The Daily Grind of a Work @ Home Mom...

No Kids Allowed and Why I Love this Idea

I love my kids. In fact, they are my world. I take them everywhere and have since the day they were born. As a result, they have wonderfully mature palettes (mussels anyone?) and are typically very well-behaved in public places.

Typically.

But not always.  And when they melt down in public or talk in outside voices when we're inside a restaurant or (heaven forbid) on an airplane, I may or may not look around and give onlookers that please-pardon-my-kids-they-weren't-raised-in-the-jungle look or the would-you-bear-with-me-while-I-find-a-way-to-shut-these-damn-kids-up eyes.  But you know, I don't find myself squirming with embarassment all that often because I'm aware of when it's appropriate to have kids with me and when they need to stay home.

Are you?  While you may think you have the world's most fabulous offspring, if you're taking them to dinner after the time they're usually tucked into bed, chances are you're in for a real shitstorm, as are the nice folks at the next table.  When I leave my kids at home for an adult night out, I don't really want to hear kids, yours or mine, crying at the next table.

No offense.

When I read this article entitled, The Kids Aren't Alright, in AdWeek today, I almost stood up and gave a standing ovation.  Because as much as I love kids, both yours and mine (or whatever), there's a time and a place for everything.

So here's my spiel:  restaurants - almost any restaurant on earth, from McDonald's to Morton's, are fair game for kids who can sit still for the amount of time it takes to order, eat, and pay.  The caveat?  Be out by 6:15pm.  If you're craving sushi from Nobu and you're traveling with your mini-me's, be there when they open the doors at 5:45 so you and your noise can be gone by the time the grown-ups arrive to eat $100 sushi.  Fair enough, right? 

Movie theatres - simple.  Kids won't be seen and not heard and you're not seeing Winnie the Pooh?  Take off. 

Airplanes.  Ah, airplanes.  I defy you to find me a parent who doesn't dread an upcoming flight with kids.  I've been there, I'm sure you have too.  Honestly, there's not much you can do about an unruly kid on a plane except this is is one those times when bribery is not only an acceptable parenting method, it's preferable.  Parents -  bring candy, gum, snacks, DVD's, and as many new toys as you can fit in your carry-on.  Anything they're not allowed at home - BRING IT.  You might not be doing your kids any favors in the short-term, but think about all the fury you'll be saved from enduring when neighboring passengers don't want to kick your (and your kids) asses right off the plane.

The AdWeek article talks about an airline that has a new "no babies allowed" rule in first-class.  My thoughts are why would babies be allowed in first-class like, ever?  Why is this a new rule?  And adults-only vacation destinations aren't anything new.  Sandals Resorts has had a no-kids rule since it opened.  Many hotels around the world have adults-only pools.  Even as a mom, I found myself seeking them out on my last trip to Vegas.  Don't take this the wrong way, but for three days I just didn't want to be around any kids, yours or mine.  There are plenty of fabulous vacations to choose from if you want to bring kids.  In fact, if you think about it, with all the travel options geared toward families, it really is a kid's world. 

My last thought is geared toward those parents of kids who notoriously run around restaurants, can't sit still on a flight any longer than 20 minutes, and who chatter non-stop from previews to credits - in a few years it'll be fair game again and you won't have to deal with dirty looks from strangers.  But until then, please, Mom and Dad, leave the kids at home.

 

Anonymous

I've always wanted to write a book.  A storyteller from a very young age, it seemed natural that a dream of mine would be to publish a collection of words so that they could be shared with whomever cared to read them.

About a decade ago, I decided that I'd start with a children's book.  That goal seemed more attainable to the younger me.  So I signed up for a children's book writing class at the Center for Continuing Education at the local high school.  But while the other students were interested in creating board books or story books for the sandbox set, I found myself getting into writing a chapter book for kids of middle school age.  So obviously, I was drawn to the idea of a story that was more in-depth than a children's book. 

I still have the skeletal beginnings of it saved somewhere on my hard drive.  But it's been collecting proverbial dust for a very long time.

Then life happened.  Work, kids, family... and the idea of becoming an author was all but forgotten in the craziness of the day-to-day. 

In 2007 I discovered blogging and while it doesn't necessarily quell my desire to put together a story that has a beginning, middle, and ending, it does keep my creative juices flowing and allows me an outlet for my thoughts.

Well, most of them.

