Admissions of a Stage Mom

We went to SoCal a couple of weeks ago so that Abs could compete in a ginormous Irish step dance competition. This is where my induction in to the Stage Mom guild/club/cult and then my dramatic removal from the same guild/club/cult was made official. 

We found out that Abby a problem with a ligament on her left foot about ten days before the competition. It sucked. She'd worked so hard. We had to take her off of the foot and she had to walk around in a horrible boot all day every day, except for the two hours of practice. I know, gasp, she still danced while injured. I'm a jerk. But, her PT said she could so I'm off the hook right?

As always, before any big competition, these girls are taken off of their feet for the week prior to the event. We took the week and headed to Cali early to Disney and beach for a few days. By the time the competition began, she was ready to dance again. That Friday she danced in the solo competition. Her hard shoe, which is always her best, felt slow and lacked her normal energy. But her soft shoe was perfection. The kind of dancing that takes your breath away. And, she knew it. 

The next day the teams danced their 8 hand figures. These dances are crazy hard. The big girl team (top row below - 1 dancer) danced first and did so well. They placed 15th overall. The littles, Abby and her friends in front row below, danced a few dances later and looked amazing until the end where everything just sort of fell apart. But, they had no idea. They all thought they were amazing. That's kind of the point, right? No matter how it all went down, they thought they were perfect. Just look at them... they were!

Abby and her team (s). She's 4th from the left in the front row. 

During the team dances there was a mom standing in the aisle waving her arms at the team on the stage. I assume she was trying to tell them to move in to the center of the stage. She looked like an idiot. Even if they'd noticed her, it would have been a disaster for the team. I was so embarrassed for her and the poor girls that have to live with her insane behavior. But, then I realized that while Abby was dancing I had the urge to yell "stomp harder" a few times. And that was it. My days as an almost insane stage mom were over.

Abby, I promise that I will never be the mom that stands in the aisle waving my arms at you while you dance. I'll never watch with my head bobbing to make sure you hit every beat, stomped every stomp, clicked every heel or stood up high on every toe. I will never be the mom that makes you nervous or worried about how stiff the competition is. Pinky swear.

This dance thing is crazy. But, my Abby is an amazing dancer. This last year has been a miracle for her. She's in the 6th grade. Everything changes during these years. She's battling hormones and mean girls (wait for the post on that one.. it's a doozy) and suddenly feeling like boys are awesome and hating her siblings and the desire to sass me at every turn, oh, and the math battle is a fierce one this year. But, she has this dance thing that gives her confidence and courage and the best friends any little girl could ever have and teachers that love her and and make her work hard and teach her the importance of really earning something.

She earned her championship status this year. She earned her ranking. She earned every bit of time I spend in that car driving her to and from the studio and the time spent waiting for her and the insane amount it costs to keep this up. She earned it ten times over. I would do it again and again and again to see her smile like she did when she got off that stage after dancing the most beautiful soft shoe dance I have ever seen her do.

** Very special thinks to our Mel who hauled her cookies to watch her dance and run around Disneyland with us.

Lobes, Lesbians, and The Ugly Step Sisters

Standing in line for Buzz Lightyear with Sam is one of my favorite things at Disneyland. He can recite along with the life size Buzz in the entry. Last week he was doing it subconsciously while I was holding him and not paying attention to what he was reaching for. Finally my mommy radar kicked in and I pulled his hand away before he stuck his finger the the GIANT hole in the earlobe of the man standing in front of us. It was like a magnet. He resisted me  I started to laugh, then cough, then the tears started rolling down my cheeks. Sam was sure he was going to pull that low hanging earlobe down because it "wobbled to and fro" could tie it in a knot or tie it in a bow." 

The guy was probably in his early 40s. He'd clearly put those huge things in his earlobes. I don't even know what they call them, but they are horrid and there should be a caution sign at places that do those for people that says "you may want to think about how lame you'll look in line at Buzz Lightyear when you're 40 with giant holes in your earlobes" before you go forward with this terrible terrible decision.

Later in the week I was in the elevator heading down to the lobby with Sam and Molly. We stopped on the 8th floor and a woman walked in with a shirt that said STR8 for PROP8. It made my skin crawl. I totally support marriage between people who love each other. And no, I do not mean plural... that's just plain ridiculous. She also had a giant pink bow in her hair and hot pink velour sweatpants with PINK on the butt. It was one of those moments when you might not be surprised if What Not To Wear ambushed that girl right then and there. But, before Stacy and Clinton could run on to the elevator and grab her and show her the horrible fashion footage they'd been collecting, another woman(?) got on the elevator. It took me the rest of the ride down to see that she was, in fact, a woman. And, then I spotted the rainbow triangle tattoo on the inside of her forearm. And, then I saw her face staring at that stupid shirt the other woman had on. And again... laugh, hold breath, snort, tears. You have to admit, that is funny. She could have torn the pink prissy one right up. Sadly, no girl fight in the elevator.

BUT, there was a girl fight later that night during the new holiday parade at Disneyland. We were not planning on seeing it at all, but we got stuck on the way to Small World. We did not plan on doing that ride at all, but somehow Sam remembered it from our last trip and demanded it so fiercely that it could no longer be denied. Waiting through the parade was horrible. He was so angry when they blocked the street to small world. But, when the ugly step sisters came trotting down the street, he squealed like a little piggy. They kept smacking each other and pushing each other all over the street. Of course they start trotting again the second I start filming.  

I stopped and the one in yellow was on her way over to deck the one in pink one more time.  They were definitely the highlight of the Disney character onslaught of 2011. Bring on the villains, they're our favorite. And, we do appreciate a decent girl fight from time to time. 

Disneyland was an adventure as always. I have plenty of other stories from the trip, but most of them include whiny grandparents and I'm trying hard to purge my brain of their silly tantrums. 

Dancing and my induction in to the stage mom cult will follow...

SERENITY NOW

Sick kids = work from home = Yo Gabba Gabba on all day = I hate Nickelodeon

Thankfully my iTunes is pretty much as badass as ever these days. Thanks in large part to some new recommendations from Tay and Shep and Kalli K.

While YGG plays in the background I'm listening to:



Try to stay still when you hear this one:
And this too:
And this (yes, her lips are so strange, but she's pretty much smokin otherwise)
And this (you cannot help but love this, right?)

