:31:00.001-05:00

Can someone please explain to me the sick joke that the man upstairs pays on me when I'm preparing for a major event, am two days away from that major event, and both of my kids come down with strep! They've never even had strep before - but of course, today, as I had planned to tie up loose ends my son woke up with a strange rash and my daughter seemed perfectly fine - I even went with her on a school trip but when it was time to head home, she said she was feeling dizzy and tired and her throat ached and the next thing we knew, my husband, who lucky for me came home to take my son to the doctor so I could go on the school trip, ran back out to take my daughter to the doctor while I stayed home with my son and my trusty BlackBerry.

While responding to emails and crossing off dozens of items from my to do list, Dylan insisted we play a game. The guess which animal I'm thinking of game. I pretty much went through every animal I could think of and he aced the subject - next time I'll throw in a weevil just to keep it interesting. He then ate a few bites of dinner, refusing his veggies of course, and then I whipped out a special treat - we were going to bake smores cookies - you gotta love Pillsbury to cheer up any kid with a bacterial infection.

The diagnosis for my daughter - you guessed it - strep throat. And hence the name of this blog - Double whammy. A double whammy always seems to hit me when I'm busiest and maybe it's a wake up call that I've gone into overdrive since launching my two companies. Thank goodness my event will be over at 4:01 pm on Saturday and then I can relax and think about what culinary masterpiece I'll be purchasing for Thanksgiving when we entertain over a dozen relatives. Funny how people stress over what they're cooking for Thanksgiving, stress over work, stress over gaining weight, stress over carpool schedules and yet the biggest stress of all trumps everything hands down when your kids get really sick.

Thankfully my two kids are on antibiotics - one pink, one white with skin cream for his weird pimples and of course, they'll both be out of school tomorrow. According to the pediatrician, they should be fine by Saturday but if not, my hubby will be holding down the forte at home while I host a casting call for "Supernanny," over 30 vendors, performers, authors, an illustrator, Miss Teen New Jersey and a kid's fashion show that my daughter has been talking about for months. Life always has a funny way of throwing me curve balls, but no matter how busy I get or how many hats I wear, at the heart of everything is that I'm the one everyone depends on. I am mommy hear me roar. If Helen Reddy could see me now.

Wii for Me!

2007-11-11T22:34:00.000-05:00

My family has officially migrated over to the technological dark side. While we are pretty antiquated when it comes to embracing advances in new technology - like buying an HDTV or getting the kids Nintendo DS's three years after they were actually popular, we have finally entered the 21st century and are the proud owners of a Wii.

It's not because my husband and I camped out at Target at 8am to purchase said product, but luckily for us, my in-laws did instead. When I received a call at 8:20am this morning from my mother-in-law who informed us they had just snagged one of the last Wii's in the store, I have to admit, I was giddy with excitement. What is it about the Wii that has eveyone going wild?

We picked up the Wii tonight and after spending an hour hooking the thing up (not the Wii's fault, my new HDTV is totally not cooperating), my kids started to play baseball and I was amazed. You literally feel as if you are pitching and hit the ball! Now I have to tell those folks at Nintendo, they should give the players on the field legs, but other than looking like odd weeble wobbles with goatees and menacing looks, the games are pretty freakin' fun.

Granted, I haven't had a chance to play the game just yet. I am actually waiting for the kids to go to sleep (it's currently 10:38 pm) so that I can try my hand at tennis. Considering I've blown off the retirement league these last few weeks, maybe I can get my game up before I head back into the yenta tennis fray.

So here's to the Wii - I am officially part of the club, and I'm pretty psyched. Now if only my kids would go to sleep so we (my husband and I) can play a round of golf, tennis and bowling without ever getting off the couch. I'm going to have the most toned arms in Westchester - my butt and thighs are a whole different story but maybe next year's version will come with a stationery bike.

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THE ROAD TO THE PRESIDENCY

2007-10-26T09:42:00.000-04:00

I've decided that if presidential candidates had to follow the rules set by my son's kindergarten teacher, then George Bush would have never been elected to office. You see, Mrs. Horlacher - the most wonderful kindergarten teacher on the entire planet (not that I'm biased or anything) has this ingenious method of selecting class presidents. It's not by popular vote - because who wants to start a popularity contest that early in life, but her selection process is much more rigid. If she picks your name out of a hat, you must answer a very important question relating to your personal life and if you get it right, you become the Kindergarten Commander in Chief. If you get it wrong, you lose the eleection and have to memorize your answer so you can come back again the next day to try again.

My son experienced the anguish of losing his first bid for class president this past week when he couldn't answer an extremely important question lobbed at him by Mrs. Horlacher. Spell your last name. I have to admit, spelling Feldman when you're a five year old is not an easy feat, so when my little man came home depressed that he couldn't answer the question correctly, we did what any candidate would do in that situation. Practice, practice, pratice. We must have worked on spelling Feldman at least two dozen times so by the following morning, Dylan was all set to earn his stripes.

When he came home at the end of the day, proudly holding his sign announcing that he was Class Kindergarten President, Dylan was grinning from ear to ear. The real nail biter will be when he's up for re-election and has to recite his home address.

So getting back to George Bush - if his presidential bid had hinged on spelling and pronunciation, things could have been very different this last decade. As for the upcoming election - I think rather than debate the issues, let's subject the candidates to an elementary school spelling bee and geography quiz. Last I checked both Hillary, Obama and Rudy should probably be able to ace those subjects. But Fred Thompson on the other hand, has been having quite a tough time with his mastery of countries so I say, he's out of the running. I think my son's teacher is on to something.

The Book Signing Blues

2007-10-07T21:41:00.000-04:00

Promoting our book has been quite a wild ride. The most fun I've had spreading the word about Peeing in Peace has been when I'm connecting with fellow moms in cyberspace who get the title the moment they read it or when I receive a random email from a stranger who has read our book and can relate to what it's like to balance work and family and still keep their sense of humor intact.

What I haven't enjoyed on the long and winding promotional trail are book signings. You see, if I were JK Rowling, or even JJ from "Good Times," if I had a book signing planned, the line would be out the door (okay, maybe not for JJ but certainly for JK). But when you are a relatively unknown writer, no matter how hard you try to convince people to show up to buy your book, unless they're your relative, a good friend or your husband, they just don't come. And there you are, left sitting at a table with 12 empty chairs in front of you. Maybe I should sign up for jury duty - at least if I did a book signing at a courthouse, I'd know I'd be playing to a packed crowd.

A book signing on a picture perfect day paints quite a lonely picture to say the least, but that's reality in the cold harsh world of book signings in the suburbs.

The other day, when I got to interview Nicholas Sparks and he casually mentioned how he was going to be at a signing for 5-6 hours, I thought to myself about the signing we had scheduled that weekend in Ramsey, New Jersey that would probably last about five or six minutes. Would anyone show up? Would it be a disaster again like the week before when the only people who showed were the regular senior citizens who populated the coffee shop? Even worse, I never imagined that a book signing would open ourselves up to hecklers, like that eccentric older woman who expressed her total disdain for our book title and proceeded to follow us around the store so she could spew a few more nasty comments our way, when all we had hoped was that PIP would become the must-have read for new and expectant moms.

What I've come to realize is that moms don't have time for book signings. And even if they are in a bookstore with their kids, they'll even come up to you and tell you that they can relate to the title - maybe even share a story of their own about how their toddler clings to their leg while they're trying to tinkle, and then when you try to persuade them to buy the book, they'll smile and say, "Oh I'm too busy now, maybe I'll buy it some other time." Translation - Sayanora sister - I'd rather fork over some cold hard cash to buy "Eat, Pray, Love" or "Green Eggs & Ham."

While I thankfully don't have any signings scheduled for a while, what I've come to realize is that if you are an author, you better have the thickest skin on the planet. Between the hecklers, the "I'm too busy to buy your book" crowd and those damn empty seats, I only hope that one day there will be a line out the door - eagerly waiting for our autographs. But for now, there are no rainbows or pots of gold on our road to book signing success - right now, we're pretty much on a one way street that's riddled with lots of pot holes.

Law & Order F.V.U. (Fish Victims Unit)

2007-09-26T21:08:00.000-04:00

Holy Cat Chow! We have an unexplained death to solve and it happened right in our kitchen! The victim: Blackie - a four day old fish found mysteriously floating at the top of his fish bowl. The perp: Rudy, a Maine Coon who was caught red-handed stalking said fish while I was busy making school lunches and searching for cereal that agreed with the two finicky fish owners watching Sponge Bob in the den a few yards away.

At the time the iPhone picture was snapped, Blackie was still quite vibrant, zipping around the bottom of the bowl, on the lookout for his morning fish flakes. But by the time I left the house and returned later that afternoon, Blackie wound up a corpse or is it forpse and my son raced out the front door holding his beloved friend in a napkin to show me the evidence that his fish had in fact bit the dust.

Before I had a chance to investigate, Dylan decided to give Blackie a burial at sea - flushing his lifeless body away to his final resting place - somewhere amidst the sewer system of Southern Westchester. As I searched the house to find my cat, I was surprised to find that I was named the prime suspect in the crime.

It seems that the night before Blackie's demise, I decided to change the water in the fish bowl because it was quite cloudy and downright gross. I grabbed the net, swooped the two fish out of the bowl, deposited them in a lovely vase filled with room temperature water and then rinsed out their domicile, filled it back up with water and plopped them back inside.

According to the lead investigator on the case, my husband - it seems as if my tinkering with the water could have shocked poor Blackie into his premature death. But does that make me guilty of fish-icide or was it just fish-slaughter? Either way, my son lost a new friend, my cat is on the prowl for Goldie, the lonely fish that is now hidden away in the bathroom and I'm afraid to change the water for fear of being blamed for another unfortunate case of aquacide.

Who knew that taking care of fish was so tough? It's a good thing we didn't buy a dog.

D-Day

2007-09-20T21:42:00.000-04:00

Thanks to Valerie Bertinelli, I started a new diet today. Jenny Craig. I had my fill of Weight Watchers, Zone Chefs and LA Weight Loss and when my surprisingly snug fall clothes revealed that I sacked on some extra LB's this summer, I decided to join Valerie in a race to shed some excess weight. I only have to lose 15-20 pounds so I'm not in Kirstie Alley territory but I figured if my favorite "One Day At a Time" gal can do it, then so can I.

My friend raved about the food so I ordered my Jenny meals at home selections, unpacked all the food packed in dry ice and took a look at the dishes I was going to be savoring these next few weeks. Tonight I sampled their chicken with fetuccini and a double chocolate cake. I have to say - while the entree was pretty good, the dessert was not as good as my Weight Watchers chocolate brownie sundae, but then again, I haven't lost an ounce on Weight Watchers in two years so Jenny - it's all up to you to help me to fit into my size 4's again!

I'm not going to go on and on about how my kids have pretty much served as saboteurs for my bad eating habits, but the other problem I've faced has been not having time to cook healthy meals, going out to dinner way too much, enjoying great wine and a few martinis now and then - and it all adds up to one thing. Thunder thighs. Okay two things - and a bubble butt.

So day one is complete and I'm sure when I hop on the scale tomorrow I probably won't lose anything just yet, but hopefully by the time I head into Thanksgiving I'll be at my goal weight and ready to dive into some sweet potato pie with marshmallows. I know - old habits die hard. So here's to a new beginning - me, Jenny and Valerie are going to be best buds - check back with me next week and I'll let you know if I dropped some weight. And if I don't lose anything, there's always South Beach.

The Bracelet

2007-09-09T22:44:00.000-04:00

I would have written earlier this week about my kids' first day back to school but I managed to get myself involved in so many projects with my new company, that my musings about daily life weren't that funny this week. In fact, on my son's very first day of kindergarten, he shocked both my husband and I when he was the only kid in the class to start bawling when we both attempted to leave the classroom.

There is nothing more heartbreaking than watching your five year old wail when you attempt to drop him off at a new school. All I kept thinking was he's never going to let me leave - I will never be able to go to work again. I'm going to be parked outside of the classroom until the leaves start changing. I don't know what happened that he's gotten so attached to me, but every single morning he asks the same question. "Mommy, are you going to work today?" For the last five years, I've had to tell him, yes, I'm going to work today. But now, I'm the owner of my own business and work is wherever I want it to be - at home, in Manhattan - even in Los Angeles if I wanted to hop on a plane. But yet, as my son gets more and more stressed when I tell him I'm heading to the city for work, I'm starting to realize that no matter what I do, I need to be there to take him to school, or be home when he walks in the door.

I'm not saying I'm packing it in for SAHM status - I am a worker at heart - but I do want to be there for him and my daughter. I even contemplated volunteering to be a class mother and then thought better of it since I pretty much stink in that area - who the heck wants to get up at 6am to call everyone on a snow day or bake all the cupcakes to sell at an election day bake sale. What I do know is that when a kid is five, they remember everything. I remember when I got left at afterschool by accident when I was his age and I vowed never to do that either of them - no kid gets left behind - except of course when you think they're supposed to be in school for a full day but it's really only a half day, but I digress...

Getting back to kindergarten - while my son held on to my arm for dear life that first day, the little boy next to him broke the ice with some sage advice. He looked straight at my left wrist and said, "Why don't you leave something special with him like your bracelet and then he'll know you have to come back for him?" A very wise thought, except I wasn't about about to slip off my 10th anniversary gift as collatoral just so my son would stop his crying jag. So instead of parting with my tennis bracelet, I fished in my purse and handed him the sherrif's badge we picked out at Rocking Horse ranch last week when he begged me to get him a pair of handcuffs. He still kept crying but eventually, after we gave him the slip, he finally stopped and picked up a marker to draw a picture of himself missing his mommy and daddy.

Thankfully for me, day two was a complete cinch. He marched right in, gave me a kiss and off he went to sit with his new friends. And me - I raced off to catch the 8:48am train, missed my morning coffee, but caught up with my closest gal pals on Metronorth. And then, I raced home early to see how his day went. And thankfully, he had a wonderful time. So while I adjust to starting a new business and Dylan adjusts to being a kindergartener, something tells me that while both of us may have bumps along the way, everything is going to turn out just fine.

The Case of the Missing School Supplies List

2007-09-02T09:51:00.000-04:00

Here's a terrible start of school confession - I am a pack rat. When I receive mail, I stick it in a pile on a bookshelf in my den and then fish through it to find important things, like overdue bills, property taxes, checks, 20% off coupons from Lord & Taylor and the letters containing the names of my kids' new teachers. I also store things in that pile like the mandatory school supply list of items that I need to purchase for my son for his very first day of kindergarten. My daughter is already taken care of because I forked over a check back in June guaranteeing all of her supplies would be purchased and delivered to us before school starts - it hasn't arrived yet - but I'm not getting nervous...yet.

My son's situation is a different story entirely. I remember seeing that supply list numerous times and then, without warning, it just went missing. Someone (probably my husband but I'm not pointing fingers), in a fit to keep me organized - trust me there is organization in my monster pile - decided to do a little house cleaning, and now I can't find the most important piece of paper I'm going to need to keep me (and my son) from appearing as if we are total screw-ups for not following the rules.

I keep trying to trigger in my mind what the list said to bring that first day - paper towels, giant box of crayons, fisker scissors, washable markers, glue, apple juice, four peaches, aluminum foil...wait that's my shopping list. I even went to our school website and while I found all the school supply lists from Grade 1-Grade 5, the Kindergarten list was nowhere to be found. I guess I could either go on another school website that lists the supplies for their kindergarteners and buy all the supplies from that one instead. Or, I could always call one of the other moms in the class and admit that I've already failed miserably in the school preparedness category but why should I already admit that I'm completely disorganized on day one and risk being labeled a bad mom before we've even set foot in the door?

When my daughter was a kindergartener, I was so good - purchased the supplies at least a week in advance and had a closet full of adorable outfits for her to wear for the school year. But by the time baby number two came along, my procrastination gene kicked into high gear and I'd wait until the last minute to get both kids whatever they needed to get them prepared for school, extra curricular activities and birthday parties. But the one thing I never did, was lose lists. That is, until now.

I've pretty much scoured the entire house and I'm officially about to give up. The list is gone and I'm going to have to admit defeat. I will have to either have to ask his teacher for the list or I'll call a cool parent who can relate to my lack of organization skills who may be willing to share their copy of the supply list so that I don't look like a total fool when we walk in hand in hand into his classroom as he sports his brand new "Hello My Name is Trouble" shirt from Tar-jay.

And what about my third grader who is supposed to be receiving a delivery of school supplies that hasn't even arrived yet? I'm hoping that package will miraculously appear too, and if not, it looks like I'm going to be spending my Labor Day, cruising the aisles of Office Depot buying out the entire school supply section - hey, we may wind up with double the supplies if her mystery package ever arrives - but I'm sure if I put away in a safe place, they can use it for next year too. That is, if no one else in the house decides to move it to an undisclosed location.

