Know Your Power: A Message to America's Daughters

A cousin recommended this book by Nancy Pelosi, and I had to check it out.

It was a quick read with some nice messages; I think it would be great for young women especially.

I had fun reading it because I related to the idea of a young Italian Catholic woman growing up back east. It made me think of my mother. But then I realized so many cultures are the same, and I bet lots of people would get a kick out of hearing about her family. It's like "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" - you don't have to be Greek to see your family in that movie.

For those of you out there who aren't Democrats, it's a pretty universal message, though some of the anecdotes about her time in the Senate lean left.

I'll be passing this one around the women of the family this Christmas.

Happy Holidays!

p.s. I just noticed that friend and blogger Jenny Rough links to my blog, and I feel some pressure to, er, post stuff here once in a while now. Stay tuned!

UPDATE:
I cracked this book again recently, and I realized something: I didn't really like it. I think I felt some pressure as a good feminist or Democrat or cousin (to the woman who recommended it) to love it, but I didn't. This isn't the first time I "liked" something I didn't really like. I won't call it pretending, because I had convinced myself, too. This could be a whole post about the pressure we put on ourselves to maintain some sort of image that no one likely cares about but us, but instead I will make it about the book. I haven't read a lot of memoirs from public figures, so maybe this is par for the course, but it actually seemed sort of arrogant to me. And contrived. I don't know how it wouldn't be contrived - she still has a public image to maintain and elections to win. But then, why bother?

All the Italian stories were still my favorite part, along with the image of all her little kids folding their own clothes. Otherwise: eh.

My cup is overflowing. My plate is full.

Is it a blessing or a curse?

If we hadn't all experienced this feeling, the question would be kind of surprising. How could one thing be both? I have been doing a lot of thinking about this lately. About the word "bittersweet" and how often this unlikely word applies to things in our lives.

For me, this most often comes up when I feel "too busy." Let's see, I have a challenging job, a large extended family, a husband and child, and good friends. What exactly is in there to stress about?

I know we've all felt it. I know I'm not just the jerk complaining about all my blessings. And I don't miss the connection with the name of my blog. When I think about it, I believe there is a reason we pray for our "daily bread" specifically. We certainly don't ask for excess bread. Just enough for today. Tomorrow is another day.

And maybe this is how I should approach the overflowing cup and the full plate: by taking my daily amount and leaving the rest for another day, or another person, or God. What more can we do?

I also have to wonder if some things really are bittersweet, blessing/curse, or if it's up to us to just tip the scales toward sweet blessing and call it a day. I am inclined to think it's up to us, but I haven't figured out how to go about tipping those scales in my own heart and mind. Any ideas?

Book Review: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox

You must read The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell. Must.

You know how some books are so good you can't put them down? This one was so good I had to put it down the first night. Drop it like it's hot, if you will. It was too much to take.

But still I managed to finish it in less than 24 hours. Yeah, me. The one with the baby, and the other job, too, who can't always figure out when to shower.

I gave it to my cousin with a request to get it back before Book Club (still 3 weeks away), as the book had been chosen by the lovely Adrienne for our next discussion. She gave it back to me last Saturday. She'd stayed up all night reading it.

So what is it about, you ask? It is a novel about the power of perception, the reliability (or unreliability) of memory, the way we sometimes forget that the people we love are more important than the opinions of people we really don't care all that much about. It's about the walls that we build to deal with loss in its many forms. It's about the subordination of women.

This book crosses generations and continents, and it's told in a remarkable way.

Read it.

My "Weeble" Is Wobbling

Here in my Kool-Aid drinkin' corporate culture, we have a different name for everything. No, we can't just be like regular folks who say "HR" or "employees." And we talk about WBL - well-balanced life - instead of work/life balance. Maybe we aren't the only ones; I've been insulated here for a while.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately as I try to be a star don't-call-me-an-employee as well as a star mama.

It seems when people think of work/life balance, they usually think of the life part of the equation. As in, is work giving me enough time to have one? But lately I find myself having a hard time with the work part of the equation. As in, can I still give and get something worthwhile in my work-life while I try to have a life-life?

Part of the problem is that my definition of life-life has changed. It requires me to be home at a reasonable hour, and even if I work from home after Bubs goes to bed, it's not the same as being there. Pre-baby, having a life-life involved some late-night activities, not to mention the ability to stay awake for them, which allowed for working all hours and still having fun. Ah, that work-hard, play-hard mentality that romanced me against my better judgment.