I find a lot of serenity in great music. I love it even more when the recommendation came from a friend. It can help drown out any amount of BS.

Happy Monday!

W

I love

Earlier this month I found a stack of neatly wrapped letters in a box in my basement. The box was filled with photos and tokens... reminders of my youth, friends, neighbors, adventures, loss, love and change. I was sure the letters were gone with all of my journals documenting much of my life before I was married. Finding them felt a little like winning.

Half or more were the letters that I remember reading over and over again. Their worn folds and ragged edges show the wear of many hours of review. They are sweet reminders of what were magical, though challenging, years for me. Their authors were vastly different, but now reading back through their words they expressed things so similarly, so simply and beautifully.

The letters were found on the same day I got a link to the Love Letter mural project in Philadelphia. The murals were created to "collectively express a love letter from a guy to a girl, from an artist to his hometown and from local residents to their neighborhood." For those lucky commuters on the elevated transit line along the Market Street corridor, there can be no better way to begin and end your day like this...

OR this...

It should really be this simple. Right? Maybe not when you're young. Maybe it's supposed to be all dramatic and sensationalized when you're young. But, now, it is this simple. Some relationships are complicated. Some families are complicated... mine is a mess. But, the mess seems to be getting blurrier and the way I love my people just expands and then sometimes it oozes all over them and you find that I say it out loud anywhere I want... even in business meetings in front of a whole group of other people and every time I hang up the phone or squeeze them goodbye.

Whether it's romantical or familial or the closeness of true friendships... it's kind of all the same. (Except for the mushy parts.)

Now, if whoever painted that wall would swap out juice with Diet Coke, you would all really understand the depth of my love.

Yes, he said "Google Me"!

Last week I met a man who introduced himself as the "(insert name of very successful CEO here) Whisperer" only moments before he told my colleague and I to "Google" him when asked him what his specific role was on the project we were meeting about.

I've worked with plenty of odd people before. Egomaniacs. Sociopaths. Cross-dressers. And so many more. But, I've never ever met a man that made me dislike him with less than ten words out of his mouth.

He is one part of a larger team of men, also in that meeting, that are paid millions for absolutely nothing of value. They tout their successes, but when they are "Googled" those successes seem to be fabricated. They tout job histories that include some factual references but not in the order or magnitude that they are constantly spouting about. As a group they are dangerous.

As an outsider, they appear to be pirates... hijacking the management infrastructure of a fragile organization, adding fear and distrust among the masses who have worked so hard to build something good, something of value, something with values. They have devalued the work that built a billion dollar company. They are stripping the company of its character as they prove that they have little character.

I hate doing work that is destroying good work done by some of my best friends. I hate supporting a brand change that I would never get behind because I have no belief in their message or story. Even worse, though, is that this is not uncommon. Many companies are in this position, doing this very thing, making unfortunate and destructive decisions out of desperation, uncertainty, insecurity, and a pressure to do nothing more than make money.

And, really, who the hell says "Google me"? Who? An asshat.

Well done Starbucks!

Let's be really honest. Starbucks Chai sucks. It's horrible. I hate it. I have broken down and given it another shot a few times and have always been disappointed. They need to fix it. It makes me sad.

BUT, this does not make me sad. This was a sweet surprise. I love companies that really follow through with community action. I love it even more because it is in a place that I love more than any on earth. Boston.

 

I want to work in the gardens. It's hard not to be a Starbucks fan when they understand the importance of service and good works for others. Well done Starbucks!

Sometimes I need a megaphone

My kids are screamers. It's all they do lately. They scream at each other, me, the neighbor's idiot dog, my sisters, their cousins. I'm in the market for a megaphone or one of those really annoying horns they use at football games. I just want to scare them a little and shut them up a lot. Kids are loud. My ears are tired.

While I was having my 'holy crap you kids are damn loud' meltdown I found this...

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! Genius. Now, does anyone have a real megaphone I could borrow?

My brain is bubble gum. Original flavor.

Earlier tonight Mojo told me that my brain was just made of a gazillionty pieces of ABC bubble gum.

She says, "you know, the kind that tastes like bubble gum?"

"As opposed to what? The kind that doesn't taste like bubble gum?"

"OMG Mom, duh, the kind that doesn't taste like bubble gum is all gross like cotton candy or watermelon." (now go back and read that sentence as if an 8 year old valley girl was saying it to you with her hand on her hip and a little sass in her tone) She said with her nose all puckered up like something smelled bad.

So, that's my brain. ABC gum. Lots of it. That explains a lot. Really, if that were true the last few years would be totally explainable and maybe even normal. Except the cancer part, that's not very normal. But the rest could be. You know me well enough and you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you happen to also be on my late night, not entirely coherent, text circuit... well, you are just lucky. It's a treat. And, you know exactly how much fun it is to crawl inside this head and jump around in it, like a bounce house. There's a lot of hot air, some weird mesh fabric to keep things in and other things out, some duct tape patching up a few holes, and a few turrets because those houses are always shaped like sad little castles.

Today was a day worth forgetting until about 4:30pm. In fact, I really don't remember much of what happened today except for an "I love you" text that I totally needed when it came in because there could have been no better time to be reminded of that than that very moment. And, oh, my most favorite developer of all time ever quit today. But, around 4:30, after I had given some blood for more testing, eaten a digestive biscuit (my oncologist keeps HobNobs in his desk) and then vomited that precious biscuit in to my very own tiny little bucket, my doctor handed me a 44oz Diet Coke with pebble ice. And, then, he told me that I wasn't crazy because he knew crazy and it was in the form of a Polly Pocket sized, spray tanned orange, platinum blonde extension wearing, woman who had visited him an hour before with a stack of literature that she'd printed off of some online resource. In that stack she believed that she could prove that all of her symptoms would lead him to believe that she had leukemia.

After a full exam and some very quick tests he was able to tell her that she had some odd things in her blood stream and asked her if she had implants. Apparently in a very short amount of time he was able to narrow her symptoms down to toxic shock and was able to locate a leak in one of her giant implants.

Based on his play by play, this was her reaction:

"That's not possible, I went to the very best plastic surgeon in Las Vegas for these. I probably should have someone with more experience with this tell me exactly what this is."

