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 A few years ago, a dear friend of mine died of breast cancer. About two months before she passed away, I was talking to her on the phone about how she was feeling. In the five years since her diagnosis, she had never, ever, even one time mentioned the possibility of death to me. She was a very stubborn, determined person, and she believed that she could and would beat it. Even as she became sicker and sicker, and even as those of us who loved her allowed ourselves to think about the worst, it was never something that was openly discussed with her.

 

But on this day, in that phone call, she finally brought it up herself, telling me that she simply could not come to peace with the idea of death for one reason only: she could not bear the thought of her then-middle-school aged daughter growing up without her. The idea that her beloved only child would have to navigate adolescence without her mother by her side to cheer her on, hold her hand, and catch her when she fell was too painful for my friend to contemplate. She believed that her job as a mama was not finished, and she told me that her only prayer every single night, was that God would please, please allow her to live long enough to see her child grow up. Then and only then, she explained, could she die at peace.

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I am a barefoot girl, and so are all three of my older children. We all love going without shoes, and in the summer, we are all about the flip-flops. So I assumed that C would also love toddling around sans shoes. Once the weather got warm enough this spring, I started peeling her little shoes off of her feet, and encouraging her to run around the yard barefoot. But she hated it. She would crinkle up her nose and tiptoe around gingerly, complaining that her feet hurt and begging to have someone put her shoes back on. I was baffled - who wants to wear shoes when they don't have to? 

 

 

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 My mother was a real life Gidget. She grew up on the beach in Southern California in the 50s/early 60s. She was president of her high school's girls' surf club, and she dated Al Jardine of the Beach Boys. She was a member of a band that had a West Coast top 10 single in 1963. Her band even opened for Ike & Tina at The Cow Palace.

 

She spent the summer of 1965 hanging around the Whisky A Go Go on Sunset Strip, crushing on two mostly unknown bands: Love and The Doors. She became pals with the guys from Love that summer, and one of her friends ended up dating lead singer, Arthur Lee.

 

 

 

 The fabled Whisky.

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Not long ago, a friend heard me asking my daughter J - who will be a high school freshman this fall - whether she had gotten any exercise that day. J had mentioned to me that she felt sluggish, so I asked what seemed like an obvious question, capitalizing on a teachable parenting moment to suggest that exercise might perk her up. But my friend saw my comment differently.

 

"I can't believe you asked her that!" my friend said incredulously after J had left hearing range. "Aren't you worried you will give her an eating disorder?"

 

This isn't the first time I've heard friends and acquaintances express the opinion that mothers of daughters should basically never, ever openly discuss any issues related to weight, food, amount of food consumed, or exercise because discussion of said topics could lead to the development of anorexia or bulimia. And as a woman who has herself suffered from an eating disorder (more on that in a minute), and as the mother of two daughters, I have to tell you that I do worry about this a lot. How can I talk about the importance of maintaining a healthy weight without sending the wrong message? Is there a way to talk about these things at all, or do I just have to avoid this stuff altogether in my relationship with my daughters?

 

 

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As C grows out of babyhood and into early childhood, her personality and natural temperament are emerging more clearly. At this point, I would describe her as completely delightful, as well as thoughtful, cautious, physically active, an outdoors lover, social-yet-reserved (she's shy with people she doesn't know well, but is happiest when surrounded by all the people she does), highly verbal, and very musical. (And have I mentioned that she also really, really likes eating bugs?)

 

At the moment, she is also demonstrating an exceptionally low tolerance for frustration. In our household, we've taken to describing her current meltdown-prone mood as "sensitive." Those who are not loving family members, however, would more likely describe her behavior as "whiny".  And I am afraid that I couldn't really disagree with that assessment. Lately she is whining a lot, and it's taking every ounce of my own patience to deal with it, because almost nothing pushes my parenting buttons more successfully than constant whining. It makes me want to do something inappropriate, like scream obscenities or throw something. And of course, these are not useful or acceptable toddler taming techniques. But I admit that I am struggling at the moment with the level of whining C is doing. It's driving me crazy.