GUILTY AS CHARGED

2007-08-23T06:54:00.000-04:00

I'm feeling incredibly guilty this week. Why do you ask? Simple. After my mom called to tell me that my son's eye looked kind of swollen (he had been hit in the eye last weekend with a pool toy) and that I should call the doctor, I told her to wet some cotton balls, put it on his bloodshot eye and I'd take him to the doctor in the morning.

Well, luckily, she didn't listen to me and called my husband who proceeded to make an appointment at the pediatrician and we learned that we had to take him to an opthamologist. When I came home from work, the poor kid looked as if he had been in a brawl - and he lost. His eye was completely swollen and bloodshot and while he wasn't crying, I was about to break down in tears because I stupidly decided to stay at work rather than take him to the doctor.

My husband tried to convince me that it was okay -he had it handled, but I still felt awful so the next morning, I made the appointment with the specialist and we proceeded to spend the next hour and a half checking out his eye.

When we arrived, the doctor decided to give him an eye test and as I sat there watching him attempt to read letters and then pictures (because his alphabet still needs work), I was literally on edge. When he looked at a duck and called it a dog, and then squinted at a car and called it an anchor, I started to sweat. Oh my God, he's losing his vision, I started thinking to myself. I tried to hold myself back when he mistook a birthday cake for a hand and then when the doctor finished the exam, I quickly explained that he aced his eye test back in the summer so I didn't know why he was having trouble that morning. The doctor actually wasn't that concerned - thank goodness and proceeded to check out every possible angle of his eye. He dosed him several times with drops, peered into his pupils and then finally made the diagnosis...

He hadn't injured his eye, he must have picked up some nasty viral or bacterial infection and all we had to do was take a few eye drops and the situation would probably clear up in a week. And here I was thinking that my son was losing his vision because he had smacked himself in the eye with a plastic pool toy. I'm thrilled beyond belief that it was nothing serious and from here on out, I'll listen when someone tells me that my son's eye is the size of a watermelon and I need to take him to the doctor!

I Bribe, Therefore I Am

2007-07-24T22:42:00.000-04:00

If the Super Nanny ever paid a visit to the Feldman homestead, I think she'd be giving me that old tsk tsk stare when it comes to my parenting style. You see, when my kids work my last nerve or whine to get their way or repeat themselves at least a dozen times asking for the same toy over and over and over again, I pretty much flip off the switch in my brain and enter into bribery mode.

I have found that a good old fashioned cash bribe can ward off everything from nagging, to fighting with siblings to repetitive questioning by a pre-schooler. In fact, just this past weekend, I dangled a five spot in front of my son to prevent him from spilling the beans on a surprise party for a good friend of mine. And guess what? The bribery worked! He kept his trap shut and the surprise went off without a hitch.

Briberies can take on many forms. I've been known to bribe my kids with ice cream, gummy worms, and if I'm really under duress, the dreaded Webkinz. If it means a little reward for good behavior will translate into a relaxing home environment, I say, what's the big deal? People get bonuses at work. Why shouldn't our kids get bonuses when they do the right thing?

Now while it seems my kids are destined for a lifetime of bratty behavior with my bribery tactics, I say my ingenious reward system is achieving quite the contrary. My kids know full well that bad behavior will not be rewarded but if they both participate in a "see who is quiet the longest" contest, the payoff might just be a trip to the supermarket where they can each select their favorite box of cereal that comes complete with a junky toy they'll both treasure for at least the next hour or two.

If they've really abided by the rules of the day, they may even earn themselves a trip to the local amusement park or if they're really lucky, they'll get a shopping jaunt at Toys R Us. So if Jo Frost came and observed my parenting skills, would I fail miserably with these ruthless bribery tactics? Probably, but all I can say is if the house is quiet, no one is fighting and they've put away all their toys, what's a little tchotchke or piece of candy to make their day...and mine.

Batteries Not Included

2007-07-14T17:07:00.000-04:00

Can someone tell me the name of the person who invented batteries so I can personally send a letter to their family (since I know he's long gone by now) about how much I can't stand using them? It's bad enough when your child gets a toy for their birthday and the box mentions in fine print that batteries are not included and the person who purchased the gift failed to include those magical metal ingredients. And so, you're left with a kid who is super excited to try out his 5 foot tall remote control robot but all he can do is stare at it and pretend it works.

Here's the problem - it's not like I have C batteries, and D's and 1.5 volts and triple A's at my disposal. AA's? Sure, I have em - but that's because they're a staple item, like ketchup. But once you get those toys that take 39 batteries to power them up, we're pretty much up a creek without a paddle. While plenty of their double A toys are running smooth as silk and we even change the duracells from time to time, unfortunately, the complicated projects that require more juice usually wind up on a shelf collecting dust. Sure my son is excited for the moment about playing with his super duper action hero that can walk, fly and speak six languages, but let five minutes pass after I've told him we don't have batteries and he'll drop the gadget like a hot tamale and grab his Nintendo or hit the computer.

So the moral of my battery tirade is this - from here on out toymakers - make sure your toys are made with rechargeable batteries that are included in the box along with a charger. That way, your brilliant creation will get more play time with my impatient kindergartener. Not that I want to put the battery folks out of business, but who has time to find batteries, insert them with microscopic screwdrivers and then replace them once they've gone dead. Certainly not me...that's my kids - gotta run before they come at me with a toy that needs a triple C.

Sideshow Beth

2007-06-22T06:48:00.000-04:00

I finally discovered why talk shows and big concerts have opening acts. To warm up an audience and get them ready for the bigger star of the night. A lot of times, opening acts are quite refreshing - funny, they get you in a good mood and they prepare you for what's in store that night. But what would happen if the opening act had to wait around until the end of the show to perform? Would people stick around for their spiel? Well I learned last night the answer to that question...NO!!!

You see, about a month ago I was invited (along with my co-author) to do a reading from our book following an off-Broadway show. The offer seemed genuine enough and I instantly started conjuring up thoughts of how we would read a chapter and have the entire audience laughing so hard that we'd be on our way to instant stardom. Me, on a stage - right across from some major Broadway shows...the dream of a lifetime - or the nightmare that I'd like to never remember as long as I live?

The day of our reading, I even went to an upscale salon where I had my hair blown out while sitting next to some famous looking woman who had gotten a little long in the tooth, who was sitting there having these blonde extensions sewn into her head. Why do people do that anyway? Then, it was time for make-up. By accident, there was a slight mix-up at the salon and they put me in cue for the eyebrow lady (were they trying to tell me something) but then realized their mistake and I got to sit in the chair of the make-up woman who had just finished doing an absolutely amazing job on some really beautiful girl. When the make-up lady asked how I wanted my make-up done - I joked - can I look like her? "Well, she's Miss Mexico." I obviously wasn't going to get that look, but the woman did a great job and I felt like a million bucks. I then zipped into Ann Taylor Loft and bought a cute little dress for our special night. I was ready to knock em dead!

We arrived at the theater and we actually almost missed the place because it was sandwiched between a newsstand and I think Burger King, but that didn't get me down - this was going to be the experience of a lifetime! We climbed a flight of stairs and saw the sign for our book and I started to get goose bumps. We met the star of the show and then talked about how we'd do the reading. We then learned that we had to be out of there pretty quick because they were getting ready for another show at 10pm and then discovered that we weren't going to be the opening act, we were going on after the star. Uh oh.

This was not going to bode well since she was playing to a room of new mothers who probably had to get home in time to relieve their babysitters. And so, we sat through the one hour and fifteen minute show and the minute we were introduced, the place started clearing out - as if someone had yelled "fire in the theater" or something. As I attempted to read my chapter, more and more people left. And the parts where I thought they'd laugh, there was just silence. I tried to read as fast as I could and in my head I imagined I was in a dentist's chair having root canal. Then my writing partner read her chapter - and as she read, the room cleared out even more. By the time she was done, there were a total of five people left in the theater - and that included the star of the show.

To say I was mortified is the understatement of the year. I felt as if I had bombed off-Broadway but then I realized - I was supposed to be the opening act...not the closer! My husband actually summed it up best when he looked at me and said - "Look on the bright side, if this were the circus, you'd be Sideshow Beth."

And that was my first brush with off-Broadway - a sideshow experience where the room cleared out the moment I opened my mouth. I sure do hope I have the opportunity to go back on a stage again, but this time I better be the opening act or the main attraction. Because when you're The Closer in a room full of new parents, your pretty much dead on arrival.

Eed Gads, My Cankles Are Huge

2007-06-17T22:45:00.000-04:00

From the time I was a teenager I've hated my legs. If it wasn't the knee fat or the over-sized thighs, my biggest pet peeve about my lower half are what I fondly refer to as my cankles. Yes, I do not have a calf or an ankle but the lower half of my leg are one size - extra large. I may not look like one of those poor people from a third world country with elephantitis but looking down at my legs during the summer months is downright depressing. I hate wearing shorts, there are no pairs of shoes on the market that make my leg look thinner, and it seems like as I get older, my cankle problem is getting worse.

Thankfully, my daughter takes after my husband's side of the family - she's got the cutest little figure and I'm so thrilled that she'll never have to contend with knee fat and cankles. I mean, there is just no hiding both afflictions. No matter how thin I've looked in a one piece bathing suit or how flat my tummy was in a bikini, my legs have always been way larger than the entire package - forcing me to find a pair of genie pants or a huge wrap to cover up my gargantuan calves.

Far more depressing, this year, I put an extra five pounds on my frame (not by choice) and I think I'm carrying the additional weight right in my calves. No, the extra poundage never finds its way back to my 34A boobs, I'm blessed with the gene that finds the worst possible place on my body to distribute fat and then it miraculously appears...down below my knee lining the side of my calf.

I have no definition in my leg - which means mini-skirts, short shorts and slim leg fits are completely out of the question. During the winter months, the only boots that fit over my leg are the stretchy kind and now, in sandals weather I have to find the perfect shoe that won't make my leg look like it belongs to an 80 year old retiree.

I know. I'm being really hard on myself, but if you don't have cankles - you don't know how debilitating it can be on your self esteem. I'm actually ready to look into ankle liposuction just so that I can finally have a liberating experience and wear what I want without feeling self conscious about my legs. So if I actually do have a cankles consult, I'll keep you posted on my prognosis.

Hey, you never know - by next summer I could be cankle free! And if that comes out good, maybe I'll suck out the knee fat too! Dare to dream, dare to dream.

DRILLING

2007-06-12T17:13:00.000-04:00

Do you know what sound can drive you to the point of insanity? Well many sounds come to mind - nails on a blackboard, blood curdling screams, the incessant dripping of a water faucet, but the most painfully annoying sound that has driven me nuts today is drilling.

You see, the drilling started at 11am when I had to visit the dentist for what I thought would be a short stint as we patched up a cavity that had cracked. WRONG. One very large needle, several large instruments in my mouth and about 45 minutes of drilling later, I finally was good as new. Of course, my lip and jaw were completely numb and when I drank I looked like a feeble old woman, but other than that, I was on top of the world.

But then I came back home and went to my bat cave where I began following up on emails and returning phone calls when that nasty drilling sound started all over again. But this time, the drilling came from my backyard - we have to add some windows in our basement (which is currently a fire hazard without them) so a few men with drills have been taking aim at our foundation and attempting to cut a hole through 60 year old rock in order to put in a brand spankin' new window. I spent about an hour listening to the drilling drone on and on until I had to pick up my daughter from school to take her and my son back to the dentist for some more, you guessed it, drilling.

We arrived back at the dentist and my son took his turn first and let me tell you, he was an absolute pro - the drill screeched right through his head and he sat their stoic, like a tree - letting the dentist clean out the "sugar bugs" and fill the spot with a "silver star" in less than 15 minutes. My daughter on the other hand, was squirming around so much that her turn took a bit longer...more like 35 minutes with intermittent drilling and polishing, whining, writhing and complaining on her part and finally she finished and it was time to head back home to the drilling.

Well, it's now 5:30 pm and the drilling has been non-stop since we've come back. I had to hide inside one of our bedrooms to hop on a conference call, hoping the parties on the other end wouldn't hear the drilling in the background. Even my cat is going nuts from the drilling...that reminds me - the drillers locked the door where we have the cat's litter box...I better run and help him out or else there will be something much more offensive than drilling that I'll be contending with today. Nothing like the smell of cat urine to make you appreciate the melodious sounds of drilling.

Cat Tales

2007-06-06T22:05:00.000-04:00

In my haste to keep a day job, side job, kids and husband happy and well-fed (big shout out to Balducci's and California Pizza Kitchen for that one), I've found myself neglecting one member of my family and frankly, I just don't know what to do. Now don't worry, I'm not ignoring one of my kids - that's physically impossible since the minute I try to do something by myself they're pretty close behind asking me where I'm going, kicking me off my computer so they can play the fishing game on Club Penguin; begging me to help them build a monster sized lego tower or demanding that I listen to them sing their favorite song ("We're all in this together" or "If I only had a brain"). But after I've devoted most of my attention to my kids and my husband, when I finally retire to the den to pass out on the couch, our frisky feline decides its time to get a piece of the action.

Every single night of the week my cat climbs right next to me, then stretches out and starts scratching the wall with a cringeworthy sound that seems eerily simliar to screechy nails on a blackboard. Then, when I try to tell him to go scat, he thinks I'm playing with him and proceeds to swat at me with his paw. After enduring this exercise about 5 or 6 times, he finally gives up and leaves me alone. But then, when I head to bed, he's back at it again. Climbing on top of my chest and even scratching my face in the middle of the night to wake me up. This weekend, out of nowhere I tried to kick him off of my chest sometime around 3am and he scratched my finger so badly that he drew blood! I was so dazed and confused I thought I was attacked in a dream.

And then, this morning, my cat really gave out a desperate cry for attention when he walked up to my laptop computer and started rubbing his head against it. Hmmmm....does he think since I can be found writing in my spare time, that I'll show him some love while blogging away on my keyboard? I guess that can't be so bad. The poor cat has been pretty lonely since he lost his brother a few months back. The least I can do is take a break from my Toshiba so I can share the love. So good night little laptop. I'm off to pet my cat.

Blackberry Meltdown

2007-05-31T21:53:00.000-04:00

My BlackBerry has officially experienced a meltdown. I managed to abuse it so much over the last six months that the thing just went completely haywire. Of course, it malfunctioned during the worst possible time – just when I was coordinating a huge red carpet event with several big name celebrities and producers who kept firing off emails to me about their flights and hotels but all I could do was frantically press buttons that were malfunctioning like R2D2 in the first Star Wars movie.

To be completely candid, I feel like an addict who is suffering from withdrawal. That red light is flashing incessantly, almost mocking me to grab it and try to access my messages. And so I give it a whirl, and the thing starts having a mind of its own – picking websites I don’t want to visit or attempting to send messages to people I don’t need to reach or want to contact at all. I can’t imagine what I could have done to break the damn thing. It’s still fairly new, but since the time I brought it home, I’ve used it to access my work email plus three personal email accounts, websites, directions, the occasional phone call – heck if it could dispense money, I’d be plugging in my ATM password too.

I never realized that this addiction to technology would become so destructive. While on business these last few days, I’d sit at a lunch or a dinner while those with working BlackBerries typed away effortlessly, their thumbs gliding across the keys, out of touch with the world around them because they were too preoccupied sending a message to someone who was several thousand miles away.

My husband always gets annoyed with me when I’m trying to return a quick message while I’m out at dinner with him and the kids. I never really understood what the issue was until I was kicked out of the BlackBerry clique this week. As I stared longingly at that red flashing light, I began to discover that legions of PDA users are completely detached and distracted from the real world. As a multi-tasker, I never thought that my BlackBerry use was detracting from my life, but you know what, it is.

I’ve been known to cross city streets while responding to an email and narrowly escaped injury from a bike messenger who swerved to avoid knocking me over. While in my car, I’ve glanced over at the red light and have been tempted to access my emails while waiting at a stop light, and I’ve even noticed the message waiting indicator in the middle of the night while I was charging my PDA and I’ve contemplated reaching for it at 3 in the morning just to see who was trying to get in touch with me.

Here’s the deal though – I am not a brain surgeon. Or a lawyer, or an accountant, or a police detective for that matter. I am a publicist – who is always connected to her office and a demanding legion of people who sometimes work my last nerve – especially when I’m coordinating a massive press trip for several actors and actresses and am attempting to travel all of them to a city and they keep changing their minds about their flights. In that situation, my BlackBerry is a necessary appendage, so when it started having its own technological meltdown this week, I started losing it too. Thankfully, I managed to get everyone what they needed…even without the help of my BlackBerry…imagine that?

