The Great Christmas Card Debate

The card that started it all...

When Lauren was born, my husband and I were ecstatic. After two-plus years of trying, we were blessed with a 9-lb. baby girl. So it is no wonder when Christmas rolled around, I wanted our holiday card to be memorable. Sure we could do the typical cute baby in a red dress photo, but it seemed to me she deserved something better. After some thought, I landed on this idea: Lauren, Ted and I posing in furry Mad Bomber hats from L.L.Bean. Who could resist a chubby-cheeked, blue-eyed baby in one of those hats? Who wouldn’t laugh?

My mother.

She told me friends and family couldn’t stop talking about our Christmas card. That was exactly the point. The card was meant to be funny. But my mother didn’t think the photo was funny, in a ha-ha sort of way.

“Do you know what you look like?” she asked. This was a loaded question. She seemed disgusted, frustrated even. “Like you’re from the Maine woods.”

“But we are from Maine,” I told her. “And that’s why we chose those hats.”

“Plus,” I added, “mad bomber hats happen to be in vogue right now.” She didn’t believe me, what would I know, living in Maine and all? I was tempted to send her spreads from In Style magazine and the New York Times that featured the hats, but I didn’t. Who had time to send press clippings with a new baby and a full-time job?

In the years that followed, while I longed to take a photo of my kids in the back of a vintage, flat bed truck, or splashing in muddy puddles during low tide, I went against my instincts and sent the expected: sister and brother cuddled together on a wingback chair in their holiday finest. They were both in Santa hats, but somehow that managed to slide.

Still, my mom hasn’t let me forget the supposed stir the original card caused. And like any grown woman with two children of her own, I want to please my mother. Or more accurately, I don’t have the energy to debate greeting card choices with her when there’s so much to do.

But this year, I decided to go with two versions of our holiday card—not unlike what New York Magazine did with the 00’s issue cover photo. The kids were fortunate to have their portraits done (for free) by children’s book author, Charlotte Agell at a library book sale. I thought, how cool would it be to have these drawings become our holiday card? Of course, my mother would never go for the illustrations, and once again, I’d cause a second round of the Christmas card debate.

But then I had another, cute photo of the kids on a porch swing. Traditional. Not necessarily Christmas-y, but presentable nonetheless. I decided this safer version would go out to my mother and my side of the family.

I know I’m a wimp—thirty-something and I’m still acquiescing to my mother’s wishes. But this way, everybody wins. My mother gets a card she likes. I get a card I like. If there can’t be peace on earth this holiday, at least there’s peace between mother and daughter.

A Heartbreaking Work of… Oh, Never Mind

A scene from The Polar Express

I was watching The Polar Express with Ted and the kids, and thinking how I could relate to the main character­–a boy whose belief is restored in Santa Claus after he’s given a bell that only true believers can hear. He’s thrilled by this gift, but on the return trip home, when he reaches inside his pocket to retrieve the bell, he finds a gaping hole instead. His shoulders slump. There’s a look of shock and disappointment on his face. Then there’s me, a grown woman, sobbing in the corner of our sectional, wondering like him, what could I have done differently? Or was my loss out of my control?

My bell came in the form of an assignment from a popular, online parenting magazine. The story pitch required work, time and perseverance, and the pay wasn’t great, but it didn’t matter. The opportunity could lead to wonderful possibilities: exposure for my blog, more assignments, new readers, etc, but the fear of screwing up scared me to death. What if the editor didn’t like the finished piece? And worse, what if the magazine decided not to go through with publishing the essay?

I was filled with self-doubt, or as my father calls it, over-analysis paralysis. I drove Ted crazy, endlessly discussing my concerns, worrying that the piece didn’t hold up against other essays on the site. And like any supportive husband, he assured me that my story was good, better than good, and that I was being too hard on myself.

I had a reoccurring feeling, though, and it was this: something was missing in the essay. So I worked on the story, re-wrote it a number of times and then finally, it felt complete. Over-analysis paralysis be damned! I had beaten this thing, and Ted had to be right, everything would turn out okay.