I avoid posting about the vast majority of my personal life here.  I've steered clear of telling some of my more delicate stories because a) I'm not big on screaming my personal business from the virtual rooftop and b) the internet endures and I do respect the other people in my life with whom I share these private issues.

So having been inspired by none other than Steve Dublanica, I started an anonymous blog a few days ago so that I could get it all out without hurting anyone.  I had no idea how I would promote my new blog or even how to reach the modest success I've had here without revealing myself, but I was willing to take the chance.  My goals were to be able to be honest about some of my more recent life experiences (remember, a writer writes!) without hurting or revealing any of the involved parties. And, the other goal was to maybe help others who could relate by letting them know that they weren't alone.  And based on the few posts I got up and the emails and comments in just a few days, it looked like I was going to succeed.

But that was not to be.

In what was a stupid mistake on my part, I revealed myself.  I was testing the sharing buttons on the blog and hit the Like button which posted the blog to my Facebook profile for all of about 20 seconds before I deleted it.  But that's all it took.  Someone (who is clearly not on my team) followed the link in those 20 seconds and within an hour, I was busted.  I started seeing the IP address of very visitor I was trying to avoid.  And I knew I could never write honestly knowing that I was being watched.

Sucks for me. 

There is no such thing as anonymous on the internet.  Not as a reader, and not as a writer.  It's scary actually, to know just how much information is circulating, ready to fall into just anyone's hands. 

So after giving it some thought, I decided I didn't want to be anonymous after all.  That dream of writing a book someday?  Getting closer by the hour...

Waiter Rant - A Review

After a long hiatus involving too many People Magazines, visits to TMZ.com, and various other mind-numbing tabloidy destinations, I'm back to good old fashioned reading.  I'm sure I've said this here before but it feels good to be back.  It's just that it's not easy to find books that grab - and maintain - my attention for longer than a few chapters.  But last weekend while visiting friends, my girlfriend offered my her husband's copy of Waiter Rant and told me he loved it. 

Waiter Rant is yet another blogger success story.  Started as a weblog by an overworked, less-than-satisfied waiter in 2004, Waiter Rant is probably an assortment of posts, manipulated into short-story format in order to work as a book (I haven't spent much time with the blog yet).  But work it does.  The stories speak to the underbelly of the restaurant world in a way that captivates.  The part of dining out that we, as mere patrons, never get to see or and most of us don't bother to think about.  Topics like seating (my own father is famous for never accepting the first table offered), to ordering, to proper wine etiquette and tipping - all fodder for stories in Waiter Rant.  It almost gives the reader a sense of voyeurism into the restaurant world.

The author, Steve Dublanica, who blogged anonymously and stayed in the proverbial closet even after the first edition of the book came out, comes across as an intelligent, if not slightly underwhelmed by life, jaded guy.  A waiter by circumstance as opposed to choice (one year fell into the next), it's his view from the top that makes the stories interesting.  It's that he knew what readers wanted to hear about.  Sex in bathrooms, hand-jobs under tables, the rich guy dining with the whore, and all make for an interesting read.

I was surprised to learn that not all waiters spit in their customers food (I've worried about that more than once myself) and that most servers live on tips (15-20% is standard).  I'd never considered the competitive nature of the business (weekend shifts, holidays...) or how waiters relationships suffer as a result of their absurd schedules.  Overall, these are topics I've just never thought to consider, because I didn't realize I cared.

I could have lived without reading Waiter Rant.  It was a laugh-out-loud, flinch outwardly, beach-read that didn't so much as teach me anything as much as it made me think about stuff I'd never thought to think about.  But now that I know, I'm thinking I might be a much better customer next time I eat out.

Part of the appendix, I loved this and thought it was worth sharing:

What Your Drink Says About You.

Vodka Martini – Sophisticated. You’re classy, old school or a James Bond wannabe. I’ve been known to drink these.

Cosmopolitan – Prissy, over ordered and passé. Favored by Manolo Blahnik wearing Candace Bushnell devotees who spend all their money on shoes but live in rathole apartments. Rapidly becoming an old lady drink.

Sidecar – The last time you got laid was 1932.

Chardonnay – You know what you like. Boring. Predictable. The Missionary Position of White Wine.

Pinot Grigio – You’re pretentious or don’t know what you like. You follow the herd. The Circle Jerk of White Wine

Beer – Blue collar, simple, and an old standby. (I think a girl wearing a t-shirt and jeans while drinking a good ‘ol Bud is very sexy.)