And, this was his:

"I can assure you that there are few doctors in the state that have seen as many leaky implants as I have.   You have a leak. It is compromising your blood. If you don't take care of this now it will get worse and lead to any number of problems."

Her answer:

"Can't you just patch it?"

Yes, she won the booby prize for the day. I got the giant Diet Coke and confirmation that my brain is made of bubble gum.

Leaky fake boobs kind of gross me out. Thankfully I had a bucket handy.

W

My kids are stupid awesome.

On Sunday morning I piled my kids in to the car and drove up the mountain to Sundance for a little breakfast and some quiet time away from what is THE WORST WEEK in the history of weeks. Maybe you've had worse weeks. Maybe. I doubt it. But, try me.

Mine went something like this. Death. Cancer. Chemo. Surgery. Stitches. Radiation. Chemo. Wal Mart. Death. Dancing. Crying. Insomnia.


The details are fascinating. I promise. But, I'm still not sure how I want to remember the mess. So, I'll just tell you that in all of the drama of the week, while I felt helpless and a little bit out of control, my kids were pretty remarkable. And, in all of her grief, the little one with fresh stitches lifted me and comforted me and told me "sometimes some of us just get all the hard stuff because other people will freak the heck out." She's a wise one. 

The last couple of years have mostly.... sucked. My kids learned quickly how to handle things my parents had a hard time dealing with. Cancer is scary. Mom's with cancer are super scary. Big changes at home are unsettling and can cause kids years of worry. They understand fear and grief. They have endured plenty of both. And they surprise me everyday with how much they do to overcome both... every single day. My champion dancer, and my middle blondie with freckles for days and humor for miles, and my boy who learned to cope early by putting everything in to his drawings. My kids are stupid awesome.


Today I miss my tiny dog who died last Saturday. I didn't realize how much I loved him and how much space he really filled in our home. It is quiet now. My kids are so noisy, but it is still quiet without him there. Last summer I went through six solid weeks of chemotherapy. It was my first summer home full time.... ever. It should have been so fun. But, I was sick.

Fenway - The day we brought him home.

We spent many hours piled in my big bed watching movies last summer. That tiny dog never left me. He knew. It was like he needed to be there to hear that I was OK. On nights I wasn't OK, he would bark and wake up the whole house if I woke up and needed something. He knew. As I near hard days like those again, I miss his comfort. Instead, I have a 35 lb kid with a huge head climbing up next to me in the dark and snuggling his giant head in to my neck. He talks in his sleep and begs for drinks in the middle of the night. Right around 2am he'll scream "I need to pee". It's a treat.


For the first time in my life I felt the creeping  depression start to find its way in. It is not a natural feeling for me and it worried me. So, naturally, I just doubled up on my "happy" pills. Kidding. I just got my running shoes out and got back on the road and it helped a lot. 

I am sad that my children have to go through so much and that I can't hide the hard things in the world from them. On the flip side, I want them to know the hard stuff early and learn how to handle it well now so that they can spend their energy on better things and overcome the shitty shit life might deal them with ease. I'm also making sure they always have a good pair of runners for the days that things blow.


-W

 

Some times someone sends you a song that is stupid good and you have to share it

Thank you, my beautiful samurai-like warrior princess.



You know who you are. Yeah, you, the hot one. I love you.

- W

It's you. Totally knew it!

I remember the day Ben was born. I remember staring down at him and thinking "Oh hi you! Of course it's you." Like we were old friends. Like we'd always known each other. Like we had always been connected. Like we shared a secret. And, we did.

He captivated me. He was perfect. And he was only mine for 48 hours. And then, he was theirs. Letting him go began well before his birth. Still there are not words for the kind of grief that held me for many days following his adoption. And then, one day, months later, it lifted and now what I remember most is not the pain, but instead I remember that I knew him and that he knew me and we had a secret. We had an agreement.

I work with a sweet girl who has been chosen with her husband to adopt a baby boy when he arrives in December. She met the birth mother recently and she had that "Oh hi you! Of course it's you" moment. What could be more comforting to a young woman not yet ready to be a mother and a woman who has tried for many years in vain to have a child? Like a friendship had been renewed and an agreement remembered.

I struggle with God daily. I struggle with much of the organization in the church I was raised in. But, oddly, I never struggle to find or recognize what I know can only be the hand of something much greater in my life.

I have girlfriends that I have looked at and said "Oh hi you! Of course it's you." Like how the hell did this reunion take so long? These women... I love them. I love them with that deep choked up grateful kind of love.

I have a brother who I know I've been connected to for time that spans far beyond this life. And I have these children who are so totally mine. As they grow I have those "Oh hi you!" moments often.

I wonder if they'll have that with Ben. I know they have it with some cousins and a couple of my friends who have firmly planted themselves in to our inner circle, and they have an unbreakable bond with their uncle. Odds are pretty good.

I'm kind of a girl about this mushy stuff. But, I'm not a Candyass. Wussy girl, yes. Candyass, no. 

Dear Summer, your days are numbered.

The kids class lists were posted this morning. Three weeks and they're back in school. I can't wait. I love the schedule and the rhythm of a school year, but I am sad that this summer has passed so quickly and I feel like I've missed so much of it. Maine and my beautiful town South of Boston are long gone.

We've had cousins visiting from Beijing and they've kept my kids busy with every activity a kid could imagine during the summers here. Rock climbing, swimming, hiking, swimming, camping, swimming, skating, night games, sleepovers at grandparents, golfing, baseball games, and swimming. And, bunches and bunches of other things.

Mojo tackling a steep wall in American Fork Canyon, July 2011

If you know me well, you know that I've recently been a tiny bit sick again and that my Mojo had surgery two weeks ago and her summer was halted quite suddenly with the new piece of hardware in her chinny chin chin. I've wanted to throw in the towel and quit working full time and just hang out with my kids. And, to be really honest, to also spend more time with my friends. Have I ever told you that I have the greatest friends ever. I do. They are smart and funny and SMART and they always show. Always. And, guess what else. I love their kids. (The ones that don't have kids get mine by default, so I REALLY love their kids.) Their kids are adventurous and clever and kind and one gives the best kisses on the planet.

For mine, summer has been made better by their deep connections to their cousins, all of these new friends, my mother and her beautiful yard built for her 16 grandchildren and the cinnamon rolls that seem to appear magically in her kitchen, and by a swing that makes butterflies and belly laughs in Kalli's backyard.