Except it didn’t. Call it negative energy, bad karma, my stars not being aligned, whatever… four days after sending the piece, I learned from an editorial assistant that the story was being killed. Apparently the magazine had a lot of great content for December, and a new editorial team decided less was more. I read the email at least five times before the message sank in. Then I imagined a crazy, murderous editor, stabbing my essay over and over again in her New York office, shouting, “Kill this thing! It’s the worst I’ve seen in all my years of editing.”

Of course I’ll never know if it was the content, staff changes or a little of both that changed the fate of my original acceptance. And of course, the not knowing is driving me nuts. It’s like someone you’re crazy about breaking up with you, and never learning the reason why. And all along, the relationship seemed great: lots of good communication, only a few days between emails and then wham! You’re on the outs.

So in a nutshell, I lost my bell. I don’t know when or how long it will take before I get it back. In The Polar Express, the boy wakes up Christmas morning to find a small box under the tree. He opens the package and discovers the bell is safely inside. And in an instant, all is right with the world.

But The Polar Express is a movie, not life. I want to be hopeful, and my friends and family have assured me that I’ll get another opportunity. I want to believe them. Really, I do. Right now, though, I feel like I’ve been left with a great big hole in my pocket.

Happy Thanksgiving

My two toddlers could easily achieve this culinary feat... they're pros.

Our kitchen usually looks just like this New Yorker cartoon, which reads, “And that’s how you make a peanut butter sandwich.” Enjoy and have a great holiday! We’ll be back with a new post soon.

Nothing Says Happy Holidays Like an Oversized Nightie

The nightshirt in question

The holiday catalogs have arrived, and even though I can’t afford much this year, I still look. Most of them offer the expected—Pottery Barn’s picture perfect décor, LL.Bean’s cotton flannel shirts and Hanna Anderson’s red and green striped pajamas. Sure, these companies might mix it up with a few added styles, but other than a sale, new holiday tag line or special offer, the content never really changes.

Out of all the catalogs that have come in the mail, Orvis has tripped me up this year, not with their catalog design or product offerings, which are typically dowdy women’s clothing, pet beds, travel and hunting gear, but one singular product… the oversized “Sleeps with Dogs,” nightshirt, selling for $59.

Now don’t get me wrong, I have purchased items from this family-owned, Vermont company—a hallway bench, a wax jacket for my husband, a dog bed—but who in their right mind is going to want to pronounce, “I sleep with dogs?” It’s like asking your spouse never to have sex with you again. And this from a woman who sleeps in a fleece, sweatpants and wool socks for most of the winter.

I realize there are people who sleep with their pets. In fact, I have married aunt who has a guest room, where she and her dog bunk together. She watches late night television, reads and cuddles up with her big, furry companion, all in the name of respecting her husband’s early bedtime. But would she wear this shirt? No. Why? The woman has some taste.

Who, I want to know, would give this shirt to someone? Of all the holiday gifts you could choose, would you land on the “Sleeps with Dogs” nightshirt? Well, maybe if you didn’t like that person much.

So dear Orvis buyers, I get that your customers are dog lovers. I get that you sell leashes, feeding bowls and coffee mugs with Golden Retrievers on them. But the Sleeps with Dogs nightshirt should go straight to the Annual Tent Sale in a large bin for $1.99. And if I’m wrong, let me know. Of course, if you redesign it for a real dog, like a St. Bernard, then the “Sleeps with Dogs,” nightshirt might be a hit.

The Two Sides of My Brain

Since I decided to leave the 9-5 and work from home part-time, my daily routine has become easier. I can spend more time with Lauren and Will in the morning without feeling rushed. I can visit my daughter’s nursery school and not worry about missing a meeting. And although I’m tired by 5:00 p.m., I don’t feel brain dead when I pick the kids up from daycare.

So what’s the problem? These days it’s my inability to shut off the two sides of my brain, not right and left, but the mom side and the work side. When I’m writing, I’m rarely distracted by other thoughts. It’s as though I get lost in some strange vortex, but the moment I take a break, my mind starts to wander. Lately, for example, I’ve been worried about Lauren’s mysterious 2-1/2 week outbreak of hives. What’s causing them? Will the hives be gone by the time we go to the allergist? And if they do, will he know how to help her? Then my thoughts turn to the kids’ winter wardrobe, meals, house projects—the slippery slope of the to do list. When I can, I’ll divide my day in half, spending the morning writing, and the afternoon tackling the list, but that’s becoming increasingly harder to do. I lose track of time when I’m working on a writing project. I’ll look at the clock and it will be 3:30 p.m., giving me only an hour and a half to tackle any household demands.