I think the big problem though, and the one I have yet to find a way around, is that most of the fulfilling work I used to do was extra-curricular. In order to get ahead here, and more importantly (to me), to make a difference, I had to take on extra projects - some to help the way we work internally, some to help us win new business, and so on. And of course, those gravy projects are the ones I've had to cut out. And I don't care what people think of that, and I don't care that it may cost me a promotion, I just plain miss it.

Now my task is to dig deep and figure out if there's a way to fit in that extra work, or to somehow make it the work I am tasked to do, during the regular day. I'm working hard to solve this one, because the last thing I want is to find out that our aforementioned corporate culture won't allow for that. As goofy as we can be, I like it here.

The scary question behind the question is whether any solution could even do the trick, or if I got the adrenaline rush from the fact that I was going above and beyond, from the buzz of the late-night office crowd, from the shots of espresso that were inevitably involved.

If there is a neat wrap-up for this post, I haven't found it yet. That's part of my quest, and I'm only going to find it inside myself. I ask you, who has the time?!

I read something!

My awesome cousin Jaime lent me a novel called Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See. Ohhh, about 6 months ago. I got pretty into it, optimistically took it camping about a month later, and then somehow lost track of its whereabouts.

Fast forward to Book Club last month. It's my turn to pick the next book (and to host, and provide dinner; it is so much better now that we alternate duties instead of all trying to chip in every time). Being a realist, I figure I better pick something I'm already reading—and liking, of course. Snow Flower it is.

If only I could find it.

Thank God for the wonderful Santa Monica Public Library. I look it up online—yep, got it. Take Bubs and he loves the big open space with all the natural light streaming in and books, books everywhere. Yay, he is my kid. Find it on the shelf in no time. Oops, that's an autographed copy—again, the realist kicks in and decides we're always in danger of spilling or puking or pooping on something, so I grab another. Bring it home and can't put it down (again).

It's a story of two girls growing up in 19th Century China, complete with tales of foot binding and secret women's writing. I love all the historical details.

But at its essence, it's a story of friendship. Of what it means to be a true friend in hard times as well as good. Of how a friendship needs to grow and adapt as our circumstances and sometimes even personalities change.

This book is still stuck in my craw, making me wonder if I distance myself or resort to the "proper" thing to say when I am frustrated by my inability to make things better for the ones I love. It's pushing me to be a better friend to those who have stood by my side as I transformed from an awkward, self-righteous teenager to a mellower woman, wife, mother, writer.

The best teachers make learning fun. This book taught me something about history and about myself, and I didn't even realize it at the time.





Jaime, I promise I will find your book or buy you another copy.

9 Months Old

Bubs is 9 months old today.

That means he has been out in the world as long as he lived in my belly.

The poor little thing never wanted to leave that warm, dark space, that existence of fluidity. We took him out by force, a decision I would not repeat under the same circumstances.

The funny thing about the doctor-patient relationship, though, is that the doctors are purported to be the experts. Presumably, patients choose doctors they trust and can therefore make informed decisions based on the perspective they provide. Some people know their own bodies really well, too, and can factor that into any decisions they make about their own health.

However, when it comes to decisions about pregnancy and childbirth, it ain't just doctor-patient anymore. It's doctor-patients. And one patient is an unknown quantity, someone whose ins and outs you just haven't learned yet, someone whose life depends on you and only you. No pressure.

So when an OB throws around risks like "fetal death" (even though we had a strong heartbeat, intact placenta, plenty of amniotic fluid, etc., etc.), it feels like the decision has already been made for you. Add in an equally scared Hubs—who is not disposed to ask any questions of a physician, let alone to question their advice—and you're getting cut open, no question. Somehow we just didn't feel that my uninformed (yet extremely strong) instinct was enough to outweigh the recommendation of the medical professional.

Nine months later, it's so clear. Mothering is all about instinct. And unfortunately, like with the decision that kicked it all off, my own instincts rarely involve a big, red, flashing arrow pointing to the right path. Sometimes it is the tiniest voice. Sometimes it is auto pilot. Usually there is some unpleasant feeling in my stomach. For people like me, it's often something that is rehashed, over-analyzed, turned over in my mind like those zen meditation balls (I am not sure what they're called, but I refuse to Google "Japanese balls"). Did I do the right thing? Was he ready? Is this starting our relationship off on the right foot? Am I being selfish? Are we sending him on the right path? The answer is inevitably, reliably the same: listen closely; find your instinct; follow it. When I've done that, I've had no regrets.