Now that I’m finally back home and about to enjoy the official start of summer, I’m still in possession of my broken BlackBerry and haven’t done a thing about it. Why, do you ask? Well, I’m actually contemplating taking a break from it and quitting my addiction…at least for a short while. No more message returning while dining with my family, bike riding (which is kind of difficult to do when you’re trying to steer without hands) or out and about running errands. So let’s all take a break from the insanity. It’s time to kick back and enjoy the summer and perhaps, instead of sending messages from a BlackBerry, maybe I’ll go out and pick some with my kids.

Check out more of our confessions posts in Time Out New York Kids! Or to return to Role Mommy, Click Here.

Overcommitted

2007-05-19T16:49:00.000-04:00

I don’t know what it is about me and the word “yes.” Somebody asks me to do something and rather than say, “You know, I’m a bit busy this month,” I smile and say, “Yes, of course, I can do it, no problem at all.” Sure. No problem if I didn’t have a job, a side business, a husband and two kids. With birthday parties to attend. And little league games to play. And ice skating recitals to perform in. Did I mention gymnastics, astronomy, cooking and tennis? Oh, and that dentist appointment I have to keep putting off because we don’t have time to get there since my daughter may miss a tennis lesson that I inadvertently scheduled before consulting with my mental calendar. Yes, I have a mental calendar. I do not write things down in a datebook, or a MomAgenda or in my Outlook express calendar or my BlackBerry for that matter. I keep all the dates right in my head. And lately, I’ve been off my game. It kind of feels like I’ve turned on the auto pilot switch in my brain and am now suffering from acute amnesia – like the time I wrote the wrong date on my son’s birthday invitation to one of his friends and the poor kid missed the shindig, or the other time one of the moms at pre-school told me that I signed her son’s birthday card: To Sam, Happy 5th Birthday, Your friend, Beth So this weekend, in my haste to get my kids to all their activities, I inadvertently remembered that I had committed myself to selling books and t-shirts at a crafts fair. It seemed simple enough. I was going to take my daughter with me while my husband took my son to a party and my little sales girl and I would man the table and hawk some wares. Wrong. We missed a minor addition to the schedule. Another birthday party. My daughter completely forgot she had a gymnastics extravaganza that afternoon so instead of accompanying me on an entrepreneurial adventure, at 10 am, we all hopped into the car and raced to Party City where we picked up a Darth Vader costume for my son (he was attending a Star Wars bash), hit Kaybee Toys for a gift for my daughter’s friend; had no time to wrap the gift so we bought tissue paper and a bag with a tiny card attached to it and this time I made sure to sign it “Love Becca.” We then hopped back in the car and went back to the house so I could get ready for my event and I “Jewish Star” promised I’d be back in time to watch my son’s baseball game. I also arranged for my daughter to get picked up by my friend, so everyone would get to where they wanted to go and my husband wouldn’t lose his mind. I felt the sniffles coming on, but I ignored the flu symptoms and went to grab my inventory and shove it in my trunk. But then I noticed that I had left the carpet samples I was supposed to return to the store three weeks ago in our mud room so I hastily grabbed those clumsy boards too and attempted to carry them to the car when SLAM!!! The carpet samples landed right on my toe and I started gushing blood. My husband, who was pretty annoyed that I had overscheduled the day and left him in to deal with all the kids’ appointments, finally did feel sorry for me when I let out a loud shriek and broke into tears. As I sat in the kitchen nursing my bloody foot, he fished out a Barbie band aid from the kitchen cabinet and gingerly wrapped it around my toe. And then, I kissed everyone goodbye and we went our separate ways. My family - to a birthday marathon, and me, to a shopping tent that included scores of men who winced or looked confused when they saw the name of my book (Peeing in Peace) or women who felt that my t-shirts were cute (“I Need a Playdate”) but rather pricey ($25) - have they not been to those upscale boutiques where they charge 50 bucks for a flimsy tee and don’t even bat an eye?!? And then there were others who were ready to spend some cash and bought my stuff – enabling me to pretty much make up the cost of what I spent to purchase the table for the event in the first place. I never did say I was a good business woman…writer yes, money maker, no. And then the clock struck 4pm. Tick tock, time to wrap things up. My son’s game was starting and I had to run like the wind. A very nice man in a golf cart helped me transport my things back to my car – in hindsight, for the amount of items I sold, I could have fit everything in an Ann Taylor Loft shopping bag rather than schlepping two oversized suitcases, a broken carton and a very large sign to the event. I then hopped in my Jetta and battled traffic as I attempted to zip over to the baseball field. I got to the bleachers just in time to watch my son staring into space on or around third base. He smiled at me and waved hello and asked his dad if he could come over and give me a hug, but since Daddy is the assistant coach, he told him he had to stay put. I parked my buns on the top row and noticed there was a bit of a nip in the air. Did I mention I didn’t have a jacket? And that my nose was running? Meanwhile, my daughter was lying nearby in a chaise lounge with her friend sifting through her goody bag for decent candy and yelled “Mommy, I found your favorite – Double Bubble…catch!” I savored my treat for about a minute and a half until it lost its flavor, then shuddered for a few minutes until a nice burly man next to me let me borrow his denim shirt to keep warm. At that point, I would’ve put on my son’s size 4T jacket since the chills were really setting in. After sitting out in the cold for what seemed like an eternity, the game ended (my munchkin got two hits) and our good friend, the coach, took our kids over to his place for a play date. I left the field to return my overpriced carpet samples and apologized profusely to the store owner and said I’d be back to place an order…not. The kids then came home and ate dinner, our babysitter arrived and we got the chance to have a night out on the town. Only problem, my nose was totally stuffed, I was feeling feverish and all I wanted to do was take a shot of Nyquil. So what’s the moral of this story? If you overcommit, you’ll feel like ****. You fill in the blank. Now I’m off to blow my nose.

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Bathroom Break...Also Seen in Time Out New York Kids

2007-05-12T18:34:00.000-04:00

I never thought that after my two kids became potty trained, I'd find myself spending a decent portion of my life in restaurant bathrooms. You see, I don't cook very often so we eat out. A lot. My kids have no problem eating everything from Indian to Japanese to Greek to Thai, but the minute our food arrives, the call of nature rears its ugly head.

"Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom!"

With my spoon ready to dive into a piping hot bowl of pasta fagioli, I grimace, grab my purse and proceed to the john. I think if I started keeping count, in the past five years, I probably have seen the inside of over 1000 bathrooms (sometimes repeat visits) as my kids repeatedly ask me to escort them to their very own personal refuge from the dinner table.

Frankly, I cannot understand why the bathroom tops the list as the prime destination to check out during a restaurant outing. I mean, they've got crayons, a kiddy flyer filled with mazes and coloring projects, drinks with umbrellas in them, Leapsters, but no, it's the alluring draw of the bathroom that sucks them in every time.

The cross section of bathrooms I've had to suffer through over the years range from putrid to palatial. Last night, I got the chance to frequent a mid-sized single bathroom that had a deceiving pleasant odor, but something that was utterly fowl in the toilet (doesn't anyone look when they flush?) I had the opportunity to visit that wonderful locale not once, but twice. The first time was with my son, who forgot to go tinkle when my husband brought him inside to wash his hands and then, another time with my daughter who, thankfully, after finishing her meal, decided it was time to go.

Some of my potty missions have given me the chance to pick up great renovating ideas for my own home. I've spent several minutes while my son was singing show tunes behind a stall, marveling at a decadent hotel bathroom with black granite countertops, ornate sink basins with a curving antique brushed pewter faucet and mosaic basket weave beige and black tiling adorning the floor. I was so entranced by the place that the bathroom lady almost had to step in and wipe my son's butt.

Let's not forget about those lovely emergency bathroom breaks that always seem to happen in the middle of nowhere. Like the time we were driving home from the Hamptons and my daughter couldn't hold it in and we had to slip into a seedy dive bar on Sunrise Highway where she relieved herself in one of the skankiest toilets I have ever seen. We of course, coated the seat with plenty of paper to avoid picking up any creepy diseases.

Then there's the kid friendly bathrooms at those restaurant chains that have everything from changing stations to a nursing area to sinks that only start when you wave your hands in front of them. That happens to drive me nuts by the way, since I always manage to find the one sink that won't turn on. What am I, dead or something that the sensor can't tell there's a hand waving furiously in front of it trying to get some damn water so I can race back to the table before my soup gets cold?

There's also that cool motion sensor paper towel dispenser that always provides several minutes of thrills for both of my kids. They'll stick around in the bathroom for an extra five minutes just so that they can keep waving their hands in front of that machine and waste several rolls of scratchy paper.

Let's not forget about the toilets that flush themselves. I still wax nostalgic over the first time my daughter sat her three-year-old fanny on one of those sneaky contraptions when we were in a bathroom in Disneyworld. The automatic flusher got her so fa-tootsed she was afraid to pee on the toilet for days.

And then there's the sanitary napkin dispenser. When my daughter was young she used to point to it and say, "Mommy, I want a prize from that thingamajig on the wall." Now that she can read, she's moved on to ask the dreaded question, "Mommy, what's a tampon?"

I truly hope that one day my kids will finally lose their fascination with public bathrooms. But for now, I've come to accept that whenever we go out to eat, I'm destined to be on duty. Literally. It may not be the most glamorous job in the world, but hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

To visit Time Out NY Kids, Click Here and to return to Role Mommy, Click Here.

Birthday Blunder

2007-05-06T17:19:00.000-04:00

I have certifiably lost my mind or the senility is already setting in and I am only 37. I cannot believe that I did it again. Two years in a row and I screwed up on the invitations for my son's birthday party. You see, yesterday was his party. It was a splendid affair - okay, splendid sounds a little queer. It was glorious - still kind of nerdy. Let's just say it was a great shindig - perfect weather, fun had by all, music, games, water balloons, pinatas, you name it, we had it and everyone had a grand old time.

Except for one of my son's friends. No - he wasn't afraid of water balloons or my husband who was dressed in a lion's costume (if you're curious this years' theme was "Wizard of Oz"). You see, when I was writing out the invitations, for some reason, unbeknownst even to myself, I wrote the wrong date on one invite (I hope) and the poor kid missed my son's birthday.

So I've come to the conclusion that I have lost my mind. I have gone into multi-tasking overload and my brain, which thinks it can handle cognitive thinking in auto pilot mode has completely malfunctioned.

From this day forward, I hereby announce I will:

A. Never write out party invitations while on the train home from Grand Central Station.

B. Use my computer and print out invitations so that the date and time of the party is fool proof.

C. Stop doing 10 things at once and concentrate dammit.

For the good of my kids, my husband - who wants to strangle me when I'm shopping online, checking email messages on my BlackBerry while simultaneously having a conversation with him, and for myself who has way too many balls in the air and needs to start saying no for a change, I am going to give multi-tasking a rest. That is until after I get through my next event for moms this Wednesday, an exciting Mamapalooza event on May 12, a CSI museum opening on May 23 and a few dentist appointments that I keep missing on a regular basis.

One day, when I'm toothless and completely senile, I will only have myself to blame. To return to our home page, Click Here.

Diet Time

2007-04-30T21:51:00.000-04:00

It's springtime and that means one thing. My pants are too damn tight and it's time to go on a diet....again. I can't believe that every year, I face the same dilemma. Five pounds heavier, can't find anything to wear and I've got to figure out which diet plan I'll be giving a whirl this year. This time around I'm trying out Weight Watchers online. Don't have time for meetings, not in the mood for some snarky woman to weigh me each week and not interested in having meals delivered to my house, only to gain the weight back the minute I stop forking over $150 per week to lose 1 pound. In the last two years, I've tried the Zone and L.A. Weight Loss and am now back on the WW train. So far, I've made it through two days and counting but haven't logged on yet to enter in the points I've used for the day. Oh, that's right - you're supposed to keep a running log of what you've eaten so that you can track if you're actually on track with the plan. Oops. Guess tomorrow's another day - will I lose 15 pounds before the summer? Doubtful - but hopefully, something inside my head will finally switch back on and I'll be a weight loss machine. Something tells me, that's not happening. Anyone have the number of a good plastic surgeon?

Sometimes Dreams Can Be Nightmares...

2007-04-09T22:33:00.000-04:00

Finally home again after a trip to Boynton Beach and Disney World. After filling up on matzoh, matzoh brei, matzoh balls and matzoh kugel, we packed up the car and set off to the land where dreams come true. Little did I know that we were actually headed to the most congested place on the entire planet...you guessed it - Disney World.

We arrived at our destination a few hours later...after playing numerous car games, taking one rest stop and breaking the Passover rules with some McDonald's, we finally made it to the Animal Kingdom Lodge where we were supposed to have a room that looked out over dozens of wild animals. Except, when we got to our room, it looked like we had been placed in the one section of the resort where the animals had no desire to visit. After dropping our bags, we slipped on our sneakers and raced to Animal Kingdom where we decided to try out a few rides before dinner. (Incidentally, we did get our room changed the next day and had a much better view the rest of the trip.)

It was a balmy day at the park and the crowds were insane. I never anticipated how many thousands of people descend upon Disney during Spring Break, but now I know and hope to never visit that time of year again. Now don't get me wrong, Disney tries hard to make your life easier - with their fast passes, amazing shows, character signings, fast food joints, ice cream stands, strollers and scooters, you'll never starve at Disney and if you're lazy, you'll never have to walk either.

What I began to notice as the days progessed was that as we tried to make our way past the hundreds of strollers, double strollers and kids throwing tantrums, we also encountered several morbidly obese individuals who were buzzing around on motor scooters because they couldn't navigate through the park without them. It was actually pretty depressing and when I noticed the line for the McDonald's french fry stand was just as long as the line for Splash Mountain, I could tell that many of these people weren't about to lose weight any time soon. After scarfing down one too many fast food meals and seeing what could happen to someone if they inhaled fast food every day of the week, I have officially decided to head back to WW (Weight Watchers) and lose some serious weight before my next vacation.

But I digress. Did the kids have a magical time? Absolutely. Magic Kingdom was incredibly busy, but on the third day we were there we visited the park in the late afternoon and found the lines were much shorter. We managed to get all the autographs we were searching for...including a last minute Minny and Mickey greeting at our hotel right before we checked out. The shows were fabulous - especially the High School Musical pep rally at MGM Studios and the new Finding Nemo musical in Animal Kingdom.

All in all, it was a great trip - except for the fact that Delta had changed our return flight without us knowing so we missed our departure and spent the entire day in the Orlando airport. Note to self: next time open that email from Delta before dismissing it as spam.

For more of my personal observations about Disney and some tips on the best places to visit to make sure you have pleasant dreams in Orlando rather than nightmares, then head to The Undercover Mom for the inside scoop on Destination Disney!

An Addendum...Even Meredith Viera Can't Skate

2007-03-27T10:12:00.000-04:00

So here I am recovering from my daughter's harrowing ice skating party when I come to find out that Meredith Viera - Role Mommy of all time - can't skate either. Click Here to see what happened to her while she was interviewing Will Ferrell about his new ice skating movie. Honestly, after seeing that, I'd be curious to find out how many people have been injured this year while ice skating - between all the spills at my party, plus the kids I see slamming into the ice on a regular basis, something tells me the injuries must be staggering. I think it's time we start enforcing ice skating safety rules...helmets are a must - this is a serious sport and if you can't skate - well you shouldn't take any chances - with your safety, or your child's. Okay...I'm off my soap box.

The Birthday Diaries

2007-03-25T08:28:00.000-04:00

So it's the day after my daughter's eighth birthday party. This year there were no party entertainers, no petting zoos, no circuses in the backyard...just a down and dirty party at the ice skating rink...with 25 kids whose parents dropped them off so they could run errands. In hindsight, it was actually a pretty scary proposition - 25 kids on the ice - many of whom didn't know how to skate. As I finished setting the table near the rink and got the veggie and fruit platter ready for consumption, one of my daughter's friends stopped by to tell me that even though her mom had told her to wear her helmet, she really could skate so would it be okay to leave the helmet on the sidelines. Stupidly, I said sure - but I told her I'd be watching and if I thought she needed the helmet, back it would go on her head.

As more guests continued to file in and I finally strapped on my skates, one of the kids came racing out to tell me that the little girl who told me she didn't want to wear a helmet had just fallen...and hit her head. Yikes! I raced out on the rink, helped her off the ice and proceeded to sit with her for the next 15 minutes as she held a bag of ice against her head and wept quietly. When she was ready to go back on the ice, I told her to strap on her helmet and not take it off for the rest of the party (except while she was eating of course).

Another 15 minutes went by and of course, another emergency. One of my daughter's other friends - whose dad had left to hit a few rounds of golf, had fallen flat on her back. She cried for about 5 minutes straight, we took her to the EMT and after she was checked out, she was given a clean bill of health to go back to the party and skate. Luckily, this was a minor injury so the partying continued.

