Can’t 40 just be 40??

danielle herzog

What 40 looks like.

I’m turning 40 in a few days. The big 4-0. The one that people stop and say, “Wow, you’re turning 40.”

But what does that mean?

You hear all kinds of shit when you hit a milestone age like 40.

Things like:

You look good for 40.

You don’t look like you are turning 40.

You seem so young.

Your boobs look better than ever. (Okay, no one has actually said that one to me but in my head I hear it over and over again.)

Am I supposed to look wiser? Because I typically wake up feeling more clueless than the day before.

Am I supposed to be more mature? Because I usually find a way to include an inappropriate fart joke into my daily life.

Am I supposed to look better than ever? Because my muffin top begs to differ.

Am I supposed to feel a new sense of confidence? I don’t need a new way, my old way seems to be working just peachy.

So what’s the big deal about turning 40?

I think people need ways to measure their lives. But I just want to live. I don’t want to put up a yard stick and track how far I’ve come with every aspect of my life. To me, that feels like the end, rather than the middle of the journey.

So please don’t tell me I look good for 40. Just tell me I look good.

And please don’t tell me I don’t look like I’m turning 40. Just tell me happy birthday.

And please don’t tell me I seem so young. I AM young. Just tell me how fun I am.

But please, oh, please, tell me that my boobs look better than ever. At 40, they are the only part of me that really does need a pep talk.

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I did a bad, bad thing…


i did a bad bad thingAs I walked away from the 6th grade student that I just told off, I could almost hear Chris Isaak’s song, “She Did a Bad, Bad Thing” playing with each step I took away from the school.

Yes, I did a bad, bad thing.

Let me explain.

My 3 year-old son is currently obsessed with all things Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. And with that freakish obsession comes a very deep love for his plastic Michelangelo mask.

This morning he asked to wear it to his sister’s school drop off. My instinct was to say no, but then I stopped and saw his growing excitement to wear it.

“Sure, buddy, go for it.”

As we walked up to the drop off line, a snotty little sixth grade boy said loudly, “What the heck is that mask? Some freak turtle?”

I took a deep breath and hoped my son didn’t hear and kept walking.

He continued yelling though.

“Ninja Turtles suck. Only a loser likes those stupid things.”

Okay, game on, kid. Game on.

I walk over to him and said nicely through gritted teeth, “It’s really not nice to make fun of little kids, you know that?”

He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I don’t care. It looks dumb. Why’s he wearing that stupid mask anyway?”

And then I did it. I said the bad, bad thing.

“I don’t know,” I said, “Why are you wearing yours?”

As soon as the words came out of my mouth I was horrified. I just told off a sixth grade on the school line. Given, all the kids in his class cheered and I think tried to give me high-fives, but oh no, no, it was a very low parenting moment.

I quickly looked around to see if there were adult witnesses but was relieved to find their weren’t. I quickly yelled out, “Just joking!” as the punk ass brat walked in to school but I’m sure he knew I wasn’t. I’m sure he wondered how the woman in the yoga pants and unclean hair just got away with telling him off.

And of course, through it all, my son wore his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles mask proud – completely oblivious that his mother just did a bad, bad thing.

I’m thinking that perhaps I need to invest in my own mask for pick up this afternoon…

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Do I tell my children that I was married before?

telling kids about former marriageMy daughter thinks that her father and I have been together forever. That there’s no way I could have ever dated, let alone married, someone else.

But that’s not the real truth. That’s only the truth she knows at six years old.

I’m opening up in a new way over at The Washington Post’s parenting site, On Parenting today. No sarcasm, so silliness, just my raw honesty. And my sadness at the thought of someday bursting her bubble.

I hope you’ll check it out. Maybe even share it with some friends or family who could relate. It’s one of those posts that has taken me quite a way to write. To read it, click HERE.

Thanks…

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Parenting isn’t balancing, it’s tipping the scales…


balance scaleWebster’s dictionary defines the word “balance” as a state in which different things occur in equal amounts or have an equal amount of importance

But I don’t think that’s true.