I’ve made a promise to myself (and the kids) to focus on them when they’re home with me. If Will is taking a nap, and Lauren is immersed in a craft project, I’ll check email or fold laundry, but overall I’ve held to my promise. Once they’re in bed for the night, my mind returns to work. This never happened when I worked full-time. I could leave the office and rarely give it a second thought once I arrived home. That’s changed, too. I love what I do now, and so I am constantly thinking about story ideas, what’s worked, what hasn’t and what I should be doing to get ahead. Sometimes I can’t sleep. It’s not so bad that I’m up until 2:00 a.m. thinking about work, but it takes at least an hour for me to shut down.

I’m not complaining, though. It’s good to be busy, to spend more time with the little people and feel challenged. I thought I’d have more balance working this way, but now I wonder if balance is possible. I’m starting to think it’s more about finding what works on a daily basis, and being inordinately flexible when life gets in the way—whether it’s the hives, a new project or my thoughts sending me in another direction. The truth is, whether a mom stays home, works in an office or does a little of each, both sides of her brain are always buzzing.

Will’s First Encounter with Christina Aguilera

Christina Aguilera and Heidi Klum on Project Runway

I was lounging on the couch, eating red Twizzlers and watching Project Runway, where the contestants were designing a Bob Mackie-inspired dress for guest judge, Christina Aguilera. The show is my number one guilty pleasure (reading Entertainment Weekly from cover to cover is a close second), and in rare moments when I can watch Project Runway uninterrupted, I’m in a pure state of couch potato bliss.

Just when the contestants’ models were about to walk the runway, a call came from upstairs. “Mama! Where are you?” Will is getting his two-year molars—his finger is almost always lodged into the corner of his mouth—and he’s having trouble sleeping. Even though Project Runway was recorded on the DVR, I didn’t want to wait for the ending. I asked him if he wanted to watch a show with me, which might as well have been a rhetorical question.

We cuddled together on the couch, and I wondered (briefly) if Project Runway was appropriate for a two-year old. Unless one of the models walked down the runway naked, which I knew wasn’t happening, I couldn’t imagine the show would make an impression on his young mind. He pointed to Christina Aguilera. “Who’s that girl?” he wondered. I told him she’s a singer. Will paused and considered her for a moment. “She needs a sweatshirt,” he said.

Christina on the judging panel. Could she be chilly?

I looked at Christina’s bare arms and low-cut blue dress and had to agree. “Yes, Will,” I said. “She could probably use a sweatshirt.” I thought about Aguilera in her pre-motherhood, Dirrty days, wearing nothing but chaps and a muddied bikini top in a music video, and thought her blue number was decisively more conservative. But still. This is Project Runway, couldn’t she have stepped it up a notch, especially for the fashion savvy Tim Gunn? A two-year old and his mother certainly think so.

Thanks Pottery Barn Kids

PBK's Ultimate Barbie Dream Room

Pottery Barn Kids arrived in the mail last week, and as I’m apt to do, I tossed the catalog aside. The high prices, combined with the über-organized kids’ rooms are too much for me. The catalog’s photography instills feelings of inadequacy, as in; I wish my play space looked that good. Or more accurately, I wish I could afford a room like that. I understand that catalogs have to visually appeal to customers to sell merchandise, but I’m asking, does anyone know a kid whose room reflects the catalog? Infants don’t count here. I’m talking moving, active, curious kids with lots of toys and books. Is a Pottery Barn Kids’ room really possible?

One thing that I never imagined was finding my 3-year old flipping through the pages of the PBK catalog. After dinner, I discovered her eyeing a spread that celebrated, “50 Years of Barbie,” with a sub-headline that reads, “Inspired by her classic style, our exclusive bedding creates the ultimate dream room for your biggest Barbie fan.” Who knew Barbie had classic style? I think back to some of the hot pink 80’s numbers my Barbie wore, and classic doesn’t come to mind, but I digress. Lauren was eyeing the all pink bedroom with great interest. I asked her if she liked the room, and she said, “Yeah (as in duh, Mom). It’s all pink!”