Grandma makes great comic strip hats and her poppies are the MOST beautiful in Alpine. We love the trees in Kalli's backyard and love that we get to play there often. We also love how close we are to the mountains for hiking and campfires and, most of all, for s'mores.

 For years I have wanted only to get out of this state and head back to my beautiful New England. Both for me and my children. I have always felt that they would thrive away from here and away from the things I find challenging and frustrating about this place. But, they have much here that would be greatly missed if we were to leave. And, so do I. So, for now... we stay and love it.

The time that my sweet non-drinking girlfriends mistakenly ordered beer at my daughter's birthday party

Last Friday I took five little girls to Pizzeria 712 for a birthday party. I also invited a few friends along. That proved to be the best decision of the year because two of my super sweet friends who do not drink beverages of the alcoholic persuasion ordered beer... accidentally.

The drinks came. The drinks were sipped. The mouths puckered. The eyes squinted at the label that said "70% beer" and I peed a little as I watched them both drain their bottles in to the plants behind them so that the waiter didn't think they were completely stupid.

 

 Just in case you were wondering, the beauty with the smoking red hot lips here on the right had a baby a mere three weeks ago and looks like a million bucks.

I love that I have girlfriends and sisters who show up on the days I need them most. I didn't know it until about an hour before that party, but I needed those women around that day. It was the morning that I found out that my cancer had spread to my colon. The day I had a meltdown at work. The day I finally broke for just a few minutes since my first diagnosis. The day I admitted I was scared. The day I decided that specific brand of beer was icky.

It was my daughter's birthday party. But, I was the one who really needed the party! I am incredibly lucky to have sisters that I love and that I love to spend time with. And friends make me laugh and let me cry and that show up and make the party. 

P.S. The eleven year old girls also love it when Aunt Mel comes because she has hot legs and guys like to flirt with her. Apparently that was the highlight of the party for the tweeners. Hear that Mel... hot legs!

No Candyasses in this circle.

He belongs to me.

This week we celebrated 4 years with this little one. We didn't do much. He's pretty easy to please. The only thing he ever wants to do is draw. So, he got a stack of sketch books and some fancy colored pencils and even fancier markers. It was top notch stuff. It was upstaged by a $1 bubble wand (which he refers to as his sword) from my little sister. Honestly people, all it takes is a buck!

He is the perfect ending to the baby making chapter of my life. Honestly, I decided a long time ago that I was done. Then I waffled and thought that there may be a reason to keep that door open. Then cancer made the decision for me. I hate cancer a little bit more for that. Mostly because I'm the boss and having something be the boss of me for awhile was total BS.

I am surprised by him every day. The kid can draw 3d shapes and spell the word trapezoid and he knows all of the planets in the correct order and he can sing every Justin Beiber song without help (don't judge, he has sisters) and he is the best pancake flipper in our house. The best part of my day is when I spend the last few minutes of the day with him and he tells me how great his day was. Every day is a great day with him. He never complains. He sees good in everything.

Fact is, though, that this kid is totally the boss of me.

You let the butter dribble on vacation

I took my kids home a few weeks ago. To the place I feel most at home. To Boston. To Hingham, the town I grew up in. To the house I grew up in and the neighborhood I loved. To the streets between my house and Jeannie's and the million and one memories that live there. To the beach, the water, the smell of the salt air and the winding roads along the coast. To the cemetery on High Street where Mitch is remembered. To the North End, Quincy Market, and my new digs in Cambridge. Up to Boothbay Harbor and back.

We went to places that meant the most to me growing up. And still, they hold strong as the places I love best. These places are the backdrop for so much of the color and texture and pattern of my life. In them I grew close to my family, made unbreakable bonds, fell deeply in love, learned the value of friendship and loyalty, had my heart broken a few times, and had more fun than any teenager should ever be allowed.

So many of my memories of these places are lost. So many are vague sort of shadows and I wonder if I remember them correctly. I wish I had those pages filled with my stories. I wish I remembered more details than I do. Not just because there was something magical about this place I got to live, but because I want my kids to know some of those stories. Not all of them, but a few are worthy of sharing.

I do remember running up the path from my house to the playground at Plymouth River School, across Harvard and Stanford to Blackhorse Lane hundreds of times. I remember smoking pot with my brother and his best friend on that very playground before our huge family dinners on Sundays where there were always at least ten extra people. (If you knew the chaos that often came with ten or more extra people, you'd have been at that playground with us.)

One Berkley Circle with overgrown hedges and the sinking walk that my dad put in by hand. 

I remember my mother's terrible pink and green wallpaper and how happy (and terrified) we were when my dad left oil on the stove one morning and the kitchen burned up so that we would never have to see it again... only, she put the same crap back up! I remember driving to school on snowy mornings and taking the turn on to Main Street a little too fast every time so that the back end of my mom's Jeep would fishtail just enough to make our little sisters pee a little.

I remember long walks down my street to the side yard that led to Ward Street. Wishing Berkley Circle were miles longer so I wouldn't have to say goodnight. (Mosty I just didn't ever want to stop making out with my boyfriend on that big patch of open grass that ruined my favorite white jeans.) I remember the night I was supposed to be at Dances With Wolves and instead had the best date in the history of dates. I remember spending more time at Jeannie's house because that's where our boys always were. And, long summer days laying by her pool with sun-in in our hair and ridiculously long discussions about summer camp and her boyfriend's smelly feet and debating whether her adopted brother was gay or not.

I remember standing on this very deck behind the Lobstermen's Co-op in Boothbay Harbor, Maine and taking a similar photo with my whole family, including Bruce and Diane. What was so amazing about this vacation with my kids was how incredibly easy they were. They fell in love with my beautiful Hingham instantly. And, they were no match for Boothbay Harbor. They are fully under the spell.

As am I.

NOW, I remember these three running up and down the street I lived on and the beaches I played on through the tiny town I spent summer vacations in. I watched them eat their first whole lobsters without worrying about the weird insides or the dribbling butter. And I watched them stand quietly over the tiny harbor in Cohasset and stare at the boats going out to the open water. It was where Molly turned and said that it was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. I remember how easy they were in these places that always bring me comfort. They were happy and for a week they didn't argue or call names or whine. There will be many many more of these trips. Longer versions with more time for nothing and less driving and sightseeing. For now, though, I remember a tiny bit of perfection.