After lunch and cake, the kids had about 10 more minutes to skate - nothing could happen in 10 minutes, right? WRONG. In the last 10 minutes, the third little girl whose mom had left the party because I had given her the green light that she'd be just fine, fell forward and landed hard on her knee and had to be carried off the ice because she couldn't walk. When the EMT examined her as her knee began to swell like a balloon, she informed me that we'd better call her mom because she needed to be checked out at the emergency room. I called her mom and she raced over and while another parent stayed with her as I cleaned up the party table, gave out goody bags and made sure no one else fell, the mom arrived, scooped her up and raced her to the doctor.

Thankfully, when I called the mom a few hours later, her daughter was okay - bruised but no broken bones. So after thinking an ice skating party would be a piece of cake, I think next year, it's back to the petting zoo or pony rides...or maybe just plain old pin the tail on the donkey. No more ice skating extravaganzas for us...it's way too stressful and as I learned the hard way - dangerous when the other kids can't really skate and their parents drop them off to run errands.

I Love Fruit Snacks

2007-03-16T18:15:00.000-04:00

I confess. I enjoy working from home two days a week. I also enjoy raiding the pantry and finding bad kiddy snacks when that 4pm hunger pang inevitably sets in. Sure I could grab a rice cake. But that would be too boring. Who needs that when I can have an entire bag full of welch's fruit snacks, or a box of nutter butter cookies or handful of m&m's from a goody bag with some extra candy lying around the bottom of that plastic spongebob bag. I know - it's not good to be a nosher. In the course of a year, I'll probably add another 10 pounds with my senseless noshing, but sometimes, a kiddy snack is the only thing I crave. Who doesn't love a devil dog when you're really feeling like you've hit a creative brick wall? And twinkies - sure they're made of paint or plastic or some weird rock that I remember reading about in the New York Times magazine, but dammit, it's good! Even when I pour my kids their cereal in the morning and one of them tells me they didn't want the Corn Pops, they would rather have the Cocoa Krispies, I gladly change their order and slurp up their leftovers. Yes, I'm a kiddy snacker and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Now if only my kids wouldn't give me a hard time when their last piece of bazooka Joe's goes missing, I'll be able to continue with my secret snacking mission and escape undetected. Oops, I guess if they know how to find my blog, then the jig is officially up.

Tissues, Toilet Paper and Sales Receipts

2007-03-11T19:39:00.000-04:00

Since I no longer travel with a diaper bag (ummm, that would be two years and counting), I am the most unprepared mother in my neighborhood. When my kid sneezed this morning and a big booger appeared under his button nose just as we're about to hop into Dunkin Donuts, I frantically searched for something to clean up the green gooky mess.

Sure, I could have taken him inside and grabbed a napkin, but that would have meant risking being seen by the visitors I practically see every morning since we frequent the place at least 5 times a week. So, I reached into my bag and pulled out a crisp, clean, sales receipt from the party center I visited yesterday to pick up supplies for my daughter's birthday. Yes, I grabbed whatever I could find and wiped his nose clean with a sales receipt. I then grabbed the Dunkin Donuts napkins and cleaned up the residue but I was desperate and thankfully, my bag is filled with paper products I'll never use again.

So that's my tip for busy moms on the run - don't throw out those sales receipts, sure you won't be able to show them to the IRS once you get audited, but at least your kids' nose will be clean as a whistle.

When Did I Become Old?

2007-02-25T08:33:00.000-05:00

I can't put my finger on what day last week this actually happened. After 37 years feeling young, ambitious, energetic and pretty happy with the way things are going, I came face to face with the fact that I am outdated. The first tell-tale sign came from the steady stream of gray hairs I seem to find myself plucking out of my head every morning. I used to be the person who proudly proclaimed "I never dye my hair." Well, looks like I've got to have a consultation with Clairol. Next was a conversation that I had with a 20 something up and comer in one of the departments I work with who actually told me that I'm her role model and she'd like to one day aspire to be like me. That was incredibly flattering, but it also made me feel like I was a grandmother or something. Oh, but it got better. Last night I was confronted face to face with the fact that I am officially past my prime. My in-laws took our kids for the night so we decided to share a fun night out in Manhattan - even visiting one of my favorite old haunts - no not a dance club, but the dessert place, Serendipity. When we walked inside there was a small group of young girls wearing designer jeans, leg warmers and heels (hello "Flashdance"), hanging out waiting for their turn to be called and when my husband asked for a table for two, the obnoxious host told him it would be a two hour wait - even though there were hardly any people waiting for tables! We totally thought he was snubbing us because we weren't teenagers or twentysomethings - either way - we were pissed and decided to seek our revenge by going to Dylan's Candy Bar. But Dylan's is unfortunately, smoke and mirrors. At first glance, the place looks amazing with every candy known to mankind - including those bubble gum cigarettes I used to love when I was a kid. When we went on line to order Frozen Hot Chocolates - which happens to be one of Serendipity's signature items - I was giddy with excitement...until I took my first sip. Turns out that Dylan's hasn't been able to steal the recipe from Serendipity's even though the two stores are about 500 yards away from each other. And then, to top off the evening we went to go see "Music and Lyrics" with two of my favorite actors of the 80's, 90's and today...Drew Barrymore and Hugh Grant. I was so excited to see both of them on screen until I noticed that the film pretty much made fun of the fact that women in their late thirties (that would be me) fawned over Hugh Grant's washed up 80's pop star character. Yet he was still attractive, falling for the younger Drew Barrymore while the 37 year olds were like shriveled old ladies trying to recapture their long forgotten youth. I know getting old pretty much sucks but why do men age gracefully and women have to be on the lookout for the latest botox treatment that won't make them look like Jocelyn Wildenstein? Well, all I can say is despite the fact that my younger co-workers and Hollywood think I'm officially over the hill, I'm going to fight the system with every feeble bone in my body. I'm in my thirties and I finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up so back off kiddies and stay out of my way!

*Great Confession from our Role Mommy Giveaway Winner!

2007-02-23T10:31:00.000-05:00

*Meet Amy...

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Amy's Confession...

When is the last time you felt a real sense of accomplishment? Usually it has to do with completing a project or a job well done. Before my daughter, that is when I would have applied the term. Now, I parade around the house, feeling a real sense of accomplishment...when I remove a huge booger from her nose. Not only do I parade around the house, I do so with the giant snot stuck to my finger, waving it above my head. It sounds insane, but let me explain:First, you have to get close to the little munchkin's nose. No easy feat when you consider her super human strength when faced with a tissue. She also has this tactic I call "the mini-golf windmill". She also uses this when eating on occasion. Just when you think you are close to your target, her hand moves to block the incoming hand.Second, you have to be prepared. Keep in mind, these are not ordinary boogers. They are made of some organic compound that can be stretched beyond imaginable limits. You need to have a tissue available for the snot to stick to, otherwise all it does it taunt you and then bounce back into the nostril never to be seen again. Third, you have to have at least six hands; two to hold her head still, two to immobilize her arms, one to hold the tissue and the other with a longer nail on the pinky to fit in the nostril and coax the little yellow bugger out.Somehow removing one big-butt booger has become more important to me than closing a multi-million dollar deal or giving a presentation to a group of key clients.

For more of Amy's hilarious stories about her life as a working mom, visit her blog CT Working Mom.

The Guilt Trip

2007-02-16T16:29:00.000-05:00

I recently went out of town on a business trip that took me away from my family for a total of 36 hours (more or less). I made sure to book the flight out to Los Angeles so that I'd be able to fly home in time to take the kids to school the moment I set foot in the door.

You see, business trips for mothers are really guilt trips. You get the guilt from your kids for leaving them at home or forgetting to bring them back something cool from your trip - note to self - pricey items from the LAX airport are not the way to go next go round. You get the guilt from your spouse who doesn't want you to be away from the family and proceeds to tell you what an incredibly exhausting day he had without you as he tended to your kids every need.

Some women even get guilt from their animals - dogs or cats who leave them something special to remember them by right before their ready to bolt out the door and head for the airport.

But despite the guilt that I feel whenever I go away, I am guilty of something far worse. I enjoy being away from home every once in a while. Yes - I am guilty - I enjoy king sized beds whose only inhabitant is me for the night. I especially love pillow top mattresses and those cozy robes that they offer at upscale hotels.

I feel guilty that I enjoy reading USA Today cover to cover - I'd prefer it were the New York Times, but unfortunately in L.A., USA Today has monopolized the hotel circuit. I enjoy watching the news from my luxury bathroom or from the tub on the wall of a hotel I stayed at in Chicago that was sheer bliss after I endured a long plane ride while battling an awful cold.

I feel guilty that I adore room service. Sure they charge me 40 bucks for an omelette, but I love that I can eat by myself, with no one calling my name and no one demanding I come to the bathroom to wipe their tush. I feel guilty that I love watching the morning news without anyone asking me to change the channel so that they can watch "Sponge Bob." I feel guilty that I love turning on my laptop and writing for hours without any interruptions.

Yes, I am guilty of enjoying a business trip. It's not that I travel all the time - I'm sure I'd probably hate going away if I had to do it on a regular basis. But every once in a while, I enjoy getting the chance to have a good night's sleep and then I can come home and appreciate everything that I have in my life - two adorable kids, a terrific husband and a cat who enjoys curling up next to me on the couch.

So the next time your family makes you feel guilty for going away on business...just remember - give up the guilt and enjoy the time away - a good night sleep in a king sized bed may be the guilty pleasure you need to make you feel like yourself again!

Say Goodnight Gracie

2007-02-05T16:28:00.000-05:00

Well, as quickly as we welcomed a new cat into our happy home, the quicker we ushered her out when the going got tough. You see, as I had mentioned in my previous post, it had appeared that our cat Rudy, was lonely after losing his lifelong companion and brother, Oliver. But, I think we were mistaken.

Sure he stared longingly outside to our backyard which we interpreted as him looking for Oliver, but what we realized after taking in Gracie, was that Rudy is truly a loner at heart.

The trouble started almost immediately. Gracie arrived and hid under anything she could find. Personally, I saw that as a positive since I knew she wouldn't wreck our furniture if she was only hiding under it. But when we attempted to bring her out to civilization and introduce her to Rudy, that's when all hell broke loose. Our fearless cat began to tremble, whining, meowing, scratching everything in his sight to get away from Gracie. And Gracie...well she took off to hide under the sofa until the coast was clear.

Once the initial introductions were made, we figured we'd let the cats become friendly in their own time. Except Gracie was nowhere to be found. We searched under all the furniture but no matter where we looked, she wouldn't materialize. That is, until we started to do a little aggressive investigating. After opening one of our closet doors in our basement, we discovered that not only had Gracie found refuge in the cavernous section of our closet, she also decided to create a new way to mark her territory - no need for a litterbox when you can pretty much crap all over the basement.

Oh, but it gets worse. After cleaning up the mess Gracie made in our basement, we soon discovered that Rudy was petrified of setting foot in the basement. Probably because Gracie was lurking in the shadows - ready to pounce when no one was looking. And so, on day five of our foster cat situation, my cat, the one who never really caused any problems for us suddenly decided that the bathtub would be a great place to relieve himself.

When I came home to find that Rudy had used our tub as a toilet, I threw my hands up and decided that taking in a companion for a cat wasn't necessarily the best idea in the world. And so, on Saturday morning, one week after greeting our guest, we all said our goodbyes to Gracie. We sent the feline packing from whence she came, and Rudy, well - he couldn't have been happier.

*Melinda's Confession...Winner of Our Giveaway for The Pepper Kids!

2007-01-31T15:18:00.000-05:00

Our 7 year old boy pulled me aside last Friday evening, giggling a bit, to say he had a question for me.

His giggling made me giggle and I didn't even know what the question was going to be. As we sat, cuddly style, on the stairs in our house I looked at his laughing face and beamed with pride at how grown up he has become. He is a wonderful boy, brother and student. Then he said, through his giggles, "Mom, do you and Dad sex?" My emotions went on a roller coaster...pride to shock to laughing out loud! I kept giggling with him and I asked him to repeat the question. I felt there was no need to answer it yet, as I may have completely misunderstood his question. Unfortunately, he repeated the same question, using the same words. I looked around the room to see if our 4 year old was nearby. No sign of him. I looked for my husband. No sign of him. I took a deep breath and asked my 7 year old if he could explain to me what he was asking. He said that I should know. I told him I wasn't sure what he was talking about, but once he explained it to me, I would be sure to let him know if his father and I were partaking. With the realization that I might share a secret with him, he got serious. He explained that he had been told that to "sex" is when a boy and girl take off their shirts and hug. He burst into laughter from embarrassment. I was trying not to let the tears in my eyes run down my face so quickly. After we had calmed one another I said to him. What you need to know about the word sex is that YOU are of the male sex and I am of the female sex. We also discussed the body parts that made us fit into these categories. He seemed satisfied with my answer and I took another deep breath. Shortly after, I phoned his teacher to let her know that this information was passing through her room and to be aware. She was very thankful.

Divide and Conquer...The Rebuttal

2007-01-31T12:47:00.000-05:00

The following is a re-telling of our recent tale through the eyes of the dad...once again, names have been changed to protect embarrassing the innocent...

Begin Scene...

John and Julie are busy attempting to feed their three kids when the youngest, Matthew decides to sprint out of the room with a fork in his hand. Mom always said, never run with a fork...

Suddenly, from the living room, both parents hear a loud scream and then a wail. It's Matthew.

After tripping off a fringe in the area rug, Matthew accidentally stuck the fork he was running with in his eye. As Julie races over to assess the situation, John stays in the kitchen with their other two kids. Tears are streaming everywhere, Matthew has broken the skin and Julie can't determine whether he's poked his cornea and if she better grab their coats and head straight to the emergency room.

5 minutes later, when its clear that Matthew has only a slight cut on his cheek, which has stopped bleeding, Julie is still clutching Matthew to her chest in a bear hug. "Maybe you should loosen your grip a little, honey," says John, as Matthew struggles to breathe. "Shouldn't we take him to the emergency room," Julie asks shakily. John eyes the slight cut doubtfully. "Ummm....well they might give us a bandaid," he replies.

10 minutes later, Julie is still holding tightly to Matthew. The couple had discussed John taking the kids to see a movie that afternoon. The kids are looking expectantly at Daddy. Hesistantly, he suggests "How about I take all three kids to the movie?" Julie immediately leaves the room with Matthew, who is reaching out toward his Dad with his one free hand.

End Scene.

Divide and Conquer

2007-01-27T08:05:00.000-05:00

A little disclaimer before we begin this story. The names of the family members have been changed to protect embarrassing the innocent.

Begin scene...

John and Julie are busy attempting to feed their three kids when the youngest, Matthew decides to sprint out of the room with a fork in his hand. Mom always said, never run with a fork...

Suddenly, from the living room, both parents hear a loud scream and then a wail. It's Matthew.

After tripping off a fringe in the area rug, Matthew accidentally stuck the fork he was running with in his eye. As Julie races over to assess the situation, John stays in the kitchen with their other two kids. Tears are streaming everywhere, Matthew has broken the skin and Julie can't determine whether he's poked his cornea and whether she better grab their coats and head to the emergency room.

Meanwhile, completely unfazed, John walks into the room and says, "I'm going to take Erica and Jason to see "Night at the Museum."

"But Matthew just stuck a fork in his eye! I may have to take him to the hospital," Julie replies in horror.

"That's okay - you take him to the emergency room, I'll take the kids to the movies."

End Scene.

Folk Dance Frenzy

2007-01-19T17:15:00.000-05:00

Was out late for our book event a few nights ago and the very next morning my daughter looks at me and says, "Mommy are you staying home today?"

"No Becca I have to go to work."

"But Mommy - you were supposed to watch me dance today!" "Dance - you never told me anything about a dance. I never saw a note about it."

"But Mommy, there was a note, you just didn't read it and now you're not coming."

At this point, my daughter breaks into tears and I start contemplating whether or not anyone will notice if I walk into the office at 11 am after being completely AWOL the day before. And so, I pick up the phone and called the mom connection - the one mom who may have a handle on what the heck is going on that day in class.

"Robin - do you know anything about a Chinese Folk Dancing shindig at school today that we're supposed to attend?" I ask.

"Chinese folk - no I don't think so....Jake - do you have some dance thing today?...Mommy - I don't know."

"So you don't know either," I reply.

"Look, I'll get to the bottom of this and call you back."

As I proceed to go back into the bathroom and get ready for work, my daughter comes in again. "I think I know what I have today Mommy. Today we learn the dance and parents can come and watch. Then next week we will perform the dance and parents can watch too. It's all messed up in my head - I don't know if you have to come today or not."

A few minutes later, the phone rings - Robin called another reliable mom and we finally got to the bottom of the situation - watching today was optional, the performance is next week at 1pm - very convenient for a working mom and we had to decide if we wanted to watch the kids learn the dance or perform it. Considering I had been away from my office for over 24 hours, I opted to watch her dance next week.