 

 

 

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I have realized that I have something in common with Katie Holmes (beyond the obvious first name). No, my husband is not an evangelical Scientologist. But KH and I do both have toddler daughters, and both of those toddler daughters possess - how to put this delicately? - a certain, ongoing fondness for their baby bottles. And so, like KH, I am beginning to get some negative parenting feedback on my nearly-two-year-old child's continuing attachment to her "boppy." Of course, Katie Holmes takes her parenting lumps via nasty tabloid scrutiny, while I just get sideways stares and snarky comments when people spot 32 pound, walking/talking C clutching her beloved boppy in public. I try to tell myself I shouldn't care what other people think, but the truth is that I'm struggling a bit with how I feel about C's continuing passion for the bottle.

 

Me, C and the boppy

 

 

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 I can't believe we are already into the second week of June. I wish summertime would go more slowly (or last longer) because even though I still have to work full-time during the kids' summer vacation, I do find that I have considerably more relaxed time with them in general during these warmer months because they aren't as busy with school assignments, plus it stays light a lot later each day after I get home from work. I love it.

 

But as much as I'm enjoying spending more time with C, J and E  in recent weeks, I'm really missing child #4 - my eldest. Seventeen-year-old  H left for boarding school (summer school to be followed by his senior year)  at the beginning of June. I am missing him terribly, but I'm really proud of how well he seems to be adjusting and how hard he's working. But it's totally bizarro having one of my little monkeys (I still think of him that way even though he's nearly 6 feet tall) missing from the household for the first time. I often find myself with the unsettling feeling that I've forgotten someone or something...and then I realize that it's H's absence that is making me feel this way. His siblings miss him a lot, too. Phone calls and letters help, but it still feels kind of weird around here at the moment.  I am still adjusting. We all are. I know he would have gone away to college in only a year anyway, but having him living away from home for the first time just feels like a really meaningful, pivotal moment in our family's history. It's big.

 

Here H is at a stop on the last leg of his trip to his new campus, which is located on the other side of the country. He and his Dad and grandfather made the trip together, and I think they really enjoyed the three day, three generational cross-country adventure they had to take to get him there.

 

 

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 I am always very eager for summer to arrive because it means a more relaxed family schedule (as well as a break from the dreaded homework battles). However, ever since I began working full-time outside the home about seven years ago, I have also been in semi-denial from September until May each year about what else summer brings...a big, giant, extra dose of working mother's guilt. Why? Because while I still have to be at work 40-plus hours each week - even in the season of sun - many/most of my school-age children's friends' mothers do not. So my kids feel like they get the shaft when "all the other moms" are able to shuttle their lucky offspring around all day in the summertime, picking up and dropping off at various sleepovers and pool parties and picnics and park excursions. I, on the other hand, have to rely on a cobbled-together system of help from my sister, paid babysitting, day camps, occasional "home alone" days, and sheer luck to keep the children relatively happy and occupied in the summer months. And often, they aren't thrilled about what I am able to come up with.

 

If they could stay with their Aunt Betsy and cousins every day, they would be pretty happy. She takes the kids swimming and to the Zoo -- all 3 of her own children, and any of mine who happen to be "extras" that day. I feel guilty asking her to help as much as I do in the summer, even though she never, ever complains. But right now she's on crutches following a nasty knee surgery, so she can barely keep up with her own children without help. And even when she is healthy, there are days when she simply can't watch mine, or when she is out of town. So then we go to the fallback positions of day camps and babysitters. We've tried a variety of daycamps around town over the years - from super expensive ones to the cheapie neighborhood church daycare down the street. None of my older children has ever been very excited about any of them. I think that's because while they accept and expect that I will be at work all day when they are at school, it's harder for them to feel okay about my daily absence when they see other mamas spending more hours with their children during the summer. So anywhere I send them seems like a slap in the face.

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 C is 22 months old now. I insist on continuing to refer to her as "my baby," or "my one year old" because I am hesitant to let go of her infancy, which is coming to an end. Yes, two year olds (and even three and four year olds) are still babies in many ways, but they are not infants. I know my issue with admitting that she's growing beyond true babyhood comes from the fact that she's likely to be my last. We haven't entirely abandoned the idea of managing to produce another offspring, but given my recent obstetrical history, combined with my age (41), as well as how hard I am working at my job these days, that's looking less likely as time goes by. And I have some major regrets about that; I would really like to have another baby. But biology + economy make for a pretty powerful double whammy. 