I think that “balance” is just what we tell the losing team.

It’s what we tell the person, activity or group that isn’t getting our full attention.

I think it’s absolutely impossible to truly have balance in your life.

Whether you are a parent or a person without children, something always is on the lower side of the scale.

For me, I struggle with this concept.

I like to naively believe that balance is obtainable. That both of my children can feel equally loved and given the same amount of attention. That my husband can always feel wanted and appreciated at the same time that I’m trying to reach my career goals and achieve professional self-worth.

But it’s not obtainable, is it?

One of those always falls just a bit on the lower side of the scale.

Somedays it is my husband. Somedays it is me. And somedays it is my kids.

Is it possible to hold them all up with my imaginary eight hands? No. But I still try.

And still feel guilty when I can’t.

And you can tell me not to feel guilty, but I still will.

I think that’s what no one ever tells you about parenthood. Not in books, not at baby showers, not in your pediatrician’s office that first baby visit. No one tells you that when you become a parent, you instantly feel guilty.

Something always has to give. At least until I grow those extra six arms. Seriously, can scientists get on that shit?

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How My Children Ruined My Sofa – Guest Post from Melissa Lawrence

Melissa Cloud MomI haven’t had a guest blogger in quite some time and am thrilled to have a great one here today. Melissa is a lucky mom of five kiddies who are all under ten years old, and started her how-to video site CloudMom.com when her fifth baby Marielle was born. Having been through the baby years so many times, Melissa was just dying to share all the little things she learned along the way that made her life as a mom easier. Cloudmom is full of tips for expecting moms, new moms, and moms of toddlers and kids.  From How to Change a Diaper, to How to Breastfeed, to How to Deal with Tricky In-laws, CloudMom tackles the practical issues moms face alone the way. When she’s not running her site, Melissa spends her time trying to get her children to stop fighting. 

And I had to share her hilarious post when I saw the title: How My Children Ruined My Sofa

Here it is! Enjoy! And check out Melissa’s cool site  CloudMom and on Facebook and Twitter.

HOW MY CHILDREN RUINED MY SOFA

Mornings are not a peaceful time in any household with kids.  In our house, when it comes to my older boys, mornings are a perennial combat zone.  We have a pretty set morning schedule mapping out when the boys get up, eat and leave for school.  Artfully crafted by yours truly (aka Colonial Control Freak), the schedule would work fine if my boys would fall into line like good little soldiers.  But despite their fondness for war-like games and activities, they don’t.  Military discipline is not their thing.

Here’s our ideal morning game-plan as it should play out if we were living in the barracks. [Take my grumpy crew, in dire need of haircuts, and insert smiling faces and slicked back hair.]

7:15 – wake up call.  Make beds and get dressed

7:20 breakfast (no complaining over the oatmeal)

7:40 brush teeth, put on shoes, and LEAVE THE HOUSE (Thank you!).

And here’s our ACTUAL average morning:

7:15 Wake up.  Groan while tossing and turning in bed.

7:20 Throw the top sheet over the bed, leave the blanket rumpled into a ball underneath the sheet.  Throw pillow at brother.  Button shirt incorrectly (when it’s only off by one button, we let it go).

7:30 Dragging feet, arrive at table frowning with bed head.  Throw oneself over table in protest over the breakfast offering.

7:31 Sitting down, the fighting begins.  “He touched me.”  “No, he touched me.”  Hands are tapping thighs and feet are poking at unsuspecting shins under the table.  Mom is on the floor trying to figure out whose limb is going for whom, her coffee cold on the kitchen counter.

7:35 Bowls of oatmeal remain untouched.

7:40 Mom starts cajoling, reminding, pleading, and finally, yelling

7:50 The bedroom, kitchen table, and hallway looking like a hurricane hit as my boys exit the apartment, taking the odd swipe at one another while they pull on their untied shoes and open backpacks.

Now, without going through the entire average morning again, let me just say that around 7:40 on a recent morning, one boy (let’s call him boy #1) decided that life was just too dreary to be tolerated, and rather than come into the kitchen, he hurled himself on my favorite sofa in the living room.