My very best memories... and theirs

I have awesome kids. I do. They are smart and funny and terribly clever.

We went to my Papa's grave a couple of weeks ago to drop off some flowers and notes and blow him dozens of kisses. I have a hard time not welling up when I visit him. I was five when he died. I remember learning how to ride a horse that day. I have very few clear memories of my childhood. But, that day feels like it was etched or carved in to me so I would never forget. Like a tattoo on the insides. It would be an image of me on a brown and white painted pony with a red ribbon braided in her white tail. And, me in my very worn and faded Harvard sweatshirt with a big huge wad of pink gum stuck in my long blond hair and a pair of dirty black boots up to my knees.

I loved him madly. He was quite possibly the most handsome man... ever. He had dark hair and was always tan and had the happiest eyes I'd ever seen. His smile lines made it look like he was always smiling. I remember him only happy, only healthy, only smiling. He had cancer. It took his life terribly fast and far too early.

While we were standing there, at his grave, Molly said "he's probably really glad he's missing this mess" and pointed to Sam. It broke my heart just a little while I sucked in a little laugh.

He would have so loved these children. These little ones I'm watching run around a campfire on the beach right this minute. Yes, I'm letting them run around a fire. We are on vacation. I'm giving the rigid mom bit a break this week. Oh wait, that's not even in my repertoire. I'm even more relaxed than normal this week.

I have smile lines like his. They only show up because I have been in the sun so much. I'll take them though. They are great reminders of this week that made my kids fall in love with the best parts of my favorite places. I don't remember everything the way I remember the day my papa died. I wish so much that I still had all of my journals that document the best days of my life so that I could share those days with my kids. The ones they ask about all the time... what my family was like growing up, what my friends were like, my first kiss, my first love, dances, dates, and heartbreaks.

I want to help them make the best memories and hear about the good ones that happen without me and help them through the times that will deliver their worst. Mostly, I just want them to have full, colorful lives. Like me. But, also, I want them to remember them!
 

My Molly Mojo

I earned this girl My mother is sure that I got this one to make up for my excessively naughty years. Considering the fact that those years have not and will likely not end any time soon, I'm in trouble. If my mother is right, this one will keep me up nights... forever.

Not long after her little brother was born, I took some photos of the kids together in my mom's garden. It's a grandma's garden filled with heirloom blooms and bright red poppies. 

I blew a photo up to frame and noticed that Molly's chin had a little discoloration and seemed a little swollen on one side. I figured it was just a normal Mojo smudge. The kid is always dirty. But, when I looked more closely it looked very much not like a smudge. 

Long story short, she had a tumor on her chin. Benign and non-threatening, but still alarming because of how large it was.

She has now been through multiple surgeries to remove it without terribly scarring or stretching. She is so fair that the red scar is quite noticeable and it bothers her much of the time. I struggle with the fact that she feels imperfect. Because, while naughty and sassy, she is really as perfect as they come. She has the most amazing row of darling freckles across her nose and cheekbones.

This morning I went in to wake her up. I sat on the bed next to her and tickled her until she laughed. When she smiled and the skin tightened around her cheeks and chin I noticed that the tumor had returned and was growing on both sides of her little red scar. My heart broke.

I can handle a lot. I have handled a lot personally. But, I don't handle my children suffering well. And, this one can't be solved easily. I'd take the last 18 months of cancer, chemo, radiation, and fear all over again to spare her from this thing that makes her sad and insecure.

What mother wouldn't?

No Talk List : Police Edition

I got pulled over the other day. It's a habit of mine. I seem to attract them everywhere I go. Over the past few years I've been pulled over in multiple states for a variety of reasons. None of those reasons included speeding.

Sam was in the car when the cop came to the window to talk to me. Sam's window was also down. He did not want to miss the action. The idea that mom could get in trouble was so exciting that he was giggling uncontrollably. Molly was also in the car and was quivering in the third row of my ginormous vehicle.

The officer just wanted to tell me that I had a brake light out. He was very nice and talked to Sam for a few minutes and then wrote a pretend ticket for Molly. She nearly peed her pants. As the officer started to walk back to his car she yelled from her crouched position in the 3rd row, "put it on my tab". I am pretty sure I snorted to keep from laughing out loud. Dan in Real Life is one of our favorite movies.

The officer stopped for a second and then turned back around and peeked through her window and then put his fist up to the glass to give her some stones. She didn't bother putting her hand to the glass. Instead she stuck her tiny hand through the opening in the rear windows that only crack open a few inches so she could give him real stones... the exploding kind. Or, as our Mel has recently learned, "Sparkle Stones".

Not to divert too far from the movie references, on our way home from dinner with Mel at Flour Girls & Dough Boys tonight Molly started to tell me about a movie she was watching on Netflix the other night. It had some police officers that drove around their town all crazy and then they kidnapped a high school kid and let him shoot their guns and set their car on fire and say that one really bad word a lot.

Yes. She was referring to SUPERBAD. And, I'm officially the worst mother ever and have now changed the Netflix password and removed the app from their iPods and the iPad and the computers and the Wii and have been labeled the "Murderer of Fun". Someday, I'm sure I'll be called worse than that. For now, I need to try to figure out how to wash her teeny little brain out and fill it back up with butterflies and unicorns and fairy godmothers.

Still not quite as funny as the sex with a sandwich bit from Stockton, but this girl has the ability to easily surpass her cousin in time.

We have a problem...

This is the only shirt Sam wants to wear... EVER!

Sam calls it his Jesus shirt. Every time he asks for it Chocolate Jesus by Tom Waits goes through my head. He'll grow out of it before I really have to correct him and before I introduce him to Hendrix. He's only 3. It's a little early for Foxey Lady or Purple Haze.

Running. Falling. Skinny Dipping.

I grew up in a coastal New England town just south of Boston. I love my home town. And, I have always maintained plenty of consulting work in Boston to allow me to go back often. The last eighteen months have been the exception. Chemotherapy and radiation treatments have a way of keeping you on the ground. But, new work will begin take me back regularly this summer. Can't wait.