 

 So yes, I cling to the vestiges of C's infancy. Having said that, however, I really do love, love, love toddlers and preschoolers. It's a favorite childhood stage of mine. I adore their fat, juicy, half-baby/half-kid bodies, and the ridiculous-yet-profound things they say. I am awed by their unbridled enthusiasm and confidence, and I revel in the way they unabashedly believe in things like fairies, Frances the talking badger, and Elmo. We all see more and more of that with C every day. She's our household comedy act, keeping her older siblings in frequent stitches with her absurd utterances. And she talks A LOT. She's not nearly as outgoing as her same-age cousin, NC, who really should have her own variety show. But with people she knows, Miss C is a chatterbox extraordinaire.

 

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Like millions of other folks, I am - at this very moment - watching the season premiere of the TLC reality show, "Jon & Kate Plus 8,"  which has over time morphed from a reality show about a family into a reality show about a family on a reality show. As I sit here watching Jon and Kate Gosselin sit there on the screen across my living room, each individually offering up the most private details of their very public marital difficulties to their huge viewing audience, I feel sort of  like a participant the ultimate postmodern performance art piece. It's "The Truman Show" come to life, but with a weird return feedback loop via the very opinionated online community that has grown up around the show, and the family.

 

I've watched the show a number of times over the past few years, fascinated like so many other mamas by how in the WORLD these people manage having 8 young children without losing their minds. I must admit that I always found the family -  at least as presented on their TV show -  to be a little bit on edge, particularly Kate Gosselin. (On the other hand, I would probably be a little bit crabby as well if I were raising twins and sextuplets.) Today, I happened to be home most of the day - a rare thing - and there also happened to be a "Jon & Kate" marathon on all day. So while I did a lot of cleaning the house, I left the TV on in the background, watching episodes of the show from each season.

 

While I realize that much of the "unscripted" show is quite scripted, I still felt like I got enough of the reality of their family life in watching them go about their day-to-day lives in these back-to-back episodes to recognize that I was truly watching a real-life tragedy unfold over time. The harried, slightly bitchy, but loving mama of 2006 - looking suburban-cute in cargo pants and flip flops as she bustled about her very modest kitchen, knee deep in children - has been replaced by an overdressed, over-tanned, overcoiffed, obviously depressed, exhausted and angry woman. She now lives in a mansion, travels many days each week (with a bodyguard) while her young children remain at home, and she and her husband - with whom she lovingly bickered in the first seasons - are openly discussing divorce. In the season premiere tonight, I see the estranged couple struggle through their kids' birthday party, with pain over their disintegrating marriage palpably etched on their faces. The seriousness of the situation is obvious to viewers, because it's needed for dramatic tension. Unfortunately, as I watch the scene play out, it's also all too obvious to their eight children, who seem anxious and unsettled.

 

 

 

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 Jon's Uncle Tom died today, at the hospital right up the street from us. He was diagnosed with cancer about 6 months ago, and a staph infection took him today. He was Jon's mother's only sibling - a fascinating person I am glad to have known. 

 

 Yesterday, J graduated 8th grade and moved up to high schooler status (see photos below). The ceremony was really moving; Jane has been at this school (with a brief interlude elsewhere  in grades 2-3) grade since kindergarten. Some of these kids started kindergarten with her, and to look at these gorgeous, accomplished, bright-eyed teenage girls walking across the stage with her on Friday really took my breath away. 

 

 

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I generally  like clothes a lot, and given the right environment and enough $$$, I even like to shop for clothes. However, I do not like to shop at "The Mall," which in our small city is a very typical, enclosed suburban shopping mall, containing all the to-be-expected chain stores, only a few of which I actually like (Buckle is my favorite mallstore).  But yesterday, J and I had to venture out to the mall together to find a dress and shoes for her 8th grade graduation ceremony, which takes place later this week. I had encouraged her for weeks to try to find something she liked online, hoping to avoid the dreaded last minute foray to West Town Mall, but alas, she was unsuccessful. So off we went to the mall.

 

I am pretty sure that J sees her mother's hatred of all-things-mall as a straight-up parenting failure. She frequently regales me with stories of how "all" of  her friends and their mothers regularly enjoy bonding experiences together in the food court, and she tells me that I am "the only mom" who declines to regularly make time for perusing the mall with her adolescent daughter.  This may or may not be true, but unfortunately for her, she's stuck with me. So this trip together yesterday was the first time we've gone to the mall as a mother-daughter pair in a really long time. And I have to say that despite my reticence, we had a blast.