Do you have a favorite piece of furniture?  You know, the one you tell your kids NOT to sit on?  The one you might put a sheet on from time to time lest it gets a stain?  You might have some cushions on their too, decorative ones that you labored over, trying to match them with the curtains.  On an odd weekend night, you might sit on the sofa with your spouse gingerly holding a glass of wine and thinking, “life is not that bad – we’re good, right?  We’ve got nice stuff.”

Boy #1 could have picked our regular, disgusting sofa which has already absorbed sweat, spit-ups, burps, and spills of all sorts, but he did not.

No, he went for the good sofa.  And then he decided to randomly get a bloody nose.  So at 7:35, enter Mama and her favorite sofa is housing a grumpy, unfed boy who nose has bled ALL OVER THE PLACE.

I looked at him and squinted my eyes and said “really?”  “Sorry, Mom” he replied.  And he proceeded to sheepishly walk to the kitchen.  After settling himself down and steadily eating his oatmeal, while holding a Kleenex to his nose – which miraculous stopped bleeding — he got up and brushed his teeth, put on his shoes and was standing ready at the door to leave on time.  Having witnessed the entire incident, boys #2 and #3 followed suit.

So my child ruined my sofa, yet we had ultimately had the best morning of the year thus far.  Mama realized that the small messes in life don’t really matter.  And boys somehow realized that sometimes, just sometimes, you can make life easier for your Mom.

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I’m guest teaching an online writing course – come join!


writeyourway300x250Back before children and my minivan, I was actually a teacher. Yeah, weird, I know. I taught middle school English and Reading. I actually loved it. The kids made each day an insane adventure – some good, some bad, but all hormonal.

When I left, I truly missed it.

But today, I’m excited to announce I’ll be teaching again!

Not to teen-angst-filled teenagers, but rather to bloggers and writers. So in reality, it probably won’t be all that different. (just joking…maybe.)

I’m one of the guest professors for a 6-week online writing course called Write Your Way To a Better Blog, organized by the awesome ladies of The HerStories Project. There are some amazing other guest professors teaching and I’ll be teaching about how to incorporate storytelling into your blogs.

It’s all online so it works for any schedule and it’s also a great networking, as well as learning, opportunity.

As part of the class, you’ll have access to:

  • the full class platform, including several weekly lessons and discussions about each lesson and assignment
  • instructor feedback on assignments in the class platform
  • a private Facebook group for class members, instructors, and guest instructors
  • a PDF of course lessons at the end of the class

I hope you’ll check it out and consider registering. I’d love to have you join us! For more info, click HERE!

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No one tells you how gross parenting is going to be…

wash-hands-98641_640When you are pregnant, you read all sorts of parenting help books. Books that talk about sleep training or how to get your newborn baby to latch on better during breastfeeding. However, no one has written a book that says all the gross things that will happen when you are a parent. Perhaps I’ll tackle that in my next book but for now, I’ll simply share the story of how this point was demonstrated recently in my life.

My daughter’s elementary school has two playgrounds. One for the younger grades and one for the older. The younger ones play on the upper playground and older on the lower. My three-year-old son and I arrived a few minutes early for dismissal and I let him play on the lower empty playground. After a few minutes, I noticed that he is starting to bend his knees in a peculiar manner.

I ran over to him and asked if he was okay.

“I need to poop,” he said, trying to clench his miniature butt cheeks together.

I quickly realized that the closest bathroom was up a huge hill which would then require me to be buzzed into the school,  get a visitors pass and then run to the bathroom.

I looked around and noticed a tree tucked behind a bush.

I had no other choice. Don’t judge.

We ran over to the tree, pulled his pants down and I held on to his hands as he squatted and began pooping.

As we held hands, I leaned slightly to my left and saw my daughter’s class go to the upper playground for an extra recess.

Sweet balls of might, please do not let her teacher look down here. 

I have no idea how hidden we actually were so I was unsure what her true range of vision was.