Alpine, UT : April 2011

Early this morning I drove up to the top of the ridge above my parents little cove. I planned to run the winding roads to their house. It would only have been about five miles total. But, the winds were too strong and way too cold. I had to lean with all of my weight  to keep upright.

The wind whipped my hair in to a Medusa-like mess. The length definitely works against me on days like this. It reminded me of one of my favorite memories of one of my favorite people.

We had a huge storm come through New England during the summer of 1991 (I think). All I know is that I had my mom's car, so I had my license. That summer I met someone I'd end up dating on and off for several years. One of the first real dates we had was the night the storm hit. We spent most of the night standing on one of the many sea walls, along Jerusalem Road in Cohasset, and simply falling in to the wind. It would pick us up and bounce us around a little bit and then drop us to the ground.

This was taken on that very sea wall a few months after the storm. I'm on the left.

The power was out all over the coast that night. I didn't bother to check a clock. I think I got home around dawn and I remember not really fearing the wrath of Nan. Maybe it was because it was totally stupid and badass and dangerous. Or maybe it was just him. He was always very persuasive. 


Jumping off of see walls in to wind is rather mild compared to some of the things he liked to do. Some day I'll write about scaling the walls of the Glastonbury Monastery to skinny dip.  I said he was persuasive.  He was definitely not a Candyass. Still isn't.

Fifth Grade & Kisses

This morning, while combing the natural disaster out of Abby's hair, I asked her about a party she was invited to by one of her classmates. It's her first boy/girl party. It's being thrown by the boy that likes her. They have a group of friends that hangs out at recess and plays kickball or football or one of their many odd variations of tag. They're all going to this party. The more questions I asked, the more it was clear that this party was perfectly balanced. Seven girls, seven boys. And then, I did the unthinkable.

"Ab, is this party for couples?"

"Mom, are you serious? I mean, oh mah gawsh, that is like the stupidest thing I have every heard you say in your entire life."

I didn't bother to interrupt the tirade and remind her that she's only known me HER entire life. I said way stupider things when I was in my teens... twenties... early thirties even. I let her go on...

"You think we're all boyfriend and girlfriend. That is so lame. I can't believe you think I'm all in to Allen like that. He's so weird. He's always trying to sit by me at lunch and help me with stuff and it's so embarrassing because I totally don't need a boy helping me with anything..."

This is where her sentence runs on for another ten minutes and I think about the fact that my ten year old is all kinds of liberated and shiz. I stared at her for the next several minutes of the tirade and heard something about Justin Bieber and flipping hair and being like totally obsessed with Mumford and Sons and how she thought it was cute that he liked them because she's been listening to them like forever. (that would be because I've got a serious music habit). And, then, because I'm an idiot, I did it again.

"You like him."

She blushed her first little girl crush blush and I had to do everything possible to keep a straight face.

"Seriously, it's cool if you like a boy Abby. It's totally normal and he's a really nice kid."

"Mom, I'm not having this discussion with you. I mean, it's like not even something you get because you were in the 5th grade like f-o-r-e-v-e-r ago."

"Abby, I had my first boyfriend in the 5th grade. His name was Todd Davies. He lived on my street and we were in the same class in the 5th grade."

"Mom, stop it, nobody wants to know about your first boyfriend a million years ago. And, Allen is not my boyfriend. I just think he's funny and he's kind of cute and his favorite color is purple which is really cool for a boy....."

She went on for another ten minutes. I had a mild heart attack/stroke and started seeing spots and thought I might throw up and sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

"So, did you kiss that Todd guy?"

I'm not cut out for this stuff. Really, I'm not. But, I'm also not afraid to tell her the truth about anything. I'm just hoping this line of questioning stops here for a few years.

"Yep. I did. It was hilarious. He was chewing orange bubble gum. So nasty. I never kissed him again."

I'm pretty sure she was grossed out just enough about the gum that she might put the whole idea of kissing a boy on a shelf for a few years. Even with the questions, I'm certain she isn't really thinking about kissing this Allen kid. I hope.

On another note, Molly, my 7 year old, is likely planning her first kiss as I write this. I'm certain that I will never have this conversation with her. She's going to be the one to give me the real stroke.

For now, I'd like them both to stay just like this...

C-O-N-D-O-M-S

I have a three year old, Sam. No, don't go looking at the headline here and think that condoms or the lack of condoms are in any way related to the fact that I have a three, almost four, year old. Don't get all horrified yet. That'll come. I promise.

He is a smart kid. You think I'm just saying it? I don't really need to. I have evidence. Notebooks full of evidence of his brilliance. He carries notebooks and crayons with him everywhere he goes. The other day I opened one up and found it full of shapes and the words that go with their shapes. Triangles, circles, and squares. And, toward the back I found a hexagon and a trapezoid. The words were not quite there, but the shapes were perfect. I said brilliant, right? Well, maybe not completely. I say this only because his favorite show is Yo Gabba Gabba on Nick Jr. I know! Cringe right?

I can't say that I hate it all that much. They get some good guests on that show. Jack Black is our all time favorite. But, the characters on the show are nuts. They often show the whole family of one of the characters, Muno. The first time I saw him I thought he looked a little weird. Then, I saw his cousin, Gooble and it clicked. Condoms. They look like condoms with arms. Don't believe me. Fine, see for yourself while the Roots serenade you.



They've got a whole multi-pack, multi-color thing going on there.

Then today I remembered the name on a box of condoms I saw on one of my favorite creative websites not too long ago. Yes, I had condoms on the brain. But, not because I am particularly fond of them. Not so much. I have a thing for great branding. I have a thing for their branding. I found them. Sir Richards Condom Company. I mean, look at this. How can you not love it?

Want to know the best part about this company and their brand? For every condom purchased, a condom is given to someone in need. I love the Toms shoe model. This is a brand I can follow. Not only did they not skimp on their brand, but they made it an important part of the overall story. This is brilliant marketing. It is a brand I'll follow. It's a brand I'll purchase. What a brilliant idea!

Yo Gabba Gabba teaches my Sam good things every day. Even with a giant condom in the cast. He loves them and I love that he can recognize songs by the Killers because he saw them on YGG. It's not a parallel, by any means, but Sir Richards Condom Company is doing something equally important. Giving back is important. Giving, just giving, is important. More companies, scratch that, ALL companies should find ways to give more. 