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 This morning, E's entire fifth grade - both classes - boarded a bus for a 2 day trip from Knoxville, Tennessee to Colonial Williamsburg. He's really been looking forward to the excursion, and I had no concern that there would be any problems during his travel. Both his older brother and sister took the same trip when they were fifth gaders, and they each returned in one piece. Today, however, as I sat at my desk working on a proposal for a client, I suddenly had a very odd and urgent sense that somethinghad gone wrong with E.  It only lasted a few seconds, but it was quite unsettling. Just as I was talking myself out of believing that the weird jolt of concern I'd suddenly experienced had been real, the phone rang. And I knew before I looked at the caller ID that it was E's teacher. Unfortunately, I was correct.

 

I answered somewhat frantically, asking her what was wrong before she could even really identify herself. She quickly and calmly assured me that E was aboslutely fine, but informed me that there had been a "problem" on the bus trip.

 

"What kind of problem?" I asked, as I instantly ran through my mental parenting rolodex, trying to fgure out what in the world E could have gotten into on a heavily chaperoned elementary school bus trip to Colonial Williamsburg. 

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I was VERY surprised on Mother's Day to receive a shiny, new laptop with a webcam, something I've never had before. J had to show me how to use it, and it's great fun. Here's our first J-led effort (somewhat lame. note my confused expression as my daughter attempts to explain the webcam to me.) at family video-blogging:

 

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Poor Jon and Kate Gosselin. They have eight gorgeous children, a hit TV show, a new mansion, free plastic surgery and hairplugs...and now Jon stands accused of cheating on his wife. It's a tough life. Of course, both Jon and the woman in question claim they are nothing more than friends.  This is certainly quite possible, and it got me to thinking about this question: when is a friend of your spouse just a friend, and when is he/she actually just an affair waiting to happen?

 

 

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The other day, my sister left my one-year-old niece NC with me for a few hours to play with C, who is only a few weeks older. The baby cousins are best pals, and were very excited to have some playtime together, which had been hard to come by the previous week, since NC had the flu (not the Swine Flu, but a bad diagnosed case of Influenza B.)

As it was a warm afternoon, I set up the baby pool in the front yard, stripped the girls down, slathered them with sunscreen, and proceeded to sit on the porch, watching the naked babies play in our small, fenced front yard. They had a blast, jumping in and out of the little pool, splashing each other, and running around the yard together.

 

 

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 Lately, I've been thinking alot about how my own childhood was similar to the one my own three eldest children lead. You see, my children split their time between two households: their father's and ours. Although their  two houses are less than 10 miles apart, the milieu is markedly different at each one. Their father lives in a really affluent suburban-style neighborhood of manicured lawns and million dollar mansions. While not a mansion by any stretch, his house is right nice by any standard, and is surrounded by even nicer ones. And at their father's house, they have a pool. The children attend an equally affluent school on that side of town, so virtually all of their friends live in that area, quite a few in their Dad's neighborhood. The kids can walk to the neighborhood tennis club. Deer graze in the yard. It's really quite Cheever-esque and lovely, and the kids are very happy with it.

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I just have to share this one.

 

J found a frog over at her Dad's house. She invited the frog - whom she named "Gilbert" - to join her on the trampoline. Then things went awry.

 

 

 

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Although I miss H like crazy (he is away doing a wilderness experience program, and this is the first major holiday I've ever been away from him, plus the longest I have ever been away from him, period), we still managed to have a right nice Easter weekend.

 

On Saturday, the cousins came over and we all dyed eggs together. This was the first time C and cousin NC had gotten to do this, and they weren't quite sure what to make of it. C, in particular (as you can see from the video) didn't really love getting her hands "messy." She seems to have inherited a gene related to fastidiousness from her father. She doesn't like going barefoot or having dirty hands. She becomes really unhappy until you clean her hands or put shoes on her feet.

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When the Obama family announced that Mrs. Obama's mother, Marian Robinson would be moving with them to the White House to help care for Malia and Sasha, scores of working moms all over America experienced a pang of jealousy. Free childcare, whenever it's needed - day or night - from a family member who loves your children as much as you do? It's every working parent's dream.

 
When I heard about Mrs. Robinson's role, I didn't have to feel jealous. Why? Because my family already has our own "grandmother in chief." My 65-year-old mother-in-law retired from her three-decade career as a music teacher soon after the birth of my daughter. She happily provides full-time childcare for one-year-old Charlotte while my husband and I work 40-plus hours each week at our jobs. Charlotte's "Mimi" is unfailingly cheerful, unbelievably energetic, and clearly loves every single minute (and there are a lot of them) that she spends with her grandchild. I sort of worship her.