A few days later, we were in her bedroom, and she casually brought up the catalog. “Do you know, I saw that room in that book, and everything was pink. The bed was pink. The walls were pink. It was pinkalicious!”* I laughed out loud—amazed by how Pottery Barn Kids could influence a 3-year old. I mentioned that pink was already part of her room—there are pink rosebuds in her quilt and throw pillows. Plus I like that her walls are a contrasting blue, no need to go all Pepto Bismol here. “But I want it,” she said. “I want a pink room.”

Sigh. What’s a parent to do? I’m going to hold out hope that her favorite color changes. If not, I guess you’ll find Ted and I painting her room pink one weekend. But there is no way I’m buying a Barbie duvet cover, coordinating dupioni silk quilt and tulle bed skirt. That’s where I draw the (pink) line.

*Pinkalicious by Victoria Kann & Elizabeth Kann is one of Lauren’s favorite books, and definitely worth a read.

The Hazard Report

Friends have asked if I have regrets leaving work, if I’m finding it hard staying home and if I’m busy. Lauren and Will try my patience daily, whether it be the refusal to put on pants or not replying when I ask a question three times over. And lately, Will is up nights, almost as if he’s a newborn again. I’m tired most of the time, and I’m drinking more coffee than I ever did at my full-time job.

That being said, I wouldn’t change a thing (well, maybe the late nights). I love my days with the kids. It’s been wonderful to deliver Lauren to preschool and not have to rush anywhere. Will can stay and play for a bit, and when it’s time to leave the classroom, the two of us run errands together, play baseball in the driveway or hang out at the local coffee shop. One day, while strolling down Main Street, he declared, “Mommy, we are happy!” He couldn’t have said it better.

Will takes long naps in the afternoon, so that’s when Lauren and I spend time together. She’s tired and cranky after school, which is never fun, but post lunch, she’s ready for anything. We’ve been doing a lot of baking lately. I have to remind Lauren not to put her fingers in the batter, or lick the sugar off the table, but generally, she keeps herself in check. She also likes to do arts and crafts. I’ve found I have a flair for making construction paper people and figures, so that’s what we create most of the time. This week we made a movie star version of Lauren’s aunt, two delivery trucks and a Thomas the Tank Engine for Will, which I’m particularly proud of.

Thomas the Tank Engine by Yours Truly

Lauren's ice cream delivery truck

When the kids are not at home, I’ve been diving into work. I feel guilty because I accepted a copywriting job, which I said I would not do. But I feel better knowing I’m contributing in some way, and as far as copywriting gigs go, this one is as good as it gets. My client is flexible and I can tell him up front when I’m having a crazy week. And he pays on time, which is a rare treat for a writer.

I’ve made a promise to myself to pitch at least two stories a week to magazines, and I’m hoping an assignment will come. Next week I’m headed to Boston to talk with some writing peers and a former boston.com editor about pitch letters in general. Sending a story idea to a magazine is similar to drafting a cover letter for a job—the process is time consuming but necessary. And like applying for a job, you never know if or when you’ll hear back. I figure the more I put out there, the more chance I have of something happening.

So do I have regrets? Not yet. I miss clothes shopping in Freeport during lunch. I miss seeing some of my friends. And I still worry about being poor and on the street. But for the most part, as my son would say, we are happy.

There Are No Zzz’s in Hazard

Recently, I signed up for boot camp — a community exercise program that involves running, stretching and lifting weights. I was reluctant to commit to the class at first because a) I haven’t exercised in an embarrassingly long time and b) boot camp begins at 5:30 a.m. On the upside, the class would force me to get up early, and upon return home, I’d have time to prep lunches and enjoy a morning shower before the wee ones rise.

Plus, since leaving my job in July, the kiddos and I have been in a pattern of waking at 8:00 a.m. (a luxury in the parenting world). On their days at home, the late start doesn’t matter. But on my writing days, I deliver them to daycare around 10:00 a.m.. To make any progress, my workday would need to start earlier. Boot camp seemed the solution to whoop my ass back into shape in more ways than one.