Guilt trip averted...at least until it's time for her to learn the Irish Jig.

Confessions by Marion...Birthday Madness

2007-01-11T17:14:00.000-05:00

My two youngest will be turning 9 the end of this month. Just when I was finally recovering from my post traumatic Holiday stress syndrome, I am thrust once again into the planning of yet another “Celebration.” Unfortunately, this time the guests are usually much more demanding as to entrees, and entertainment. The tostadas and Gina’s velvetta and chili dip that the moms are quite happy to scarf down with a little chardonnay do not cut it with the pint size gourmand set.

I have been hosting these soirees for the past 13 years, and I have lived to tell the tale. To the uninitiated: DO NOT, I mean never, host this fete in your home! Unless your home has been chosen for the “Extreme Makeover Home Edition” don’t go there.

You will be guaranteed rain that day, and there is no way that your guests remain in the designated area. Small children will swarm over your home, leaving a path of destruction rivaling Sherman’s March on Atlanta. Cabinets and drawers will be inspected by small enquiring minds; you will be critiqued on your home décor, and informed that your house “smells funny.”

The food you serve will not be up to snuff. You either ordered the pizza from the wrong place i.e.: “We don’t eat ABC Pizza at our house; my mom says XYZ’s is much better.” Or “why are we eating chicken fingers when everyone knows I only eat Pizza?” (Sorry kid, never got the memo from your advance people!) There is usually an embarrassing question or two lobbed……

“Gee this house is much smaller then my house, are you poor?” “This house is bigger then my house, are you rich?” The games you lovingly planned, are either ignored, or result in tantrums, when everyone doesn’t win. Call me politically incorrect, but not everyone can win at musical chairs, or bingo. You find yourself looking at your watch, wondering if you have entered a time space warp, and time is actually standing still. It is at this point when you decide, next year we have this shindig off premises.

Oh the choices!!!!!

My first off site party was at one of those indoor playgrounds, with a ball pit, those toddler size hamster tubes, and the bane of most Moms…video games. It looks much better on paper. When mom has to wade into a ball pit, wiggle through a tube, to retrieve a screaming child, or pull the plug on the video token gravy train, it tends to take the polish off the proceedings. You know that the twenty something “party host” (that poor person dressed up as a character, leading the festivities) is rethinking their decision to leave college.

The following year I hosted a party at one of those pottery places. The guests are invited to pick out a plaster statue, then paint and decorate this item to keep as a memento of the wonderful time they had at your child’s party. Lovely idea. Unfortunately they only had six ninja turtles, and we had eight ninja turtle fans. Oh what budding little artists. They painted the statue, the table, and each other. Try explaining that to the mother of the Gene Simmons look a like, when she shows up to retrieve her little angel.

I also tried doing the miniature golf outing. Be warned, little golf clubs become lethal weapons in the hands of second graders! Ditto for batting cages.

My favorite of the birthday bashes was the laser tag party. At this event the children play two rounds of laser tag, are fed pizza, soda, and ice cream birthday cake, and then sent home. Neat, virtually painless, two thumbs up from the guests, and I was able to get a pretty good interest rate on the second mortgage that was needed to pay for it.

The common denominator at all of these parties, be it at home or out, is the goody bag, the child’s swag, or as I call it “the bag o’ crap.” I don’t know where or when, or more importantly why this tradition was started. (Although I have a sneaking suspicion it was invented by the good people at Oriental trading company) A small remembrance is given to each guest, at your child’s party. This is the area that is most severely critiqued. Irregardless of the fact that the life expectancy of the contents are about 24 hours. Most take homes consist of small trinkets, such as tattoos, yoyos, bubbles, and penny candies. (As if such a thing exits anymore) I personally try to toss in a few miniature snickers or milky ways for the chauffeurs (moms) to snack on, as they bring home their sugar hyped offspring. If you can’t beat em, join em. Woe to the host if such offerings are overlooked. The departing guests will hunt you down like a dog….”I’m leaving now, where’s my bag?” The bag is then rifled through, and an opinion is rendered immediately. You will be informed if your bag is substandard, (Billy had way better stuff at his party) or OK…which by the way is two thumbs up…way up!

Before I get started planning this year’s extravaganza, one more word to the wise…book early. It is easier to get the Plaza for a wedding, then a slot at the local Birthday’s R us!

To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here.

Confessions from Design-her Gal

2007-01-07T20:55:00.000-05:00

MOM ALWAYS SAID, NEVER SWALLOW HUB CAPS...

by Jeanne Fitzmaurice

It is freezing and icy outside tonight. There's a blizzard in the mountains all day and I am feeling sick – sick - sick. All I want is to get to bed early and rest. But No! My husband is off to Europe for a business trip this week and I always look forward to seeing what emergency will take place while he is away (it is inevitable!) Tonight I found out. My 9 year old accidentally swallowed a plastic hub cap from a toy truck. We spent the night calling emergency room and doctors to decide whether to let nature takes its course or go in and try to retrieve. By the time the phone calls went back and forth -- we are now hoping that nature will be kind and that this object will not get stuck somewhere on the way out. YIKES. I don't know if you have any children but it always seems that when his Dad is around all is fine -- but the minute he walks out the door -- the garbage disposal will explode -- the stove will catch on fire and an assortment of other fun things occur. Wonder why that is? I guess the universe wants to remind me how important he is!

To find out more about Jeanne Fitzmaurice, founder of Design-her Gals, an amazing online custom stationery business and cover illustrator of our new book Peeing in Peace: Tales & Tips for Type A Moms then CLICK HERE and start shopping!

Funeral for a Friend

2006-12-26T17:38:00.000-05:00

I'm about to take a departure from the usual laugh out loud columns that I try to write every week. You see, unfortunately, my family and I have had quite the roller coaster week. It started with our beloved cat Oliver, who has been sick for quite some time now and we thought last Tuesday that his number had finally come up. And so, after breaking the news to our kids, Darin took the ailing feline to the vet who told him that he could still hang on for a few more weeks. When my daughter came home from school later that day, she was thrilled to see that Oliver hadn't left us yet and she lavished him with attention and kisses. As we all got ready for bed that night, the phone rang. Darin answered and right away from his voice and the look on his face, I knew something was up. "Beth, it's your mom. Something happened with your dad." At this point, in sheer panic, I grabbed the phone and found out that my dad, an athletic guy of 66 whose favorite past time is tennis, golf, acting and nudging my mom, had suffered a heart attack earlier in the day. My mom tried to hide the fear in her voice as she assured me that everything was okay and that I didn't have to come down to Florida. I instantly told my mom that I was planning to see my dad for myself and raced down to my computer to book us on the next flight out. I spent the night crying hysterically because I didn't have the chance to speak with my dad (visiting hours were over for the night) and couldn't sleep until I spoke with him the next morning. While dad sounded okay, you could tell he was a bit nervous - he had already had one procedure the day before but had to go in for another one the next day so he still wasn't out of the woods. I told him we'd be there that afternoon and I could tell he was getting all teary-eyed on the other end right after I told him I loved him. With our two kids in tow - who were both under the impression that Grandpa had broken his leg or had an accident on the tennis court, we hopped on our flight, made it to Florida - and went straight to the hospital with my mom - who hugged me tight and whispered "I'm glad you're here" the moment we arrived. When we got to the hospital, dad was his usual jovial self - cracking jokes, making small talk, showing the kids how to use the remote on the TV - he seemed just fine - except for the tubes coming out of his arms and the mint green hospital gown. The next day, my mom and I returned to the hospital to find that dad had already been brought to the CATH lab for what we thought was going to be another procedure to place a stent in his artery - instead he wound up with an angioplasty. While in the waiting room, we had the most surreal encounter. A little back story to clarify why we think we had a visit from the spirit world. You see, the year before I was born my grandfather, Benjamin Goldman, suffered a heart attack. When he was admitted to the hospital, my grandmother and my mom were told that he would be okay and that they wanted to keep him overnight for observation. That night, my grandfather had another massive coronary and died in his sleep. My mom, had this experience weighing on her thoughts throughout this entire experience and I knew that as strong as my dad is, there was always a chance that something could go wrong - and mom felt the same way too. But then the waiting room incident happened. As we sat down in our seats, I looked across the room at a woman whose name tag said Lenore Goldman. Okay - so why is that eery, you ask? Well, my mom's name is Lenore. And her maiden name, if you're following the story from before, is Goldman. For the very first time in her life, my mom came face to face with a woman who shared her name - on the same day her husband was to go in for a heart procedure. Even stranger - now this one my husband says is a stretch - but Lenore Goldman's husband's name was Bernie. My grandfather - Bennie. So my interpretation of this experience was that my grandma Dora and my grandpa Benjamin wanted to give my mom a sign that they were there with her too and that everything would be okay. They wheeled my dad out of surgery about a half hour later and when we finally got to see him, he was a bit woozy from the medication and kept repeating himself a few times. But that was quite alright. My dad was okay and I was eternally grateful. We spent the afternoon with dad, sharing funny stories - the crazy encounter in the waiting room and just relishing the fact that he had survived and everything would go back to normal again. Dad received phone calls and visitors all day and you could tell that he too was relieved that he was on the mend. While he did have to spend one more day in the hospital (his blood pressure dropped in the middle of the night and he had had an arrythmia) he did get to go home on Saturday and was greeted with Welcome Home signs created by his grandchildren. Although he still felt a bit winded doing the smallest activity - like picking up the morning paper from outside, dad was almost back to his old self. He even broke out into song - practicing one of the numbers he'd be performing in March with the Palm Isle Players. As quickly as we jetted into be with Dad, we hastily made our plans to return so that we could be with Darin's family for Christmas. We flew back on Sunday and saw that our cat Oliver was still alive (barely) and we all stood around him to pet him. Actually, I grabbed all the sheets off the couch and the wing chair because he had soiled everything around him, but he was still around, so the kids were happy. On Christmas Day, we visited Darin's cousins for their annual get together and when we returned home, we arrived to find that Oliver had passed away. Rebecca was devastated - although she did ask if we could get another pet quickly after our beloved cat expired. Since we didn't have to bring him to the vet to be put to sleep we now had to figure out funeral arrangements. Rebecca wanted us to bury him in a pet cemetary and we quickly convinced her that we'd find a shady spot in the backyard and that would be Oliver's final resting place. And so, on December 26, the Feldman family had a funeral for a friend. Oliver Feldman, who passed away on Christmas Day along with James Brown I might add, was swaddled in a baby towel and buried in our backyard. Darin said a few words of wisdom, Dylan said his goodbyes, I blew a kiss and Rebecca told him that she loved him. And Rudy, the cat who had just lost his brother to cancer, watched high above from our window and scurried out of sight when we all came back inside.

And that was my week and what I've come to think is a major lesson on life. Never take anyone for granted - tell your family members that you love them - even when they're driving you nuts. Life is too short - and when you lose a pet, involve everyone in the process - I really didn't know how to teach my kids about dying but they experienced it this weekend, shed some tears and then we went to go see "Charlotte's Web." Quite simply, life does in fact go on. Now for the funnier side of our adventure in Boynton Beach, check out the Undercover Mom.

The Fish

2006-12-10T08:12:00.000-05:00

I have officially become my mother. I don't mean that in a derogatory way at all because I think my mom is amazing, but when it comes to purchasing household pets, I finally see why she never wanted us to have anything more than a parakeet and a fish. You see, I am the owner of two cats - one that's pretty healthy and the other that is pretty sick these days and leaves a surprise for me every morning when I open the door to our laundry room and he's spewed the contents of his tender vittles all over the linoleum floor. I know - not a pretty picture but if you're contemplating getting an animal - just make sure you don't have an affinity for fancy furniture or expensive rugs because once you welcome a furry creature with four legs into your home, then you have officially decided that you don't really care about leather sectional couches or karastan carpets.

Since the time I was a toddler, I always wanted a dog - but my parents stood firm and never acquiesed - and we didn't even have nice furniture - I just think my mom never wanted to deal with the added responsibility. She already had me, my brother and my dad to deal with, who needed to add a shitzu with a pooping problem to the mix? And so, we grew up with goldfish, the occasional tropical fish when they didn't croak the first week or jump out of the tank (a pregnant fish did that to us once) and Tweety, our beloved parakeet who my grandmother pretty much cared for until he bit the dust on my 13th birthday.

Which leads me to the events that transpired last evening with my daughter. We were about to go to dinner when she noticed a tropical fish store that she wanted to visit. A harmless excursion - or so I thought. You see, when we walked inside, we saw a treasure trove of fish, frogs, eels, coral, and expensive fish tanks that made my daughter's eyes light up. You would have thought she had just hit the jackpot or something - because the instant we started walking past the fish tanks, all she could keep saying was, "I want a fish. I want a fish!" And all I kept thinking was "I don't want to have to clean the tank. I don't want to have to clean the tank." Have you ever cleaned a fish tank before? Well it's pretty gross...not as gross as wiping up the latest present my cat Oliver left for me at 7am this morning, but the gross factor is still there.

As my daughter's excitement about the fish continued to mount, I quickly thought of reasons why we couldn't become fish owners. "We're about to go into a restaurant, Rebecca. We can't get a fish tonight."

"But I want one! I'll take care of it!" she begged.

"Oh really. Who takes care of the cats?"

"Ummm. You."

"That's right - I feed them and clean up after them and trust me, that's what'll happen with a fish."

My daughter saw where the conversation was going and decided to make a deal with me.

"If I promise to feed the cats for four months, will you buy me a fish?"

Seems like a fair deal - so we shook on it and she even started thinking of names she'd call her fish.

"I think I'll call that bug eyed one Goldy."

Fast forward to this morning and guess who got to clean up the mess and feed the cats?

Yup, me. Looks like it's going to be a long time before Goldy gets to pack his things and move into our place.

The Princess and the Band Aid

2006-12-03T09:57:00.000-05:00

If there ever was a sitcom called "The Princess and the Pea," my daughter would have the lead role. Today, she starred in an episode I'd like to call "The Princess and the Band Aid." You see, my determined, yet sensitive seven-year-old always has a comment about the clothes I select for her, the food I prepare for her, and even the band aid that I handed her this morning after she complained that her finger was causing her tremendous pain. It's enough to drive you to the point of insanity. And this morning, took the cake. After picking out clothes that she actually didn't fight with me to wear, she began complaining that her finger was hurting as she threw in that she didn't want to go to Hebrew School because she was in so much pain. I pretty much ignored her whining, handed her a few band aids, threw on her coat, shuffled her and my son into the car and we were on our way to our morning ritual destination...Dunkin Donuts. Somehow, while purchasing the usual, Nesquik and a donut with chocolate frosting, there were no complaints about ailments so I figured we were in the clear. I got the kids back into the car, and raced off to Hebrew school when the whining began to rear its ugly head yet again. "My finger, it hurts so much!" my daughter wailed. "Let me see what it looks like," I replied. "NOOOOO!!!! DON'T TOUCH IT, IT HURTS!" she screamed. At this point, I know all the other parents were staring at me as I shouted back at her to stop whining and let me have a careful examination. "Let me see your finger!" As she continued to scream, I yanked the bandage off and noticed she had put the band aid on so tight that she was cutting off the circulation. At this point, amidst tears, more pleas to not have to go to Hebrew school and a mangled band aid, I inspected the finger and it was a little red, but there was no sign of infection, so I insisted she head to her classroom. As I paraded her through a crowd of parents and kids, with tears streaming down her face, she approached her room and thankfully, a nice teaching assistant came out and like Florence Nightingale, went for her Sarah Heartburn routine, hook, line and sinker. As I walked behind the two of them, I watched as my daughter was escorted to the nurses' office for some ice to soothe a finger that had been suffocated by a band-aid. And thus ends today's saga of the "Princess and the Band Aid." Tomorrow's installment...the Princess and the Winter Coat...

NOBODY HOME...

2006-11-25T17:06:00.000-05:00

I have never felt so horrible in all of my life. As if I didn’t have enough to feel guilty about…kids, work, husband, …you can now add friends to that list.

So, in an effort to see my friends, to carve out more time with them and make sure they know that even though I don’t see them very often, they are so dear to me, I decided to throw a party. I called all of my friends, the old ones, new ones, long lost ones and even a few acquaintances who I always wanted to elevate to friend status but never found the time to cultivate the relationship. I called them all.

Come..eat, drink, be merry, make friends with my friends, spend time together…know how much your friendship means to me. Sounds great, right? Well it was great – everyone RSVP’d, everyone was coming and everyone was psyched about seeing each other. And then, it happened. My husband was called out of town on business and I had to cancel our big friend fiesta. I went down the list, called everyone I needed to, or so I thought. I missed one. I forgot to call a very lovely old childhood friend who I never ever see anymore.