Chocolate Martini – You’re immature or have a sweet tooth. Good for masking the taste of Roofies.

Vodka on the Rocks – You want to get drunk as fast as possible.

Malibu Bay Breeze – A gay man’s drink. (According to Louis)

Sloe Gin Fizz – Same as above.

Gin neat – Only for mad dogs and Englishmen.

Sour Apple Martini – You have a sense of fun but overindulgence might cause dancing on tables and bad karaoke singing. (Beth?)

Negroni – Fluvio’s favorite drink so I can’t badmouth it. I like my job.

Campari and Soda – You’re a gourmand. A good aperitif. A bitter drink for bitter people.

Manhattan – Old fogey drink. Stuffy. Where did I put the bitters?

Sweet Vermouth on the Rocks – You’re so old that if you’re not already in the grave you soon will be.

Pinot Noir – You’ve seen Sideways. Nuff said.

Sex on the Beach – You’ve been to Club Hedonism haven’t you?

Sex up Against the Wall – You own shares in Club Hedonism don’t you?

Galliano –You’re a waterbed, lava lamp, reel to reel, gold chain wearing, wall to wall shag carpet loving, swinging 70’s disco fool.

Gimlets – You’re old fashioned and like to drink. Usually the provenance of classy cerebral babes.

Rob Roy – You’re an alcoholic.

Margarita – You’re fun, good in bed, and naughty with a sense of style. If you don’t have it with salt you’re a wimp.

Shirley Temple – What? Are you five years old? On the wagon? Get the fuck outta here.

Bloody Mary – You need an excuse to start drinking before lunch.

Gin and Tonic – You’re kinda boring but an excellent drink when it’s hot outside.

Mint Julep – You’re a hospitable Southern guy/gal. Good stuff. Rarely ordered.

Tequila – You’re not afraid of spending a little time in jail.

Champagne – You’re reserved, classy, or a stripper.

Vodka Red Bull – Party person, young, possible cokehead.

Southern Comfort –Where’d you put the Lynyrd Skynyrd eight tracks? I know I saw ‘em around here somewhere.

Mojito – You’re not afraid to try new things, have low frustration tolerance and are prone to wild rages.

Rum and Coke – You’ve been arrested for assault once or twice.

Whisky Sour – Have another one Grandma.

Alabama Slammer – You’ve read the “Have a Cocktail” placemat at the diner once too often.

Whisky, Single Malt Scotch, Bourbon – You’re a sexual athlete. Women want you and men want to be like you. You have class, talent, wit, and brains. Of course, this is what I drink.

Parenting 101.1 - Summer Camp Edition

This is not a course in parenting.  Instead it's a cry for help, from one parent to another.  Because there's no manual for this stuff, and today is one of those days when I regret this bitterly.

So camp started this past Monday and while my three-year-old cheerfully went around the corner to a familar place with familiar faces, my five-year-old boarded the big yellow school bus for the very first time with her little school friend and off they went for eight hours of pure campy fun-in-the-sun.

Except notsomuch. 

I couldn't wait for that bus to pull up at 4:30, and eject my disheveled but happy kid from its clutches.  Finally I saw the bus (albeit 20 minutes late) and kids started trickling out, but no Alex.  Adrenaline pumping, I hopped on the bus to seek her out only to find a tear-stained little girl seated in the second row.

"No one called my name out," she told me tearfully. 

Mama bear took over and I was pissed.  Do you know me personally?  Pissed does not look good on me.

The following morning, she boarded the same bus, perhaps not as eagerly as the day before, and off she went.  I called camp to let them know what condition Alex was in when she was returned to me and was assured it would be taken care of.

"And no one took her to the bathroom all day.  Oh, and she came home in the same bathing suit I sent her in."  Ever hear of crotch rot?  Ew.

Fast-forward to pick-up on day two.  Again, I got a crying kid, this time she was getting herself off of the bus.  She was dirty and drained and sweaty, I immediately went into Mommy overdrive.

"Why is she crying?" I asked the 16-year-old boy/kid who was the bus counsellor.  He explained that her little friend had stayed in camp with her big sister for family night so she was sad riding without her.  They hooked her up with another kid to ride with, to no avail.

Ok, good enough reason.

Day three - she's totally not stoked to get on the bus. 

I pick her up at 4:30 - crying - her on the outside, me on the inside.