But then the worst part of it all hit me. I never put the wipes in my purse that morning.

Do I leave the poop under the tree? What is proper etiquette for unplanned toddler outdoor pooping?

I suddenly remembered that I had an extra pair of his underwear in my purse. I dropped his hands, ran over to the bench where my bag was and tossed out every item until I found the underwear.

I wiped the buttocks of my now crying son and began to pick up the poop with his extra pair of underwear.

“Why are you crying, sweetie?” I asked, as I desperately tried to avoid any poop touching my skin.

“I don’t want them watching me.”

“Oh sweetie, your sister’s class didn’t see you, it’s okay.”

“No, mommy, not her class. Them!”  He stood up, penis still hanging out because I got distracted by the poop and forgot to pull his pants back up and pointed in the opposite direction.

I slowly turned my head and realized that in the time we had been there, four school buses had pulled up on the street and the bus drivers were all huddled on the sidewalk, smiling and waving at us.

There is no parenting book or family expert who can prepare you for a moment like that.

So I did what I thought was the best thing to do. I pulled my son’s pants up, threw out the poop-covered underwear and doused an entire bottle of hand sanitizer over both of our hands, arms, feet, elbows and toes. Then I grabbed his hand and walked up the hill to dismissal pretending absolutely nothing had happened. When the other mothers standing next to me mentioned that they smelled poop, I pretended that I had no idea what they were talking about.

Because the real truth is those parenting help books should be one simple phrase.

Fake it.

That’s what we do as parents. We fake every single day that we have a clue what we are doing.

And we also make sure to have underwear and hand sanitizer in our purses at all times.

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My Other Ex – My interview with the contributors of this new anthology


my other ex bookOne thing I love to do is support bloggers when they write books. It’s a tough transition to go from blogger to book writer so I applaud those who take the risk and put themselves out there. So when I saw that some of my favorite bloggers contributed to an awesome anthology, I reached out and asked if I feature them. Yep, it was ME who reached out. Normally authors reach out to bloggers but I loved it so much I wanted to make sure their voices were heard.

The anthology is called My Other Ex: Women’s True Stories of Losing and Leaving Friends. It’s the book about how in life we sometimes have to choose to put ourselves first and end what could be an unhealthy friendship.  At the heart of each essay is the recognition from each writer that she has lost something very real and very personal, a connection that will never be forgotten. You will hurt at their pain and smile at their triumphs. It’s definitely a book to pull at your heart strings.

I interviewed four of the contributors and played a little game with them. Hell, I still have to see the humor in things, even in serious matter! The four bloggers were Suzanne Barston from Fearless Formula Feeder, Angela Amman, Shannan Ball Younger from Mom Factually, Kristin Vanderhey Shaw from Two Cannoli and Meredith Napolitano from From Meredith to Mommy.

Hi ladies! How about you tell me how you got involved in the My Other Ex project?

MEREDITH: I heard about My Other Ex when the editors shared the idea for the project in one of my blogging groups. I knew I had stories to share, and I knew it would be a good process for me to write them down.

SHANNAN: I first found out about The HerStories Project after editor Stephanie Sprenger and I connected by writing for the same website and were both in Listen to Your Mother casts in 2013, her in Denver and me in Chicago.

What’s the one sentence you’d love your ex friend to say to you if you saw her/him on the street and she/he stopped you?

ANGELA: “I understand.”

KRISTIN: “I’m sorry that I stopped responding to you and ended our friendship so abruptly. I know it hurt you.”

What was the hardest thing about writing your story?

SUZANNE: The pain it brought up. I had sort of been in denial about the demise of our close bond, brushing it off by pretending it was about distance or business or whatever. But as I wrote, I realized just how real this division was.

MEREDITH: The hardest thing was remembering the story when I’ve spent a good portion of my adult life closing off that part of my memory. In addition, I had to wonder if these women would ever read it and I wanted to make sure I wrote a fair account of the situation, just in case I was ever confronted about it (Spoiler alert: I was).

OK, now I have to lighten the mood a bit, tell me the first thing that pops into your head when I say this word. And of course, we want to know why the heck it popped into your head!