So, the day arrives, now since I’m no longer hosting a party, I high tail out of town and take my children to visit another old friend that we never see. I arrived back home that night, walked in the door, checked my answering machine and instantly felt the blood drain from my face. Oops – oh shit. Seems my forgotten friend packed up her husband and two children and drove 30 minutes expecting a party but found a locked up empty house instead.

BUY OUR NEW BOOK...Peeing in Peace!!!

2006-11-19T07:14:00.000-05:00

Are you a multi tasking mom pulled in a million directions by your precocious kids, demanding boss and starved for attention spouse? Do you find the only time you are able to steal a moment to yourself is when you’re behind the doors of a bathroom stall? Then you are in desperate need of a play-date with Peeing in Peace.

Between the pages of this book you’ll find your community, confidantes and co-conspirators. Packed with hilarious stories and side splitting parenting tips, we’ll help you navigate the choppy waters of work, home and everywhere in between.Whether you’re a working mom practicing the daily juggle, expectant mom wondering what your new life will be like, or stay at home mom who’s thinking of one day dusting off those old business suits and jumping back into the game, this is the only humorous how-to you’ll ever need.Who else but two successful time-strapped busy working moms can offer a brutally honest yet beautifully inspiring glimpse of what it’s really like to be a modern day working mother.

So grab a latte, enjoy the quiet and dive in.

Click Here to place your pre-order on Amazon...trust us, you won't be disappointed! For more information about the book, visit our Peeing in Peace blog.

Why Bother

2006-11-11T07:55:00.000-05:00

After enduring a pretty hectic week where I wound up having an experience that I'd pretty much like to completely forget, I received some words of wisdom from none other than "Sponge Bob." Since my kids watch it every morning as I get ready to work - I also listen to the show with half an ear because I always find that Sponge Bob has a great zinger that's sure to put a smile on my face. Well, today he totally made my morning. I was busy re-living the events of the previous day in my head and was totally in a bad mood when Sponge Bob turned to his friend and said "Patrick, why don't we just call ourselves Why and Bother?" Exactly what I was thinking! Nothing like a kids cartoon to give you a little perspective on life.

The Grapes of Wrath

2006-11-03T15:04:00.000-05:00

Cynthia is busy shopping at Costco with her two-year-old son and he's on the verge of a meltdown. As she wanders into the produce section, Cynthia spots an oversized bag of grapes and plops them into her cart. When she was a new mother, Cynthia would have hand washed the grapes in a colander and sprayed some fruit cleanser on them, but today at the monster supermarket, it's all about speed and efficiency - and keeping a kid from going ballistic. So, she grabs a grape and hands it to her toddler who of course, drops it on the floor that thousands of people have walked on in the past year. Her son's eyes start to well up and he's about to blow like a tea kettle, so what does Cynthia do? Use the five second rule of course. Pick the grape off the floor, pop it in her mouth to clean it off and gives it back to her son. Luckily, no one was looking so Cynthia thinks she's in the clear. That is, until her son drops a second grape on the floor and when she attempts to use the same procedure on the wayward grape, a female customer catches her in the act and gives her a look of disgust at what she's just witnessed. While racing out of the aisle to head on to the paper goods, Cynthia looks back at the woman and calls out, "Look lady, if giving my kid a dirty grape is the only way I'm going to get through Costco, then that's the way it has to be." Long live the five second rule!!!

SHOPPING ON THE FLY

2006-10-24T13:49:00.000-04:00

I think I have an addiction. It's not chocolate, alcohol or crack for that matter. It's much more dangerous. It involves Visa, Mastercard and my Ann Taylor Loft card. Yes, I am a drive by shopper. Actually, it's more like a walk-by but nevertheless, if I pass a store with a great outfit in the window, or if I'm wearing a pair of boots that are in desperate need of repair, I don't run to the nearest blacksmith...I bolt to the closest shoe store. Just the other day I was wearing a smashing chocolate brown skirt and sweater set that I had picked up at Loft but I had a major fashion dilemma. The outfit looked great - but the shoes - atrocious. I hopped on the train that morning and knew that before I set foot in my office that my credit card would find it's way into the hands of a very happy store clerk. I strategically mapped out my plan by giving myself six shoe store shopping choices on the way to my building. Lucky for me, by the third walk-by, I had hit the jackpot. Chocolate brown suede boots that were wide enough to go around my larger than life calves. I proudly whipped out my credit card...saw the magical approved symbol flash, told the girl to hide away my hideous old shoes and I proudly walked out of the store with my new purchase guiding the way. But it didn't stop with the boots. My addiction also hit me at lunch too. Especially since Loft was flashing that enticing 75% sale sign in the window. I already bought three outfits yesterday but noticed in one of their windows a really cute sweater and belt combo that I thought would look absolutely fabu on me. And mom just gave me a $100 gift card for my birthday. Looks like the magnetic pull from Loft would draw me in again at noon. Luckily by 5:30 pm, I had to hit the train so I couldn't race in for one last look...unless of course I left a few minutes early so I could scoop up that pair of earrings I noticed earlier today that perfectly matched my newly purchased sweater/belt combo. It's not like I'm a gambler or anything. I just love to purchase things on the fly and since Ann Taylor Loft is on nearly every Manhattan street corner, they happen to get first crack at my wallet. Some say that my addiction could be much worse. I could have a Jimmy Choo fixation or a Gucci fetish but I'm way more sensible when it comes to my walk-bys. If the price tag screams "two weeks salary" then they're not getting my sale. In the interest of time, proximity and price, I keep my walk-bys simple and expeditious. And lucky for Ann Taylor Loft, they have me at "Hello, may I help you?"

CROTCH CONUNDRUM

2006-10-13T09:53:00.000-04:00

I've got a doozy of a confession to make. One that will probably cause my four-year-old to stop talking to me when he gets older when he can finally read and discovers that I actually wrote about this embarrassing moment in his adorable life. The confession du jour is about my little boy and his recent propensity to grab his crotch. It started innocently enough about two weeks ago. We were out and about running errands and I noticed he kept grabbing himself down below and I asked him what the problem was.

"It's itchy down there," he replied.

"Okay, let's put some powder on and see what's going on," I instructed.

I checked him out and nothing seemed out of place, or red, or chafed for that matter, so I chalked it up to tight underpants and went out to buy him several new pairs of Sponge Bob tidy whities.

But the crotch-grabbing situation persisted and began to worsen by the day. We'd be out at Dunkin Donuts and he'd be grabbing for it. At the Gap and his hand was there again. In the house, crotch alert. And at pre-school...yup - guilty as charged.

Today everything came to a head (pun intended) when I dropped him off at school and his two teachers - who happen to have a terrific sense of humor, cornered me to share what they had been observing this past week in class.

"Mrs. Feldman, did you notice that Dylan keeps grabbing himself?"

I laughed nervously and then explained that I was basting him in medicated powder and vaseline but his hand kept wandering down under.

"Maybe he has a urinary infection," one of his teachers replied.

"No - he's not complaining when he goes to the bathroom," said the other. "I think he just likes to hold onto his crotch."

Mortified, I told the teachers that if the situation persisted that I'd take him to the doctor to check him out and make sure he doesn't have a rash or infection.

"Oh, don't worry about it," replied his teacher. "We've got a little girl in here who's grabbing herself too. The two of them will make a perfect pair."

The Dishwasher

2006-10-02T19:44:00.000-04:00

I'll never understand why after having company over that even though I've set the table, made dinner, and began cleaning up after everyone, that dishwasher duty also falls under my chain of command. I mean, come on. The dishwasher? Why can't my husband just put the darn dishes in there correctly? I think he purposely puts the stuff in wrong - big plates on the top rack, glasses on the bottom (aargh) and then shoves in plates that are caked with gook that I know won't come out once we run it through the cycle, but he insists...it's a dishwasher, it'll all come out clean. Sure - in your crazy world where dishes wind up back in the cabinets by some stroke of magic and bowls that one minute were lying in the den full of cereal and curdled milk are now washed and loaded in the machine. I swear, I have become the dishwasher fairy for my family and frankly, I'm ready to hang up my rubber gloves. I know, it could be worse - I could be without a dishwasher and then me and that Palmolive lady would be best buds. But no, I'm just the clean-up captain who hates to see dirty dishes lying around so rather than have a stand-off over who is going to take care of the mess, I just roll up my sleeves, turn on the faucet, wash the stuff off and put it where it belongs. Okay, no more dishing about the dishwasher. On to more important things...like whose turn is it to fix that disgusting clog in the bathroom sink?

LOST IN SUBURBIA™ by Tracy Beckerman

2006-09-29T08:15:00.000-04:00

The Handy Husband

Now here’s something I don’t understand. There are some guys who seem to have a natural ability for fixing things, and then there are some who don’t. Yet, you take a guy who has absolutely no aptitude for home improvement, stick him in Home Depot, and he becomes convinced that all he needs is a wrench and some lug nuts and he can repair just about anything in the house. I don’t get this. I certainly have no misconceptions that dressing me in designer clothing will make me a model, watching HGTV will make me an interior designer, or singing in the shower will qualify me to be on American Idol. Well, O.K., that last one might be true. But take my husband, for example. Now to be fair, he is not without some sense of how to make minor repairs. Yet, he would rather try to fix something that he can’t, get frustrated and then give up after there’s a hole in the wall the size of North Dakota, and then call in a handyman, rather than just bite the bullet and call the guy before doing the damage, which almost always far exceeds the original problem. And if this is just about saving money, usually the hardware store bill far exceeds the bill from the handyman anyway. The funny thing is, when he can’t accomplish what he set out to do, he always blames it on the tools. “I can’t do this,” he says. “I don’t have the right molly.” Well, I don’t know who Molly is, but if he knew what he was doing, then why didn’t he get the right molly when he bought the another fifty dollars worth of tools he needed for this job? I mean, the handyman never has the wrong molly, right? Then there’s the always popular, “This is a much bigger job than I thought it was.” Something tells me, the handyman might have known that there was a beam behind the wall before he started drilling, as well. Of course, now we not only have a hole in the wall that we didn’t have before, in addition to the original problem, but we have to live with it for another month because the guy we could have called in to fix it right away is now on another job and won’t be available for several weeks. But honestly, I don’t blame my husband. He means well. I blame the hardware store. There’s something about a hardware store, especially a really big one, that makes a guy a bit delusional with imagined\nhome repair super powers. He walks in and right away he sees all these big shiny tools and some smiling guy in a nice red apron approaches and offers help. No matter what the job, they say, “Oh sure, all you need is this, this and that. No problem.” Of course, they say that. They want to sell stuff. I mean, this never happens when I go\nshopping in the department store, say, for make-up. And I almost never walk out with foundation, mascara, eye shadow and an entire facial cleansing system that I don’t need because the cheap stuff I bought at the drug\nstore works just fine." And I certainly never undertake a home improvement project myself that I\ncan’t complete just to save money. Not like the time that I decided to lay down a new kitchen floor while my husband was out of town. Who knew that you’re NEVER supposed to clean out the bucket of subfloor solution in the kitchen sink because it will harden in your garbage disposal? Or that you shouldn’t spray paint a kitchen table in the garage below 72° farhenheit because the paint will bubble and set that way? Or that Liquid Plumber should never be used in a dishwasher? OK, so maybe I’m guilty of doing the same thing. But where do you think I got the idea that I could do-it myself? Actually, the idea that I got was that I could do it better. So now we have two holes in the wall. Anyone know a good handyman? ©2006, Beckerman. All rights reserved. For more LOST IN SUBURBIA™ columns, go to www.lostinsuburbia.net

The Mix Tape

2006-09-21T15:34:00.000-04:00

Remember back in the 80's when your high school boyfriend put together a mix tape to profess his love for you and you thought you were the luckiest girl on the planet? Mine was called "Music for Koukla" (doll) and it was filled with classic tunes by Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, Elton John and Supertramp. Fast forward 20 years, and I've still got that tape, but that old boyfriend who I thought was the coolest guy in the world, was just labeled a major dork by my husband who saw my Sweet 16 video along with my kids and watched as my ex-boyfriend pretended to play air guitar while singing along to a Bruce Springsteen song...don't ask. Anyway, that leads me to my latest encounter with a mix tape. This time it was a CD made by my daughter's 7-year-old friend as part of her birthday goody bag. When we first put the CD on in the car, the kids were thrilled. Everything from High School Musical to Abba, to Kelly Clarkson. We were all bopping around to the tunes and had a great time listening along. After the kids left the car, the CD remained in my car which meant that every time I hopped in, my kids' CD started playing. I soon began humming along, then started belting out Broadway tunes like "Suddenly Seymour" and "Mamma Mia." I then moved on to "We're all in This Together" and felt like I was back in high school singing along to my favorite mix tape. Only difference - it wasn't my mix tape, it was my kids'. Not too embarrassing...at least my car windows were closed so nobody could actually hear me!

Taunted by a Tamogotchi

2006-09-15T18:06:00.000-04:00

I've officially left the little kid years with my daughter and have moved into technological territory. Forget the Gameboy, the X Box or the Playstation...these days, it's all about the Tamagotchi. I'm convinced that this crazy contraption was created to drive parents over the edge. Just as school started, I decided to be a nice mom and buy my daughter a Tamagotchi. The moment it arrived, she was thrilled and luckily a friend was over who was quite proficient at caring for this digital creature. You see, when you get a Tamagotchi, it becomes the neediest gift you'll ever receive. It starts out as an egg and then your kid can feed it tons of sushi, it poops, sleeps and if you don't take good care of it, you'll wake up in the morning to find a skull and cross bones greeting you. So far, our friendly Tamagotchi has been quite sinister - waking my daughter up twice this week and instantly sending her into bed with us. Then, she woke up to find that dreaded skull and crossbones. Determined to stop that Tamagotchi from waking the family, I told my daughter to find someone at school who could help us stop the insanity. And guess who came to the rescue? Her 2nd grade teacher...also a mom of two who showed her that there's a pause button on the darn thing. So parents, if you want to make sure your child and her Tamagotchi get a night filled with peaceful dreams and no skull and cross bones, then press pause and everything will be just fine. Of course, if the Tamagotchi kicks the bucket, you can also restart the contraption and start all over again with a little digital egg. Can't we just go back to basics? What ever happened with bringing home a baby chick anyway?

I'm Changing My Name

2006-09-10T11:51:00.000-04:00

After a morning where I was summoned almost a dozen times by my daughter to her bedroom, from my son calling me from the family room, from my daughter again, this time yelling out "mommy" from the bathroom and then my son again from the kitchen, I've decided to make it official and change my name. I hereby announce that much like the artist formerly known as Prince, I am the crazy lady in the house formerly known as Mommy. I still need to find a catchier name or maybe a cool symbol that best represents the new me, but if it means that I won't be called upon to change the channel on the television set, wipe someone's behind, deposit laundry left on the floor and place it in the hamper, or clean up after someone spills their Fruit Loops on the carpet, then that's just fine with me. I actually announced my decision to change my name today while we were out and about in the car but unfortunately, my plan backfired. "I'm changing my name," I announced to my kids. "From now on, you can stop calling me Mommy." To which my son replied, "Okay then, Beth can you please turn on the radio?" Looks like Mommy isn't such a bad name after all.

LOST IN SUBURBIA™ by Tracy Beckerman

2006-09-08T15:56:00.000-04:00

OVERHEARD AT THE BECKERMAN FAMILY DINNER TABLE...

“What’s this stuff, Mom?”“ That’s meatloaf.” “Ewww. I don’t like it.” “How do you know? You haven’t even tried it yet.” “I can tell.” “How can you tell?” “Because its brown and it smells funny.” “It doesn’t smell funny. It’s just like hamburger. You like hamburger.” “It doesn’t look like hamburger.” “Here, try it with some ketchup.” “Can I put the ketchup on my mashed potatoes?” “(Sigh.) If you want.” “How come there are bumpy things in my mashed potatoes?” ”Because it’s homemade.” “I don’t like bumpy things. I like it smooth.” “It tastes the same.” “NO. The bumpy things don’t feel good in my mouth.” “Here. I’ll scoop the bumpy things out.” “Do I have to eat the Broccoli?” “Yes.” “Why?” ”Because green things make you grow.” “Can’t I just eat my boogers instead.” “Uch. That’s disgusting. NO. Buggers don’t count.” “How come.” “Because they don’t have the same vitamins in them.” “Can’t I just take my chewable vitamins instead.” “No. If you want to qualify for dessert, you have to eat some broccoli.” “What’s for dessert?” “Fruit.” “THAT'S not dessert! Dessert is supposed to be junky.” “Well, tonight dessert is fruit.” “If we’re having fruit for dessert, then I’m not going to eat the broccoli.” “Do what you want.” “FINE. I WILL! (Pause) Look mom, I ate all my broccoli!” “No you didn’t. You threw it on the floor and the dog ate it.” “I didn’t throw it on the floor. It fell when I was scooping it into my mouth.” “Every piece fell when you scooped them into your mouth?” “Yeah.” “But none of the mashed potatoes fell, right?” ”That stuff stuck to my fork better.” “I’ll get you some more broccoli.” “No that’s OK. I’m full and Daddy says I don’t have to eat any more when I’m full, so I’ll just have dessert now.” “You’re too full for dinner but you have room for dessert?” ”Yeah, dessert goes into a different part of my stomach where there’s more room. ”“Is that so?” “Hey mom, what are you eating?” “Tums.”