But last Thursday evening, after only two sessions of camp, I found myself wondering why I made this decision—not due to the early hour or my sore hamstrings, but because my children don’t sleep. At least not when Ted and I want them to go to bed. Lauren needs company to fall asleep, which usually means I’m in bed with her until 9:30 p.m. And Will hollers “I want my Mommy!” or “I want my Daddy!” for an hour if we’ll let him, until one of us breaks down and goes to comfort him.

In addition to this crazy bedtime routine that we’ve fallen into, Lauren almost always runs into our room in the middle of the night. Sometimes, we’re so tired, we don’t even notice she’s wedged between us. But mostly, one of us ends up scurrying her back to bed and sleeping with her until morning.

On this particular Thursday night, I’d planned to be in bed by 9:30 p.m., so I’d get enough sleep for boot camp the next morning. For the most part, the plan was intact. I read to the kids, helped them brush their teeth and miraculously, everyone was in bed and silent right on schedule.

Around 3:00 a.m., Lauren arrived in our room. For some unknown reason, my husband decided this was the night he was going to make a point. He walked Lauren back to her room, wished her good night and returned to bed. She shouted, “Daddy! I have to go to the bathroom!” which was enough to wake up Will, who then shouted, “Me too!”

Ted ended up lying down in the hall between their rooms, telling them both they had to go to sleep on their own. I offered to help, but Ted sent me back to bed and shut the door. “We have to do this,” he said. “They need to cry it out.”

I returned to bed, determined to rest before my 5:00 a.m. wake up call, until both children came running to my side. “What are you two doing here?” I asked. To which Ted interrupted, “I’ve had enough of these menacing kids…” or something reminiscent of Scooby Doo. “I’ve been up for over an hour. I am done!”

I asked him what I should do? There were only 45 minutes between now and the time I needed to be at class. Ted muttered something unprintable and threw the covers over his head.

My first, thought, nice timing! I have boot camp, people! Lauren and Will stared at me as though I was some kind of bedtime savior. I decided to put them both in Lauren’s bed, and sat in a chair beside them. Lauren looked like she might fall asleep, but Will was singing the Itsy Bitsy Spider complete with hand motions. I brought him back to his crib, and right on cue, he started yelling, “I want my Mommy!”

I returned to my post in Lauren’s room. She tossed and turned while Will screamed. It was now 5:15 a.m., and boot camp seemed less a possibility. I went to Will’s room and Lauren followed. “Do you two want to go downstairs and have some cereal?” To which they both screamed “Yeah!” as if I asked them if they wanted to go to the North Pole to meet Santa Claus.

While they munched on Kix and watched Mama Mirabelle, I stewed. I was mad at Ted for deciding to make a point in the middle of the week. And I was mad because I was missing boot camp.

Then I’m not sure what happened to alter my mood. Maybe it was the new brand of coffee. Or maybe it was seeing Lauren and Will contentedly sitting on the couch, cheeks stuffed with cereal. Whatever it was, I decided mothering two unpredictable toddlers was good enough reason to miss boot camp. And more than likely, I’ll miss class again. I’m sure some drill sergeant out there would consider this an excuse, but a little boot camp is better than none at all.

Stop! You’re Growing Too Fast

While taking Lauren’s preschool picture, it brought me back to my own first day photo: me posing by the front door in a brown dress and matching knee-highs, grinning and waving to the camera. Now here I am, an adult and mother (gasp!), sending my daughter to school. It’s hard to imagine I was her age once, and even harder to believe she was a newborn three short years ago.

Lauren amazed me on her first day. She picked out her own outfit, and slung her backpack over her shoulders like an old pro. And as Ted fastened her into the car seat, she proclaimed, “I’m a school rock star!”

Even though she’s only three, the experience of taking her to preschool felt like a milestone moment should. I was equal parts nostalgic and proud. Not surprisingly, the rock star started school without fear. Once I hung up her backpack, she was off and running among her peers. I watched her bounce from the dress up station to the wooden building blocks, and then to the easels to paint.

Lauren and I - not that long ago

When it was time to leave, I kissed her goodbye and extracted Will from the toy cars and trucks. He said, “I want to stay! I want to go to school.” I told him, “Not yet, buddy, you’re coming home with me,” and squeezed him tight. Cliché or not, the saying really is true—kids grow up too fast.