  1. Word: PIG

SUZANNE: Needles. When I was little I went to a sleepaway farm camp and one of my duties was to help give shots to sick pigs.

  1. Word: VODKA

KRISTIN: Pumpkin martini. Yesterday, my friend Erin posted a list of all of the available pumpkin products available, and the pumpkin vodka caught my eye to make martinis at my annual pumpkin carving party.

  1. Word: LAUGH

SHANNAN: Loud.  This popped to mind because I met someone at Starbucks today for the first time, and I laughed at one point and was embarrassed by just how loud my laugh was.  Oops.

  1. Word: DINNER

ANGELA: Again? Lately, dinnertime in our house is an exercise in my most delicate negotiation techniques. I’m fairly certain I’m losing.

  1. Word: BELIEVE

MEREDITH: Journey. Don’t judge me.

Thank you so much ladies – you rock! And thank you to Jessica Smock and Stephanie Sprenger for daring to put this anthology together. It’s the risk takers that get the world talking. Hope you’ll all check it out. To find out more, go to their website or purchase on Amazon HERE.

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I have to learn to accept her for who she is…


introvert girlI’m struggling.

My almost six-year-old daughter is the most beautiful soul I have ever met in a girl. She is kind, loving and wants to please everyone. I love her deeply.

But I don’t understand her.

She is so different from me.

She is shy, introverted and scared to try anything new. So scared she often seems paralyzed by fear.

I’ve spent the past years trying to pull her out of her shell. Sometimes through tough love and other times with a strong, softer touch. But in the end, she still clings to my leg and cries at the hint of independence.

This past weekend we visited close friends who moved to a new city. They have two young children as well and they watched as my daughter cried hysterically when she couldn’t do the balance bike and felt left behind by the rest of the kids, or when we asked her to reach out and play with their cousins joining us for dinner and she nervously stood behind me. They saw how uncomfortable I was and how she struggled.

And as we stood in their kitchen while our children all slept that night, my friend said a phrase that I can’t stop thinking about.

“You have to accept her for who she is.”

Funny, you hear that about such serious things like someone’s sexual orientation or career choices, but you never think about it in smaller, specific contexts. My daughter is an introvert and has a very hesitant cautious personality. I need to accept that and use a kinder approach. I need to truly know that she isn’t like me. That the things that come naturally to me might not come naturally to her. And I have to be okay with that. I’m just not sure how.

What I do know is that I would do anything to see her smile. And the idea that I might not be giving her the opportunity to do that by being too tough kills me.

So I’m going to try.

I’m going to try to put myself in her shoes more. I’m going to let her stand behind me and stop telling her to be outgoing. I’m still going to challenge her to try new things but I want to be kinder. Kinder to the fact that she has to find her own way – that my way isn’t the only way.

I’m okay with her knowing that, but my husband better not go finding out my way isn’t always the best. I’ve worked hard to pull off that illusion for the past eight years. This kid better not go screwing that up.

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My BIG news! I HAVE AN AGENT!!!

typewriter

The inspirational typewriter in my office…

If you have been a reader of Martinis and Minivans for a while now, you probably know that I recently completed my first novel. It was an amazing process that provided a unique kind of therapy after my grandmother passed. Considering one of the main characters is a grandmother figure, she was present in every key I typed and every word I put on the page.

And when I finished it, I started querying agents. I received such amazing feedback and interest and was beginning to start the revision process for the second time when an interesting call came my way.

One of the agents whom I queried, the illustrious Jessica Sinsheimer from the Sarah Jane Freymann Literary Agency, said that she wanted to offer me representation.

But not for my novel.

She had read my freelance work and my blog and felt my voice was the right fit to pen a non-fiction narrative. That we would work on it together. Build it from the ground up.

She believed in me and what I could write.

So I sat on it for a week. I contacted some of the other interested agents, I talked my husband’s ear off until I finally realized he was secretly watching ESPN on his phone as I rattled on and on, and I spent a lot of time pacing my office while listening to that damn catchy “All About That Bass” song.