OhmygodI'mtheworstmotherever.

This morning I could not peel this child from her bed.  It's not that I was that surprised based on the previous days drama, it's just that this is so not my kid.  My kid loves fun, she loves the lake and is being forced encouraged to embrace nature and the outdoors through weekend fishing expeditions and lots of grimy lake swims.

I begged her, pleaded with her, made deals with her.  Please get dressed and I'll pick you up from camp.  No bus.  Never mind the 40 minutes of traffic I'll sit in either way.  I'll do it.  Just PLEASE GET UP!

Nope.  Her will outlasted mine and finally I took the little one to her clean, fun camp and left Alex behind with the nanny.  I went for a run outside to relieve myself from some of the fire I was feeling on my insides and then answered a call from the camp.

"Bring her, we'll talk to her, we'll ease her into it, we'll call you if we need you," the director assured me.

I came home, talked her into it, and off we went.

So far, so good.  No teary phone calls, no emergent SOS's.  Good news, I guess.  But I feel like only a happy dose of klonopin could calm me today, to the point where I cannot wait to get that kid home.

I'm not that mother that forces a miserable child to board a camp bus.  No tough love here.  She's five and is experiencing a totally new thing.  I get it.  But as a person who crossed off the calendar days until the next summer from the day I returned, how can she be resisting it so much?  Whose kid is this?  And what do I do?

The report from camp this afternoon was good.  She's playing happily on the beach.  For now.

Cross your fingers for me tomorrow morning.    

 

Not Guilty does NOT Equal Innocent

Yesterday was a really sad day for, well, for the world.  Judge away, but I, like millions of others have been super-glued to any and all news about the Casey Anthony trial.  Matter of fact, I'm grateful to HLN, a network I've never ever watched before for getting me from June to July with only a fraction of the withdrawal I usually feel during the summer hiatus.

I was at the pool enjoying the day with my kids when news about the verdict hit the world.  I overheard two girls sitting near us discussing the case and I interjected their conversation like they were old friends.

"Any news?" I asked.

"They came back with innocent on every count," one of the Anthony-addicts responded.

I missed a breath.  I'm sure of it.  I felt like I'd been hit on the gut.  I couldn't believe it.

I pounded the girls, who knew no more than what they'd told me, for details.  They shrugged their shoulders.  I checked Twitter, Facebook.  I found a TV in the bar at the pool but it was muted, showing only headlines.  There was no more news.  Just that Casey would walk and there would be no justice for a little girl's murder. 

Casey Anthony is guilty.  I don't care what a jury of 12 people, who interestingly refused to share comments about their decision, say.  As a mom, I know that if my child went missing for five minutes, for two minutes, for 30 seconds, I would be half-insane.  I'd beg for help, enlist every single person I could to assist.  I don't know how I would breath, eat, sleep, exist.

I do know for certain that I wouldn't be out partying, or at my boyfriend's house, or dancing in wet t-shirt contests.

I know for a fact that I wouldn't keep my child's disappearance a secret.

Ok.  So maybe it was an accident that "snowballed out of control" as creepy defense attorney, Jose Baez, insisted.  Even if that is true, the best thing this "mother" thought to do with her now dead daughter's tiny body was to wrap it up in garbage bags and dispose of it in the woods like trash?  Then go to the party. 

If this is what they call "innocent", then I'll take guilty.

The jury found Anthony guilty of lying to police.  Here's the thing, why the need to lie if you're not guilty?  If it was an accident, why cover it up as if you were guilty?

Hmmm...

There's a problem with our judicial system.  I'm not a lawyer, so I'm not sure where the issue is, but the justice system seriously failed yesterday.  It failed the people who live in this country, it failed the family who lost a grand-daughter and niece, but most of all, it failed a two-year-old whose only sin was having been born to an unfit person.

I'm left wondering if the idea of leaving such a crucial decision in the hands of a jury made up of who-knows-who is the problem.  Maybe allowing cameras in the courtroom is the problem or maybe the idea of keeping all the speculation away from the jurors isn't for the best.  Could it be that the structure of the system - prosecution having the burden of proof while the defense simply has to plant reasonable doubt - works in favor of the defendant?

I don't know what the answer is.  I know that today, I'm left wondering who I could rely on should something terrible happen to someone I love.  Because after yesterday, I'm sure the law is not on my side.

 
Caylee Marie Anthony

 August 9, 2005 - June ?, 2008

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