According to a recent report by the National Research Council, ¼ of our nation’s pets are overweight. So apparently now, even dogs have to worry about bathing suit season. Not that I’ve caught my dog Riley staring in the mirror with angst over the size of his thighs or anything, but when the vet told me he was a couple of pounds overweight (the dog, not the vet), I felt for him. “We have to do something about Riley’s weight,” I told my husband. “We don’t want him to feel insecure around thinner dogs.” Clearly, I have my own weight issues.Yet, since I am the person who feeds the dog (1½ cups of Iams, 2 times a day), I felt somehow responsible for his extra poundage. However, I soon realized it wasn’t his meals that were the problem, but rather what he was eating in-between meals. On many occasions I have caught him helping himself to the kids’ abandoned Happy Meals at the table. And their mac and cheese. And their hot dogs. Perhaps, I thought, I should change what I’m feeding the kids, ergo, the dog will eat better.Not that I don’t provide them with healthier fare most of the time. But Riley is just as happy to steal the remains of the grilled chicken, pan-seared snapper and vegetable lasagna I make, as well.So we started clearing the table right after dinner. And then I caught him licking the dirty plates out of the dishwasher. The article went on to say that while cats are more snackers, dogs are .binge eaters. Tell me something I didn’t know. However, binge eating is not really the issue for Riley. His problem is indiscriminate eating. Does a ball of yarn have a lot of calories? He ate one of those. My son’s collection of rubber insects is now a half collection thanks to Riley. He’s bitten off and ingested most of the limbs of my daughter’s wooden dolls, two legs on the kitchen table and a ½ dozen supposedly indestructible chew toys. Not much fat content in those. We soon realized that the contents of the house had become a veritable buffet for the dog and began cleaning up and closing doors on a regular basis. If nothing else, the dog has certainly improved my family’s messy habits.Without the kids’ leftovers, the fallen bits of food on the floor, and the food residue in the dishwasher, we thought we’d nicked the problem. But, alas, he was still tipping the scales. “Does he get a lot of treats,” asked the vet.“Well, yeah,” I answered sheepishly. “But in obedience training, they taught us to motivate the dog with food. A treat after he potties. A treat when he sits on command. When he comes. When he stays.” I realized that all the treats were probably adding up to the equivalent of a third meal.So I checked in with a friend of mine who had taken the class with me about the treat issue.“Don’t you remember, we’re supposed to wean them off the treats,” she said. No, I didn’t remember. Probably because we didn’t get that far in obedience school before Riley had to drop out for emergency stomach surgery after he ate the aforementioned ball of yarn and developed a bowel obstruction. So I cut out the treats. He responded by eating my laptop manual. I let him run loose in the backyard three times a day for exercise. He responded by eating rocks from my garden. I took him for runs in the park. He ate mud.I said to my husband, “I think Riley’s father was a goat.” Finally I brought him back to the vet and we dumped him on the scale. I held my breath.“Riley’s weight is down,” she told me. “Good job.”Yeah, good job for him. But the whole ordeal stressed me out so much that I put on five pounds. Hey, someone had to finish the kid’s Happy Meals. ©2006, Beckerman. All rights reserved. For more LOST IN SURBURBIA columns, go to www.lostinsuburbia.net

THE HUMAN COAT RACK

2006-09-02T17:19:00.000-04:00

No one ever told me that when I became a mom, that I'd also have the dubious distinction of becoming a human coat rack. If you're a mom too, then you know exactly what I'm talking about. Picture the scene - you bundle your kids up for a trip to the park and when you hit the open air, you realize it's warmer than you expected. The next thing you know, both of your kids have ripped off their jackets and have proceeded to deposit their clothing into your arms. Trailing them as they climb the monkey bars, you're now in charge of sweatshirts, hats, a windbreaker and the snacks that you brought with you for your fun-filled afternoon. But then, snack time arrives and you suddenly become the trash receptacle. Yup. Those juice boxes, fruit roll up wrappers and empty potato chip bags are instantly handed back to mom, the official sanitation worker who is always on duty to put trash where it belongs. Now don't get me wrong. On most occasions, I tell them that I'm not the garbage lady and they should throw their trash away, but let's face it. Sometimes it's easier to take their junk and toss it rather than deal with the whining that always accompanies my "throw your garbage away yourself" missive. I've also realized that while I don't have a degree in medicine, I might as well have trained with Florence Nightengale. When anyone falls and scrapes their knee, complains of water in the ear, or moans that they're about to toss their cookies, I'm always at the ready with band aids, bactine, hydrogen peroxide and chewable pepto bismol. So while writing and PR may be my chosen profession, I now moonlight as a coat girl, garbage collector and part-time nurse. Better hit the road and grab a band aid - my son says he just got a paper cut.

WE'RE TORTURED BY THE WIZARD!

2006-08-13T10:29:00.000-04:00

My kids have become hooked on the all-time classic musical, THE WIZARD OF OZ. It started out as a simple rental from Blockbuster where we watched it five times before the kids begrudgingly gave it back so we could return it to the video store. Then they started begging for Wizard of Oz paraphernalia - Dylan wanted a scarecrow costume, Becca saw a Dorothy dress she just had to get her hands on and they kept pleading with us to buy them the movie. And so, their grandmother, who heard how much they loved it, decided to buy it for them as a special surprise. The DVD arrived a few days later, and we have now watched this movie approximately 100 times. No joke. My kids and I are now experts on all things relating to The Wizard. The famous lines: "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore" to "Put 'em up, put 'em up, I'll fight you with both hands behind my back!" or the all-time favorite "There's no place like home." Then there are the songs. My son can act out every musical number from the film including the deleted Jitterbug song which we discovered after watching all the DVD extras about 25 times and counting. From "We Represent the Lollypop Guild" to "If I Only Had a Brain," I have been re-living the Wizard of Oz every morning, afternoon and evening. Sometimes I even relive it in my dreams. Last night, Dorothy and I were kidnapped by the flying monkeys. When will this insanity ever end? As I'm writing this post, I hear a 100 year old munchkin fondly recalling the time Judy Garland gave him a tour of her movie trailer. Somebody please stop the Wizard before me and the scarecrow lose our minds!

2006-08-09T10:24:00.000-04:00

I have never been much of a pink girl. It’s not that I’m pinkaphobic or anything. In fact, some of my best friends wear pink. But personally, I’ve always preferred primary colors. Not surprisingly, my dining room is red, my kitchen is yellow and my bathroom is blue. Then there’s my daughter’s room. Her walls are pink, her comforter is pink and her rug is pink. Her clothes are pink, her sneakers are pink, and I have no doubt, she dreams in pink.If there is such a thing as a predisposition to certain colors, I would have to assume she inherited some pink chromosomes from her grandmother, who also likes pink. But clearly the pink gene skipped a generation, just like the gracefulness gene, which I also seem to have missed out on but my daughter inherited. Before I knew that such things run along family lines, I deliberately decorated my daughter’s room in yellow when she was born. But then one day, someone gave her a pink blanket, and it was love at first pink. When she was old enough to express a preference, she demanded pink outfits, and later, signed up for ballet just so she could wear a pink tutu. I have no doubt that one day when she is a rebellious teenager, she will dye her hair pink. I, of course, will be blue in the face from telling her not to do things like that. However, since she is still only eight years old, I have allowed her her pinkness and it really hadn’t presented much of a problem until the day the back-to-school supply list arrived in the mail informing us that she needed to buy a black binder. “Why can’t it be pink,” she asked reasonably.“I don’t know. But it says it has to be black,” I told her as we perused the school supply aisle.“But black is boring,” she informed me, channeling Jackie O.“Yeah, I know,” I told her, taking stock of my black shirt, pants and shoes. “But you also get to buy red, yellow and purple notebooks.”“No pink?”“Nope. Sorry.” “So what, does the teacher have something against pink or something?” “I think she was probably trying to find colors that work for both boys and girls,” I explained.“Well they DON’T work for me!” she announced. And then her eyes narrowed and her lips disappeared and she began to turn a not-so-delightful shade of pink. She then proceeded to huff and puff until I thought she would blow the composition notebook display down.“I’m GETTING a pink binder,” she informed me through gritted teeth.“NO, you’re getting a black binder,” I informed her back.“PINK!!!”“SSSHHH,” I Shhhed her. Other mothers were glancing in our direction and then hustling their daughters out of the aisle as though afraid that the pink thing might be catching. Truthfully, I really didn’t give a pink hoot what color binder she got. And typically when I pick my battles with the kids, safety issues and health concerns usually far outweigh color preferences. However, I didn’t think it would get either my daughter or me off to a good start with this teacher if we blatantly ignored the black binder dictum. “Tell you what,” I started. “How about if we buy some pink markers and pink stickers and stuff like that and decorate your black binder with them.”She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at me. “Does it say I can do that on the list?” “No. But it doesn’t say you can’t, either.”“Wellllll,” she thought for a minute as her face began to return to its normal color. “OK… Oh, look, there are some stickers!”We walked over to the sticker display and I inspected the selection. “Hey, here are some cute pink kittens,” I showed her. How about these?” “Sure,” she said agreeably. “But I want the blue ones.” ©2006, Beckerman. All rights reserved. For more LOST IN SURBURBIA columns, go to www.lostinsuburbia.net Tracy BeckermanLOST IN SUBURBIA™http://www.lostinsuburbia.net

The Holey War

2006-08-08T07:17:00.000-04:00

Before you think I am about to go on a tirade about the situation in the Middle East, then let's be real...I don't talk politics among friends, strangers and bloggers. This is about the state of my undergarments and the plain, yet simple truth that my dryer has declared a holey war on them. For the last few months, I have been noticing that my tidy whities have been coming back from the laundry as if they had been scarred in battle, shredded with holes in the most embarrassing places. I shrugged it off a few times, but this week I had to face facts - either fix the dryer or go buy some new underwear. You see, I didn't have time to do the laundry this week. And so, as I sifted through my panty drawer, I kept coming up with pairs that resembled swiss cheese. Holes everywhere! Fished in the drawer another time and once again, came up with a pink holey pair. Reached for my tried and true maternity underwear (yes I still wear them even though I'm not pregnant) and tada! Full of holes. My favorite Jockey for Her bra? Ripped to shreds. What's a busy woman to do when you don't have time to get to the store to buy underwear or call Sears to fix the dryer? I'm sure they sell this stuff online - either way, I'm throwing up the red flag. My underwear and I surrender to the dryer. We have been in battle one two many times and it's time to head out and bring in some reinforcements.

Mr. Bed Hog

2006-08-06T14:35:00.000-04:00

My son has issues about sleeping alone. In fact, every night before bedtime arrives, he asks me, "Mommy, will you sleep with me tonight?" Sometimes, I'll tell him, "yeah, sure" and then slip out when the coast is clear, but most times I'll explain, "Come on, you're a big boy now. You should sleep in your own bed by yourself." Nice try. As much as I try to coax him to stay put, he always has a reason why he can't last the night by himself. There's a monster under the bed, there's something in his closet, the thunder frightens him or he just likes having me there to ward off bad dreams. But here's my major dilemma - when my son invites me to keep him company because he's scared the tickle monster is going to get him, he then proceeds to take up 3/4 of the bed so that the corner of the mattress I'm left with is about the size of a postage stamp. Last night, I tried sleeping in his room and when I thought he had finally dozed off, I gave him the slip. But he was on to me. "Mommy, I want you to sleep with me!" And so, rather than head back to an uncomfortable twin bed, my husband scooped him up and brought him into our room. You would think a Queen sized bed would have been big enough for the three of us. Not the case when your child is Mr. Bed Hog. He proceeded to sprawl out in the middle of the bed and when he finally started to power sleep, shifted his position so that he was laying horizontally between myself and my husband. Exhausted, my hubby went into my son's room to get some rest, and once again, I was reduced to the postage stamp sized section of our bed and was stunned every few hours when he threw a violent punch and it landed in my back or in my eye. All I can say is that once our Mr. Bed Hog grows up and gets married, he and the missus had better invest in a king sized bed!

Pet Peeve

2006-08-04T07:18:00.000-04:00

Before I launch into my confession du jour, I want to say that I am an animal lover who really does care about the two cats I've owned for the past 13 years. Despite the fact that I adore Rudy and Oliver (named after the former NYC mayor and the first Manhattan building I lived in), I do have a major pet peeve. Having to clean up after they've made some gross mess right after I've had our carpets shampooed. As my cats start approaching their twilight years, they've decided they don't like their litter box anymore. So they proceed to drop anchor all over my basement carpet, creating an obstacle course littered with cat poop, vomit and hair balls. And who do you think is the lucky person who gets to clean up after them once they've spewed their latest concoction on my newly shampooed rug? The same person who is spewing venom about having to clean up after them right now! It's bad enough that I have to tidy up after my kids, who like to leave their clothes littered across the floor of our den, or my husband, who can go to the grocery store to pick up cat food, but doesn't take the cans out of the bag and put them away in the pantry, I've also got to race after two elderly cats who don't think twice about yakking up their Fancy Feast meal right after I've cleaned the floors. I know, being the owner of an animal comes with its ups and downs. My cats are quite loveable when they jump up on my couch and curl up at my feet waiting for me to stroke them under their chin. But guys, spare me those Mr. Clean moments and skip that after dinner snack if you're feeling queasy.

2006-07-26T11:27:00.000-04:00

I never thought I’d be one of those suburban moms who talked about cleaning problems, but I have to admit it; I have fungus issues. In the past, I think I’ve handled those pesky minor battles with mildewed tile grout, scummy shower curtain liners, and other assorted moldy nuisances with appropriate reactions. Tilex in hand, I spray like a maniac, and moments later, I am fungus-free. But one day, I happened to lift up the rubber bath mat in the kids’ bathroom to rinse the tub after one of them took a particularly filthy bath, and saw black. Literally.The bottom of this formerly white bath mat was covered in a living, breathing black mold that pretty much, completely grossed me out.Now I don’t gross out easily. I routinely have to clean up after a dog, a lizard and a chinchilla, not to mention two kids and a husband, so being grossed out is something I’ve gotten used to. But this bath mat was beyond grossness. It was the bath mat from the black lagoon. An entire civilization of stinky fungus breeding in my bathtub. Mutant mold from outer space. I was sure if I didn’t get rid of it immediately, it would continue to multiply and grow until it enveloped my entire bathroom, then my house, and eventually, the world. Yes, it was my duty, as a member of the human race to kill it. Of course, at this point in the story, you’re probably wondering how, as a world-class homemaker, I managed to miss the underside of my kids’ bathmat?I didn’t. The cleaning ladies did. I assumed they were routinely scouring under the bath mat and then returning it to its original location.But as Felix so wisely once said to Oscar in The Odd Couple, “When You ‘Assume,’ you make an Ass of U and Me!”OK, so I’m an ass. And an ass with a disgusting bathmat, to boot. But rather than dwell on unconstructive negative self-blame, I decided to harness that self-disgust into some positive mold-ridding energy.So first I broke out the Tilex.(Note to self: Write letter to Tilex people that product doesn’t work on Mutant Mold from Outer Space).So then I tried some scouring powder. But still some of the mold survived the attack.(Note to self: Soft Scrub with Bleach stains expensive clothing).So then I whined.“I can’t get rid of the mold on the bathmat,” I cried to my husband one day.He gave me a blank stare.“So spend, what, like 79 cents and buy a new one,” he said matter-of-factly.“No, I like this one. And it’s not about the money, anyway,” I protested. “I have to save this bathmat… and the world.”Another blank stare. I forgot… the mold may be from outer space, but men are from Mars and there was no way my husband was going to be able to process the magnitude of my crisis unless there was a trip to the hardware store involved.In desperation, I finally dumped the bathmat into the washing machine with detergent, bleach, and any other cleaning products I had in the laundry room that looked toxic; turned on the hot water, and waited.Half an hour later I took out the bathmat and the mold was gone,So was most of the bathmat.Pristine white and riddled with holes: It was now a bath-net.I appeared before my husband, sweaty and disheveled from my ordeal, clothes stained with scouring powder residue, holding the remains of my former bathmat.“I got good news and bad news,” I told my husband. “The good news is I got the mold off the bathmat.”“Thank God!!” he exclaimed in mock excitement.“The bad news is I killed the bath mat.”“Sorry to hear that,” he said mournfully. “But at least I saved us from the mutant mold,” I said cheerfully.He eyed me fearfully. “Great. But now who’s going to save us from you?” ©2006, Beckerman. All rights reserved. For more LOST IN SURBURBIA columns, go to www.lostinsuburbia.net

The Escort Service

2006-07-22T09:26:00.000-04:00

I run a personal escort service. Okay, get your mind out of the gutter. It's not that kind of business. I'm my four year old son's personal escort. If he has an urge to go to the bathroom in a restaurant right when our food arrives, he glances at me, his personal escort and declares, "Mommy, take me to the bathroom!" Sure my husband is sitting right next to him and can take him to the men's room, but no, I'm the lucky chaperone who gets to escort him to the loo and wipe his cute behind since he always saves the number twos for me. But the personal escort service doesn't stop at the bathroom. I have also found myself escorting him to the basement, the pantry, his bedroom, the toy chest, you name it and I've been there with my little companion. Don't get me wrong. I love spending time with him but it's getting to the point where he needs to start being a little more independent. Mommy does not have to escort you to the bathroom in the house when she's literally 10 feet away on the couch and can monitor your every move. I've even gone so far as to offer monetary compensation if he takes a trip to the bathroom without me as his tour guide. The tactic worked and so far I'm out one dollar. Today, after I walked him downstairs and then took him to the bathroom he said, "Mommy, does Superman go to the bathroom by himself?" I thought for a moment and replied, "Absolutely, nobody has to take Superman to the bathroom, he can go by himself." My son thought for a moment and then said, "Okay, then if Superman can do it, so can I. You can go sit down now Mommy." Hmmm...maybe we're onto something. Maybe I can finally close my shingle on my personal escort service. "Mommy...come take me to the kitchen," I hear from the other room. Wishful thinking. Back on duty.