And after four days, I woke up in the middle of the night sweating. But I realized it was not from nervousness or anxiety – it was from excitement. I turned on my computer and couldn’t stop writing.

I knew what I had to do.

I called up Jessica Sinsheimer and accepted her offer.

And so now it begins.

And what is this book about, you ask?

It’s about being the girl who once told her parents that her lifetime ambition was to take lovers throughout Europe–which now, frankly, sounds exhausting–and how she eventually transformed into a mother who longed to figure out how to turn an ice cream truck into a vehicle that sells wine to fellow stressed out mothers in the middle of the afternoon. But, mostly, it’s a humor book about the challenges and hilarity of charting your own path–even when that means no longer being afraid to live in the strange, and often terrifying, foreign country called “parenthood.”

And my goal is to make people laugh their asses off. (Though, by the size of my ass these days, it obviously is only working on others and not myself.)

I hope you’ll join me on this journey. Because in the end, my goal is exactly what it was when I started this blog – to have you laughing and crying all at the same time. And to show you a different side of parenting – the ones mothers usually only talk about when they’ve had a few glasses of wine and an overnight babysitter. The side about what it means to be yourself–a woman–an individual spirit–in a culture that tries to make it all about the kids and (only when you have time) your husband.

It’s about finding your own kind of martini to drink, the one that only you know how to make, and enjoying it after a long day of carting the kids around in a minivan filled with crushed Goldfish crackers and melted fruit snacks–and knowing that, when you get home and the kids are all asleep – you are still that same girl who dreamed of taking lovers in Europe. (Only now it’s just one lover, and you’re not in Paris but rather Omaha, Nebraska, and you dream of doing it with your yoga pants on in time to watch Dancing With The Stars. Yeah.)

So wish me luck and stay tuned – the fun is just starting!

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A letter to my muffin top


letter-to-muffin-topDear Muffin Top,

Don’t fret. This isn’t goodbye. I’m not writing you to tell you about a new exercise plan I’m beginning or a diet I’m starting that would cause you to wither away day by day. No, you can breathe a sigh of relief in knowing that we are together for life.

However, I’m writing to let you know that you aren’t going to be an only child anymore.

You see, sweet muffin top of mine, they are putting a Dunkin Donuts one mile from our home.

I know you are confused and can’t imagine a world where you don’t get all the attention. But the time has come for you to share the fat on this body. My thighs and ass are ready to plump up. They are ready to fill with the delicious icing that is shot into creme-puff donuts. They have been waiting their whole life to feel the weight of fried dough pulsing in their veins.

But don’t panic. I still love you. I will always love you in the unique way you love your first born. But now you must learn what it means to share. To watch as another part of the body learns how to get squished and shoved into pants. You will be a role-model to them. The thighs and ass will look to you on how to stick out properly and of course, how to be used as a shelf for holding beverages when in the sitting position.

So take a deep breath and get ready. Your world is about to change but know that you aren’t going anywhere. I’ll never abandon you.

Love,

Your donut-loving body

 

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When Simon Says goes very very wrong…


simon says caution sign“Hey, mommy, guess what?” my daughter asks, holding my hand as we walk home from school.

“What’s that sweetie?”

“When I had a turn at playing Simon Says with the girls, I made everyone laugh by telling them to touch their vaginas.”

It’s as if the music came to a screeching halt at a nightclub.

“Uh…uhm…what did you just say?” I gulp down the lump in my throat and look around to see if any other parent just heard what my child said a bit too loudly to me.

“Yeah, you can really make people laugh a lot when you tell them to touch their vagina.”

Oh dear Lord, I think. Did she really say that? Did my daughter really get the girls in her class to touch their private parts during a friendly game of Simon Says?

“So…uh…did the teacher happen to see this?” I ask, begging for the answer to be no. Please let it be no.

“Nah, she was telling some boys not to hit each other.”

All I can think of in that moment is how much I am grateful that little boys like to smack the life out of each other at recess.