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I know that many of you Babble readers are parents of very young children - toddlers and preschoolers. I have one of those too (she's 20 months), but I also have a 5th grader, an 8th grader and an 11th grader. And as the parent of older kids, I am about to let you in on an unhappy fate that awaits you in just a few years. What is it? It's homework, lots and lots and lots and lots of homework.

 

But wait, you may be asking, why do I need to worry about homework? After all, I already completed second grade or fifth grade or my senior year of high school. Sure, my child will have homework, and I may help a little here and there, but it will be my child's responsibility, not mine. What's the big deal about homework?

 

Wrong.

 

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Lately, most of my posts have been focused on one topic, but today's will more closely mirror how our lives have looked during the past month: crazy busy with multiple things spinning in different directions. Lots going on as the school year winds down, and I prepare for my big job switch...

 

And about that job switch, I am so excited! Since last year, I have been working as a project manager with one of America's great newspaper companies. When I took the job, the focus was supposed to be on nurturing and growing innovative new media ideas from within the company. That would have been a great fit for me. But as it turns out - and perhaps you've heard? - the economy is tanking, and newspaper companies are under financial siege. So the groovy innovation project that I was hired to help run was closed down less than two months after I started the job. At that point, I was actually really afraid I was going to be laid off, as so many of my friends in media have been in the past year, but instead my fantastic boss found another PM position for me within the company - however, it was one that was much more technical in nature. I've enjoyed the job, and especially the people, but to be totally honest, it wasn't the very best fit for my skills or energies. However, I assumed I would continue in the position until the economy improved and other positions opened up within the company. I felt seriously grateful to have a job at all. 

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A month or two ago, my one year old was asleep on our bed, when I  - listening in the other room via baby monitor - heard a loud and definitive thump: baby head hits hardwood. I shrieked, and ran back to our bedroom, where C was sprawled on the floor. I scooped her up and put her back on the bed. She never even woke up, and she was fine. But I know the outcome could have been very different (I am thinking of Natasha Richardson here). And if she had been hurt, or God forbid, killed, I never would have forgiven myself for my negligence. Because if I had been following all the parenting rules as carefully as I should be, C shouldn't ever take a nap unattended on our bed. She should be in a newer-model crib, with little bedding - asleep on her back.

 

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I, myself blogged all the way through my own divorce, my dating life after divorce (Which resulted in some of my very best friends. One of my post-divorce exes is even C's godfather!) , and I have obviously blogged a lot about the joy of my remarriage and our blended family. I started my personal blog before my divorce, so it was natural that I would keep writing as life handed me these new twists and turns. But more and more as time has passed, I've moved away from being specific at all about the issues that have come with the end of my marriage, or the relationship I have with my eldest children's dad. Why? Because my children are now older, and I like having them read my blog, and they don't need to see the specifics of this stuff out there for public consumption. I've pulled back considerably with each passing year in what I share on my blog about this particular topic.  I have learned -sometimes the hard way-  that specific blog venting never helps with the challenges (understatement) that come with co-parenting after divorce. I assure you that I could spill a bloggity soap opera on a nearly daily basis about this stuff, but that would feel really wrong to me.

 

So nowadays (and for several years now, actually), I keep 99.99% of the details of the co-parenting part of my life completely private, except for discussions with the people closest to me. And in hindsight, I regret some of what I did write during that first, painful period. I sometimes screwed up, I freely admit.

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I just landed a new job, and I'm happy as pie. I've been named the Director of Social Media - a newly created position - for a public relations firm. What, you may ask, does a Director of Social Media do? Well, I'll be using tools like blogs, social networking platforms, Twitter, Facebook, listservs, You Tube, etc, etc, etc to help clients market and position their brands and messages. Basically, it's a perfect fit for me.

 

I've been playing around in online communities since 1995, when I first logged onto AOL in search of some information about a pregnancy complication I was experiencing. I found a group of women online who were dealing with the same medical problem, and bam - instant community. I was hooked. For years, close friends and family members teased me about my geeky immersion in online community and conversation. This was long before Facebook or Friendster or Twitter lured in the masses, and people had no idea what I was doing in all that "chatting" online