The Guilt Trip

2006-07-20T20:04:00.000-04:00

Just returned from a business trip where I was away from my family for three whole days, got the chance to sleep in a king-sized-bed and worked out at the gym at the crack of dawn, because no one was screaming for me to race to their bedside and escort them to the bathroom. I have to admit, as much as I miss my kids while I take my annual trip across the country, I do enjoy the quiet time, the full night's sleep and the chance to spend five un-interrupted hours reading an entire book without the incessant call of "mommy, mommy, mommy," droning over and over inside my head. While I'd hate to be on the road and away from my kids on a regular basis, a random trip here and there does the mind and body good. I can now finally say I've read a book on Oprah's list...the Kite Runner. Sure she recommended it over a year ago, but thanks to my mini-trip away from home, I was finally able to cross one must-read off my to-do my list!

2006-07-13T23:22:00.000-04:00

Walt Disney was mistaken. It is NOT a small world after all. If the line to get into Space Mountain is any indication, it is a big, BIG world. And everyone who lives in it, it seems, is waiting to get on this ride. Yes, we are in the happiest place on Earth. That is, if your idea of a good time is to stand on line with hundreds of kids melting down from hunger, exhaustion and overstimulation. I should have known I was in trouble when my sister-in-law with whom we are traveling (and a respected Disney-veteran) told me we had to call for reservations for a character breakfast 3 months, 2 hours and 30 minutes to the day before the breakfast we wanted. And when I called 3 months, 2 hours and 45 minutes ahead of the date, they were already completely booked. Honestly, I didn’t have this much trouble getting a reservation at the White House. Then the happy folks at Disney called me a month before our trip to tell us that they canceled our reservation at the Caribbean Beach Resort. “We’re sorry. We decided to close that resort for renovations the week that you’re planning to be here.” “But I made those reservations last January,” I protested. “Its not a problem,” she said cheerfully. “We can put you up at another Moderate resort instead.” “Oh no. If you cancel my reservation, you can put me up at the Grand Floridian!” I must have been on speakerphone. I heard laughing in the background. “Port Orleans is nice,” she said. “I’m sure you and your husband and two kids will be very comfortable in our cramped 10x10 foot rooms with two double beds and a trundle and you should be grateful that we’re not booking you into the trailer park next to the petting zoo because you paid for this trip with frequent flier miles which basically means no money for us.” O.K. she didn’t say that. But that was pretty much what was going on. At this point, I figured we’d only be in the rooms to sleep, so what’s the difference anyway. And so we went. And by day 3, I was convinced that if one more person wished me a magical day, I was going to punch them in the face. “Sorry. The Peter Pan ride is closed for repairs, but have a magical day.” “Sorry. Your daughter’s not tall enough to go on this ride that she’s been waiting for three days to go on. but have a magical day.” “Sorry. You have a regular park hopper pass and you need an ultimate park hopper pass to get into this attraction, otherwise it’s $40 per person… but have a magical day.” Is it any wonder Disney is losing money? I finally decided that I needed an attitude adjustment if I was going to make it through two more theme parks, another character dinner, and the Hoop-dee-doo revue (don’t ask). So I did what any sane mother would do. I bought Mickey Mouse ears, ate Mickey Mouse Pancakes, and told my kids if they didn’t stop whining and have a good time, next year we would spend our vacation at the Mall. Thus, the whining ceased, temporarily of course, and we all started to have a good time. By the end of each day, my children, covered in goo from the countless ice pops, gummy things, and fried who-knows-whats we fed then as we waited on the lines, fell asleep on the bus, dreaming of Buzz and Woody, beauties and beasts, and seven assorted dwarfs. Five days later, we’re back home. As I tuck my son into bed, I ask him, “So, do you miss Disney?” “Nah. It was fun, but it’s good to be home.” Amen to that. Oh, and have a magical day. ©2006, Beckerman. All rights reserved. For more LOST IN SURBURBIA columns, click here.

L.A. Weight Gain

2006-07-05T22:05:00.000-04:00

Week four of my latest diet conquest and I'm still hungry and have lost a total of three pounds. They told me I'd reach my goal within eight weeks and they're obviously certifiably insane. I'm following it as best I can, going hungry for most of the day and despising the gallons of water I'm drinking every other minute. And then, when I go for my weekly weigh-ins, the nutrition counselor is surprised that I haven't lost an ounce. I'm a serial dieter...which means my body is so used to my yo-yo nutrition plan that it feels like it's in combat. Cut my calorie intake in half, and look, nothing happens. Constipated...think a few fiber chews or fish oil pills will get the system going, well think again. Don't mess with the serial dieter. I'm sticking with the extra 10 pounds I've got stuck on my thighs and no one will shake them loose. Will I ever be thin again? Probably not, but I'm not giving up...at least not this week...I've got two days to go before I step on the scale - I better go drink a gallon of water so I can finally lose more than a half a pound.

The Necklace

2006-07-04T14:02:00.000-04:00

Want to know one way you can tell that you're the parent or grandparent of a child who is going to day camp this summer? The beaded necklace. I thought I was the only one who has been wearing my four year old's prized creation for me this week but suddenly I realized, I was not alone. When Dylan noticed I had sneakily slipped it back in my purse, he demanded I put in on and wear it out in public. And so I did, as we went for breakfast this morning at our local diner. While we dined on the omelette specials and the kids sipped their chocolate milk, I looked out by the counter and noticed an older woman wearing a necklace just like mine. And then, when I walked to the bathroom with my son, I was met by several knowing smiles. Yes, I'm sure all these moms have these necklaces at home, I just have a very insistant little man who won't let me take it off. Long live the plastic beaded necklace...it goes with any outfit...as long as you have bright orange, yellow and hot pink in your wardrobe!

No Kicking Please!

2006-06-25T09:36:00.000-04:00

Just came back from seeing the movie "Cars" with my family. Surprisingly, my kids were incredibly well behaved but not so for the posse of restless ruffians that were surrounding us today. Behind us was Twinkle Toes Timmy who obviously thought he saw a "Kick This" sign posted on the seat in front of him and decided to use my daughter's chair as part of a two hour kick boxing routine. To my left was Katie the climber, who midway through the film decided to stand up on her seat because she ran out of popcorn. What this heck is it with taking out of control kids to movies these days? There are rules you know. Forget about the no smoking, no cell phone rule. For kids movies, they should have a no kicking the seat in front of you, no screaming because your brother just snagged the last twizzler and no standing on your seat when you get bored with the movie your parents paid good money to take you to see. And one more thing...parents, if your kids act up, it's your job to take them out. It's not fair to the rest of us who have already been through our own version of kiddie boot camp and can finally watch a movie in peace with our own kids.

Back to the 80's

2006-06-14T22:18:00.000-04:00

There's something about this year that has me thinking back to High School. Probably because it's my 20th year reunion and I'm starting to contemplate whether I'm supposed be doing what I thought I was going to do back in 1986. Back then, I was going to be on Broadway in a major musical, win a Tony and the rest would be history. Fast forward 20 years and the only Broadway I've seen lately is the one I crossed today while walking to get to my car in midtown. Funny about high school aspirations...it seems like the people with no fear always pursue their dreams and the ones like me, the conservative types wait it out while secretly singing songs in their car, the shower and anywhere else no one is actually going to hear you. I guess I'll never know what would have happened if I pursued that Broadway dream. My life still turned out pretty great anyway and I can always sing to my kids (when they tell me not to stop singing) and at our local synagogue. It may not be Broadway, but for me, it's close enough!

The Diet

2006-06-09T18:53:00.000-04:00

So I did what I normally do every June and I joined another weight loss center. This time, it's L.A. Weight Loss. I've already mastered Weight Watchers, Atkins and the Zone, so now it's their turn. Here's the problem. These people monitor you like hawks. Weigh in on Tuesday, come back again Thursday...oops you're up two pounds...not so good. Come back again Monday. Drink 58 gallons of water. Run to the bathroom every other minute. Get on the scale for kicks, still no weight loss. I'm starving. Wondering when we're headed out for dinner and hoping I'll be able to eat more than a chicken leg and half a baked potato. Meanwhile, my kids wanted to go to the fun Japanese hibachi place but the butter they use for cooking would probably screw up my fat allotment for the week. Dieting is not fun. Small butts are nice, but chocolate is better.

The Minnie Van

2006-06-06T08:27:00.000-04:00

So this isn't a confession as much as it is an observation of something that was so hysterical that it should have been on episode of "Curb Your Enthusiasm." I was attending a funeral - okay - that's not the funny part - of my husband's grandmother (she wasn't technically his grandma but that's a whole other story). Anyway, his half brother, who made the funeral arrangements is a pretty frugal guy. He keeps his eye on the bottom line and makes sure that he doesn't spend a penny over any asking price. And so, Minnie's funeral was a no frills affair. As we prepared to drive to the cemetary plot, I was a bit confused when I didn't see a hearse in front of us. Just the undertaker driving a minivan. Suddenly, the unthinkable happened. The grave diggers came over to the van, opened the trunk and Voila! Minnie's casket was inside. Get it? Minnie's final ride was in a minivan!!! His brother didn't want to spring for a hearse so Minnie was transported to the cemetary in a Dodge Caravan. When I pinched my husband to share that observation, he almost keeled over laughing. Sure it may sound like I was poking fun at a sad time, but if you knew Minnie, who lived to the ripe old age of 95, she had the most sarcastic sense of humor and probably would have made that joke up before I caught the punchline! Rest in peace Minnie. Your final ride and your humor will never be forgotten!

rolemommyconfessions

2006-06-01T09:13:00.000-04:00

rolemommyconfessions What is it about the summer and the state of my butt? Is it that I don't pay attention to the fact that it's growing all winter and then suddenly, it's June 1st and I stroll past a store window and bam! There it is...big, round and in need of a gym visit. Every year it's the same thing. My butt is huge, I should go on a diet. And so, I join Weight Watchers for about two weeks, lose about three pounds, gain it back and start wearing bigger sizes to hide my protruding posterior. Yesterday, as I walked to my office from the train station I actually fantasized about which bodies in front of me I'd like to swap with. Hmmm, she has nice legs, that one is really toned...at least I'm thinner than that lady. Will this body jealousy ever end? I've always hated my legs and think about lipo but would never do it. I also remember losing a ton of weight after my daughter was born and although I was sick all the time, I looked damn good in my cute little size four outfits. Now I'm hearing that Splenda, my favorite new sweetner of all time, causes bloating, gas, and all other wonderful things that enhance the look of my bubble butt. I hope I'm not alone in my quest for a smaller tush - I'm not vain - I just want to enjoy wearing some cute outfits this summer without my thighs rubbing together and without having to see the knee fat on my legs that hasn't gone away since I was 12 years old. Okay - I obviously have some body issues...but who doesn't. How does your butt look these days? Care to share? Then respond when you can!

rolemommyconfessions

2006-05-26T08:43:00.000-04:00

An update...I did finally read the Mommy Wars and it was pretty good. I particularly enjoyed the stories by the moms who worked...okay of course I loved those essays. As for the ones who stayed at home, they certainly made me think, but I wouldn't take their advice if you paid me a million dollars. You can always write a book when your kids are in college one of those moms wrote. That's nice and what if you got hit by a truck tomorrow. That wonderful novel you were sitting on would be toast, just like you. You can't put off for tomorrow what you can do today. Your kids won't be scarred for life because you pursued your passion while they were growing up. Wake up women, we don't have to be martyrs just because we're moms. Spend fun time with your kids, help them with their homework and be there when they need you...which incidentally is not all the time. It's all about balance - for those who have found it in their lives, then kudos to you!

rolemommyconfessions

2006-04-06T15:56:00.000-04:00

I don't know how these crazy blogs work and reach a gazillion people, but I'm going to give it a shot. Right about now I'm going to throw my two cents in about the Mommy Wars, mothers who give working moms a bad name and the guilt factor. First up...Mommy Wars -haven't read it yet, looking forward to it but doubt there's anything new to find out. Working moms can't stand stay at home moms and vice versa. There's jealousy and guilt on both sides of the fence, we all act like we're back in high school and that too will never change. Secondly, working moms who give working moms a bad name...Lisa Belkin. Columnist for the New York Times who claims to be a working mom but manages to bash every working mom in her wake every time she writes a column. I read something recently that she wrote about the designer Dana Buchman and how she focused on her thriving career rather than her daughter who was learning disabled and I thought to myself, if I were Dana Buchman right now, I'd find out where Lisa Belkin lives and give her a piece of my mind. I'm tired of writers who claim that are working and know what it's like to juggle diapers and deadlines also say it can't be done and we should go back to being housewives. Sorry, ain't gonna happen. We can too strike a balance as long as we re-write the rules and figure out what's important in our lives. If you have a passion - pursue it. Check the guilt at the curb and go after your dreams - you'll be a better mom and a better person for it.

It's Been a While

2006-01-14T09:00:00.000-05:00

It's been quite a while since my last post...with the holiday season, job stress and kid demands, I haven't had a chance to blog. So here I am. Back again and so far, it looks like no one is reading this blog because no one has commented or...like me, they may be reading it but are to busy to respond. I can't tell you how many times I read something and say to myself, I should really email that person and then I have to clean up some cat poop that went awry and the thought totally falls out of my head. So here I am hoping that I can jumpstart the rolemommy confessions blog with my busy mommy compatriots. When your kids says something funny...send it my way. Or if you've got a doozy of a confession to make or to comment on...give me a shout out. Otherwise, I'll just stay on the lookout for some great stories.

Confession #7 - Pediatrician Paranoia

2005-11-08T16:21:00.000-05:00

Whenever my kids get sick, I always figure they're resilient enough to bounce back so I wait a few extra days until I take them to the doctor (unless of course they have a raging fever or have fallen from a tree). But with this cockamamie avian bird flu going around (okay we're not in Asia or Turkey or anything but you know how parents get nutty), I've been monitoring my son's coughing patterns every morning and it started to get me concerned. So after 2 weeks of coughing like an old man, I finally made the decision to take him to the doctor today. Of course, today was the day he woke up perfectly fine so when I took him to the doctor's office, he was happy go-lucky and the doc thought I must have been nuts for taking him in considering there were kids hanging from the rafters lining up in droves for flu shots. Going to the pediatrician is like having a car or a plumbing problem. The moment you call in the mechanic or the plumber, nothing is wrong and you look like an idiot. I may have looked dumb today, but at least my son had a clean bill of health.

Confession #6 - Get Me Outta the Girl Scouts!

2005-11-07T10:01:00.000-05:00

The PTA President tried to coerce me into getting my daughter to join Girl Scouts. As thoughts of my child selling chocolate mint cookies swirled in my head, Madame President informed me that we'd have to host the entire brood at our house at least one Saturday a month...the one day my family actually gets out and does fun things together. To complicate matters, the bratty kid whose mom doesn't talk to me anymore because my daughter blurted out that I thought she was a tyrant, was going to be in the group too. Considering I dropped out of Brownies when I was six and I don't want to have a confrontation with that mom who hates me, it looks like we're going to have to take a pass.