Buy some condoms. Like, maybe the pleasure dots ones in pink. Get lucky. Give back. 

Xs,

W

Our very own Penelope

The last week or so has been a little nutty. I've been working on a big deal website with a team in New York that changed the creative on the site no less than a dozen times in three weeks. The revisions were actually easier to manage than one of the clients. She's very good at the false gratitude before she drops the big open ended question that eludes to something she might think didn't get done her way. And, she's a chronic repeater. I hate repeaters. This isn't the first grade. All adults in this game. Once is plenty.

To get a real feel for how she sounds on the phone during our super fun daily or even, lucky us, twice daily status calls, watch this clip. She may have been the muse for this character from SNL. Yes, she's Penelope.



It's been extra fun. Especially the whole passive aggressive game she seems to have perfected throughout her career. The good news is that the team I've been lucky enough to work with can read her quite well and just move past it and happily do their work. And, we've all found ways to laugh about the odd repeating and condescending tone.

I didn't put this up to complain. But, I'm curious about how other women in this field feel about some of the women they have to deal with. I find that male counterparts are often easier to work with. Eliminate the emotion and the insecurity and things seem to work really well. I wonder what it is in her life or in her career that has made her difficult and childish.

We get to work in an industry that can be terribly fun. Being around exceptional creative and watching something flat and boring turn in to an interactive work of art is a favorite part of my job. Then helping people turn the fun that we've had building something for them in to something they can be proud of, and that will yield growth in revenue and market share and perception. There are few things better than that.

Today, I started to write my curriculum for the branding class I teach next fall. I have over 50 women enrolled. I hope I can help them choose to love the process and to like the client despite the serious character flaws like our chronic repeater. Should probably learn that myself.

My tiny tribe.

I might talk about shoes more than I talk about my kids. Just so they don't come asking me all kinds of questions one day... I should probably say something. I mean, I'd totally give up shoes and Diet Coke for these three.

Meet my little dancing queen and the other mother in our home, my littler drama queen with a better fashion sense than many of my adult friends, and my tiny, (large headed because his brain is hugemongous) brilliant, soon-to-be world renowned, artist.

sundance, ut  :  late summer  :  2010

Living in Utah has its perks. Sundance is one of them. It's one of our spots. It smells like heaven up there year round. The skiing is easy for kids. The hiking is amazing. I can't even tell you how beautiful the miles of aspens are. The way their leaves tinkle when the wind blows. It's one of my favorite sounds of this place I have not always loved. The more I wanted to get out of this state, the harder it seemed to hold on to me. I mean, there is really no better place on earth if you're diagnosed with some rare form of Cancer.  I got lucky and had amazing care. And, thankfully I got to stay with this three amazing little people in this place I finally really love.

This one though... he's a problem.

fenway  : 6 months

He eats everything. You know, things like crayons, mechanical pencils, blocks, chair legs, chaptsick, flip flops, toilet paper, baby wipes, grass, and chalk. He'd move in to the garbage can or composter if I let him. We should have named him Pigpen. I hate that I have to carry a lint remover with me all the time. And, I'm getting a little tired of his evening liaisons in the playroom with the giant stuffed tiger. He's a horndog. Yes, the little snip-snip didn't solve the humping problem. Lucky he has the cutest dog face ever and he knows how to use it.

These little ones, even the teeny one, are kind of awesome. We're heading in to the years that they won't always think I'm awesome. Some days I get the "worst mom ever" label. Now it's over things like homework and beets and brushing teeth. Soon enough it will be about boys and texting and curfews and cars. I'll take it all. I think it means I must be doing my job.

Mes coups de coeur! J'aime.

I'm very serious when I say that I'm a shoe whore. Think I'm exaggerating? My daughter did a little inventory tonight and then started taking pictures to document my addiction. She's threatening to start her own blog about it. (Name yet to be determined.) The truth is that I'd give up Diet Coke for shoes. Can't wait to hear the gasps. This is serious business.

However, THIS is also serious business. I love pretty things. I don't mean pretty girly things like flowers or jewelry. I can do without most of that. If you know me well, you know that my watch and my tiny silver chain with the turquoise drop qualify as most of my jewelry for the day, every day. The rest I could maybe live without. When I say pretty things, I mean things like these:

From the Odd Molly Spring 2011 Collection

I know, I know... the leggings!!  They are as hot as they are adorable.

Odd Molly has long been my favorite line of clothing. I love the beautiful colors, shapes, and the mixture of youthful fabrics and sweet embroidery with the sexy sophistication of the silks and lace-trimmed pieces. I adore the brand story. So does my 10 year old who is now able to wear their XS pieces without them drowning her. 

I know that clothes and shoes can make people seem shallow and silly. I have to admit that I generally think that about anyone I see in anything Juicy Couture. (It makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit.) There's just something special about the pieces that give you goosebumps when you put them on. That's what Odd Molly does for me. Unfortunately that's also what really really pricey Italian shoes also do for me.

(For those that think this line might be a little too dainty and girly... you can check out my other favorite line but be for-warned that it's all kinds of naughty. No, not all skanky, just some well-placed super foul language on very sweetly embroidered tops and accessories. It's genius. If you get offended easily, don't go so we can still be friends.)

Kisses!

DUH, WINNING!

This is our version of winning around here. Sunny day at the park next to a lake. I had this photo blown up to an 11x17 today. Then I hung it at the top of the stairs where we will see it all the time. Nothing makes a bad day evaporate faster than this kid.

Good creative is so sexy

I mean it. I work with some amazing designers. It's one of the perks of my job. They're always pretty confident, very trendy, and for some reason... funny. What's cuter than that? I'll tell you. Their work. Good design = aphrodisiac. Test me, I dare you.

Sometimes it's not really the design. It's the delivery. These could possibly be the most fun and clever business cards I've seen in the last several years and I've seen a gazillion. You do things like this with your brand and you'll be remembered.

Don't get me wrong. Hand me a beautifully printed traditional card on paper that makes me know that you aren't a cheapskate and value your brand and I might swoon just a little bit.

Plenty of people believe that the relevance of the business card is long gone. Pretty sure a lot of those people also thought that barber shops died when trendy salons or stupid chains like Bikini Cuts started to pop up in their towns.