Of course I haven't always done that. He wasn't ready, I knew that, but I went through with the C-section. I didn't start his life off by following my instinct, and I'm pretty sure if someone threw the "D" word at me again, it'd take a lot to ignore their advice. In fact, it has taken a lot less—family pressure, doctor pressure (again), the burning desire for some damn sleep—to make me go against my instincts.

And because parenting is, in our little family, a two-person job, there will also be lots of gray areas, mismatched instincts, and outright conflicts ahead.

Thankfully, after a mere nine months of, well, guessing our way through this incredibly common yet uncommonly important job, we are safe, sound, often giddy and always content.

My instinct is to stay the course.

Guilt: The Gift That Keeps On Giving

I know from guilt.

My mother's Italian Catholic and my dad is Jewish. Enough said?

Guilt and I had come to a sort of understanding. I know I will never be immune to its oppressive weight, but I try to engage it when it's useful and dismiss it when it's just badgering me.

This was never foolproof, but it worked a good lot of the time. Until I became a working mom.*

Now I know depths of guilt that had previously lay dormant, unexplored, deep within my psyche. I feel guilty that I am not giving enough time to Bubs, to Hubs, or to work (which, at the rate I'm going, could be called Flubs). I feel like I am half-assing everything, succeeding at nothing, and to me that is failure. I am failing in all the things I have always wanted out of life: a marriage, a family, a career.

And in the midst of it, in some attempt to have a sense of self (oh yeah, me), I started a blog. This blog. And it's been over two months since I posted.

But guess what. I am not going to feel guilty about this damn blog. I may feel sad that I can't make this much time for myself - and, let's face it, sad is what I really feel about the other areas where I am failing - but guilt is not an option here.

So if anyone is reading this, my apologies that I haven't posted in so long. It wouldn't shock me if it takes two more months before I post again. If you choose to keep checking back, I thank you. If not, that's OK, too.

In the meantime, we can all work to be masters over our own guilt, making an obedient servant of it.

Maybe I should start a show called the Guilt Whisperer.

*Of course, ALL moms are working moms!

Six Month Checkup

Bubs is 6 months old this week - it was his half birthday!

What the...?! Wasn't it just yesterday that he first made his appearance?* And at the same time, hasn't he been here all along?

So far, and I know I have a looong way to go and lots to learn, parenting seems sort of like climbing Mt. Everest - much more rewarding and much more difficult than you ever dare imagine. Oh, except you never reach the top. Plus billions of people do it every day. (But I ask you, can they all blog with one hand?)

Happy 6 months, Bubs! And congrats to me and Hubs for surviving!

*I have some major issues referring to his "birth" or being "born" since I had to have a C-section and don't really feel that I gave birth to him. Yes, I need therapy.

First Real Post: Book Review - The Milk Memos

So here's a post that combines two of my great loves - reading and being a mama.

I read the Milk Memos on recommendation from a forum I frequent. It's written my two mamas who worked at IBM and shared a "lactation room" upon their return to work after maternity leave. They kept a notebook to share tips and help new moms feel welcome, and this book includes notebook entries from four different women (including a single mom, for those of you who can relate to that), as well as other content on breastfeeding and pumping.

It is a fun read, with silly turns of phrase (the lower-producing breast? a "milk dud") and some practical tips on pumping and on surving working outside the home as a breastfeeding mom. However, having been back at work for only two months, I already felt like a lot of the information didn't apply to me (or was old news). Also, as someone who has had issues with milk supply, I'm ashamed to say it sparked some serious production envy in me. Not to mention envy of a dedicated lactation room, as opposed to the room that is Meeting Room 2 and the AV Room with butcher paper on the windows and a homemade Do Not Disturb sign.

Overall, I think it's a cute book about a topic that is near and dear to my heart: juggling work, family and breastfeeding. Personally, I'm glad I borrowed it from the library. But if you'd like to buy it for yourself or a new mom who's anxious about going back to work, I'll get a few cents if you click below.

The Milk Memos: How Real Moms Learned to Mix Business with Babies-and How You Can, Too

Introductory Post

So I am a blogger.

I've been thinking about it for a long time, but it always comes back to this: Who cares what I have to say?

But I've decided it doesn't matter who cares. I care. Writing is good for my soul. If I can help or amuse someone in the process, gravy.

So this will force me to write more, and I'm hoping it will also kick my butt to read more. And because becoming a parent myself has made me realize how scary a job that can be, I am hoping I can share some of the things I've learned from the other parents in my life, and from little Bubs, my #1 teacher.