After a few minutes of trying to get my breath back, I begin the talk with her about how we don’t use our private parts as a way to make people laugh and then attempt to answer the many “why” questions she asks following that decree.

But in the end, she is smiling and laughing about going to school, and if you followed my adventures I wrote about for The Washington Post, you’ll know that’s quite an accomplishment.

So I’m thinking, heck, if it takes a group of girls all touching their privates to have a great day, I’ll take it. But man I hope that tomorrow they let someone else lead the game. Or at least I hope the boys keep smacking each other so the teacher doesn’t figure it out anytime soon.

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My weekend as an on-air personality…


I wear casual clothes almost every day of my life. Makeup consists of a little bit of blush and sometimes, if I’m feeling wild and floozy, a bit of mascara.

I had a glimpse into the world of broadcasting this weekend when I was asked to be on a panel for the new 30 minute programming being filmed for Moms Everyday. I flew to Colorado and joined four amazing professional moms and we spent three days filming six shows to air on different stations across the country.

I felt so lucky to be there. Especially because I didn’t have a freakin’ clue what I was doing. Luckily, they all were patient and had pity on me when I constantly asked, “Do I talk now? How about now? Now?”

But harder than reading from a teleprompter, or trying not to look at the hair out of place on your head in the monitor above you, was the fact that for three days, I had to be a grown-up professional in my appearance. No yoga pants. No flip flops and definitely no Goldfish cracker stuck to my ass. And when the show wrapped, I was exhausted. Not from the work but from having to look somewhat decent for that long.

Hats off to those in broadcasting – it’s a lot of makeup and a lot of hair products. And what’s even harder, it’s a lot of slow talking – an action I’m completely incapable of doing.

But you know what? I had a blast. I loved watching something awesome come together with a group of powerful, amazing women. It was such a female-empowering experience. I learned from these ladies and appreciated the hard work of the folks behind-the-scenes.

I must admit, I dreamed of going on that microphone from the control room and pretending to be God talking down to everyone. They did humor me though and let me change the words on the teleprompter for one of the ladies and got her to talk about swinging and sleeping with multiple partners.

Gotta love an experience that embraces a good practical joke…

Plus, I stalked, I mean, nicely chatted while she tried to get quickly away in the elevator, with Amber Rose in our hotel. She was very pleasant and can seriously wrote a crew cut. Plus, you gotta see her latest dress for the MTV Video Music Awards – google it. Damn.

And on top of that, I got to try out hair extensions, courtesy of Bao Vang, one of the panelists, who let me borrow hers for some fun after the shoot. I’m definitely getting some of those for my 40th birthday next month. Nothing says “I’m not old” like trying to look like a 20 year-old.

Here’s some pics from the insanity…

 

Thank you – to all the ladies of Moms Everyday and the amazing crew – you gave me a weekend I’ll never forget. And neither will my poor little toes who currently hate me for attempting to wear heels. I’ll send you the podiatry bill…

 

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Is she taller? The final post in my series for The Washington Post’s On Parenting…

It’s been a whirlwind of a few weeks. My daughter started kindergarten and I feel like I’ve been holding my breath ever since. I’ve held her as she’s cried, ignored her as she whined and tried to encourage her when she felt scared. It’s truly been a roller coaster.

But today, something happened.

I believe she might have grown taller.

Come read what I mean in my final post in my kindergarten series for The Washington Post’s On Parenting site.

And thank you for reading along and being part of the journey. Your comments of support and encouragement have been wonderful. I know there are more serious things in the world to talk about but thank you for making me always feel like my anxieties mattered.

To read, click HERE.

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Maybe tomorrow will be great… The latest in my series for The Washington Post’s parenting site


first week of kindergartenMy daughter has always had a spark about her. Something that made her eyes glisten just that extra bit. You know the one I’m talking about – ALL our kids have it. But to us, their parents, they shine a bit brighter.

Right now, my daughter’s spark is missing and I’m feeling a bit lost.

Come read my latest in the special series for The Washington Post’s parenting site, On Parenting.

To read, click HERE.

 

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