Guess what? Some of those barbershops have been there forever because they didn't forget about their brand and they learned how to deliver that brand in traditional and non-traditional ways. Fast Eddies in Allston, MA is one of those.

Tell me you don't like what they're doing? It's so unexpected for a barber shop to put branding first.

I love it!

I MARVEL. So will you.

I'm a packaging junkie. You are too right? You should be. Lovely Package is the first site I visit every day. I spend a huge amount of time each week thinking about, writing about, teaching about and pouring over brands, their products, their identities, and how those brands are taken to market. Packaging is fun and can be the difference between average and outstanding for a brand. Not every brand can move the market and cause a stir. Many will not. Honestly, most will not. But the lucky few will get the double-take and they will move the needle just enough to change things.

Like this....

HOXTON STREET MONSTER SUPPLIES

Fantastic right? Keep going.

It gets better. Here, in this shop that Roald Dahl would possibly wet himself to see, one can purchase things like Human Snot, Organ Marmalade, Fresh Nail Clippings, and Pickled Eyeballs.

This is the store all little boys dream of. Forget toys and candy. This is the stuff of their fairy tales. And, when they are done shopping, they can write and create and dream up those fairy tales by wandering down a secret passage in to the Ministry of Stories.

I want to go. I want to write and create with them. I want to hear their stories.

I work at an agency. I teach a branding course at a major university. And, I do a shit ton of freelance work for big brands all the time. And, I often wonder why some of these big brands don't pull the plug on half the shit they put out there and do something amazing with their resources. There is so much money spent on stupid campaigns all the time. The kind that don't net returns, improve market share, increase awareness, or anything of real value. So much that doesn't contribute to good things. But this one does. It's a keeper.

I love that one of our own, an agency, built this. This is genius. And, I marvel at their creativity, passion, and the fun happy smiles and the STORIES that they will help create.

It is so f-ing badass... I'm taking my kids to London. You coming?

To get the full details on Hoxton Street Monster Supplies visit the company behind the magic. We Made This Ltd. 

My Shoes. My Brand. My Fears.

"It's not the brand of the shoes that matters. It's how you wear them, right?"
This is what my 10 year old said to me this morning. I debated between these two before finally leaving the house with the pretty suede ones on hoping that I'd avoid the bit of expected rain.

What I didn't say, because it proves that I am a shallow shoe whore, is that it is sometimes about the brand of the shoe. But, just as that thought crossed my mind she said, "It's like a part of your own personal brand, huh?" Oh em gosh... She listens to me and she gets it! Eeeeeeeeee!!!!  She understands that we put our own brands out there every day. The messages we send, the way we work with others, the way we carry ourselves, the way we cover ourselves, and a multitude of other things that people see, remember, and form opinions from.

She's a smart kid. She gets what 95% of the clients I work with don't get. Most of them believe brands and logos are one in the same. Some of them have resumes that include marketing job after marketing job after marketing job. And, still, my 10 year old is smarter. Today I realized that she hears me. She understands what I tell companies to do every day. She listens. It made me a tiny bit misty.

I have worried endlessly about these 3 little ones. What if they don't hear me when I tell them that fairy tales are real, best friends are hard to find and easy to love and impossible to let go, love is real, and kissing (especially French) is pretty much the second best thing EVER. (If you have to ask what the first best thing ever is... we might have to have a talk.) And, that they can be whatever they want because they're brilliant, clever, creative, beautiful, and totally completely awesome people. I want them to fear nothing and to try everything.

Maybe they all hear me. The fact that the oldest could even put the idea of a brand in to words gives me hope. She may have been listening to what I say to clients or co-workers on the phone and not necessarily to what I say to her. It's cool. I'll take the baby steps. As long as they are in fantastic shoes.

The Tooth Fairy is F-I-R-E-D!

Today the Tooth Fairy delivered. It only took three months. But, that sucker came through. The 7 year old got shafted on at least three teeth during the TF's vacation. The Post-It notes, texts, emails, and portraits of the TF (with devil horns) were an embarrassing reminder that the Mother-Of-The-Year award will never grace my messy house. 


As the last remnants of the drugs I've been on for 16 months exit my system, I have noticed that I'm becoming a little bit more lucid, a little bit more me, and more aware of how much I let slip. I have to admit that many things probably slipped because I had an excuse to let them slip. Cancer is kind of a big deal. It gave me permission. Just ask it. 

The good news is that I finally did the unthinkable and in the early hours of the morning I gently lifted her pretty little head and the pillow supporting that blondie mess and I placed the most fantastic pair of orange Hunter boots there for her to wake up to. I know, kind of an awkward thing to place under a pillow. Who cares! They're friggin ORANGE RAIN BOOTS! Bitchin, right? Her hilarious ear splitting squeals around 8am were so worth it. 


The TF is still, however, in deep poop because of the lackluster job performance up until now. The evidence still lies under the pillow of the 10 year old who is now patiently waiting for her own pair of the fantastic rain boots. (They're on back order. Shhhh don't tell her.)


The tooth that still remains unclaimed under her pillow took a brief trip from it's soft resting place last week when this happened...


Sam was brushing his teeth with the best toothbrush ever because I can hear it beep and know he's completed the mandatory time. When he's finished he comes flying in to my bathroom with the toothbrush and holds his hand out to me and says "look mom, I lost a tooth". 


I flipped out. That's an understatement. I had a momentary lapse of sanity, clarity, reality. Things went fuzzy. My chest got all tight. I think I started to cry a little. I just spent a LOT of money having his teeth and jaw fixed so that his big boy teeth might grow in and not be rotten. It was a huge ordeal. I could not believe that one of his molars came out after all of that. 


For twenty four hours I was certifiably nuts. I kept looking in his mouth and could see nothing. It called the dentist and was told to come in when they re-opened on Monday morning and not to worry. I hung up and yelled at the phone like it was that stupid dental assistant who told me not to worry. He's 3. He should not be losing any teeth. 


I cooled off. Went shopping with the 3 year old in tow. And, some time during this excursion, my brain clicked on and it occurred to me that there could be another answer. I looked at my youngest and asked "Where did that tooth come from? Can you show me?" His sneaky little boy grin gave him away before he said it out loud. But, he said "yep, I got it under Abby's pillow." 


And, it begins. My 3 year old is sneaky, and smart, and funny, and not a Candyass.