Everyday is Cancer Prevention Day

Did you know that February is National Cancer Prevention Month? It’s great to have a month dedicated to the awareness of how we can prevent such a horrible disease.

For me however, every day is cancer prevention day. It began ten years ago when I learned I have the BRCA gene mutation, and my risk of breast cancer suddenly skyrocketed to upwards of 85%.

I can clearly remember sitting in the genetic oncologist's office when the doctor confirmed my DNA testing. The doctor was so kind. She sat right next to me at a small conference table.  As she gently explained the details of my diagnosis and armed me with the basic information, she also wrote her instructions in longhand on a yellow legal tablet. She knew I was barely grasping every fourth word...breast exams and ultrasounds, blood tests, Tamoxifen, mastectomy, hysterectomy, increased ovarian cancer. As her words filled the air,  I looked down to see Brian supportively rubbing my arm, yet I couldn't connect the sensation of his touch on my skin. I was numb.

We left the doctor's office, silently clutching the doctor's notes and a stack of pamphlets. I didn’t even cry. Not sure what to do with ourselves next, Brian and I stopped at the closest bar. Over cocktails, I bitched aloud about my shitty roll of the genetic dice.  I had just turned 37.

The tears came later of course. I wallowed in self-pity for a day or two. I felt helpless with the knowledge that at any point, cancer cells could begin to grow in my chest. I had witnessed firsthand my mother’s battle.  She had just finished up yet another surgery to remove her second breast with cancer. (It was actually her third instance of cancer but that's another story.) Always the optimist, she pointed out that while nothing could alter my genetics, I could take matters into my own hands. She reminded me I'd feel better if I was in control of IT, rather that IT in control of me. Damn, my mom knew me so well.

I thought of her words and considered maybe the BRCA gene wasn't necessarily all bad news.  I couldn't help that I had the predisposition for cancer, but I could decide how I was going to handle my situation. Worrying about it was a waste of time. I can't see the trouble coming. I could only hold myself accountable for decreasing that 85% risk to any number less than that.

I always had wanted to make big changes to my lifestyle but never could find the discipline. All the good intentions I've ever had...eat better, exercise regularly...they never lasted. I could never commit to any long-term goal related to my health. I couldn't even manage to take a multivitamin. I was a crash-dieter and sporadic exerciser at best. Quite frankly, I was lazy. Maybe this was the push I needed.

Aside of my predicament,  I thought a lot about my two daughters and their genetic makeup as well. They too could potentially carry the same faulty gene. It became even more of an imperative to emulate a healthy lifestyle for them. I wanted it to be easy and natural no-brainer to eat right and exercise.  Not the daily battle I always faced.

Putting my BRCA gene diagnosis into a perspective that it was now more important to consider my daughters’ future, changed my mental positioning. Now, I was a woman on a mission. Instead of hiding in shameful secrecy with my deleterious gene, I owned it. It gave me a direction and now I had a clear goal. I set out to change my life--and hopefully the trajectory of my girls' future as well.

Within weeks of my diagnosis, I had a double mastectomy with reconstruction. I was so fortunate they both occurred on the same operating table. If you didn't know any differently, you may not even have noticed. That decreased my risk significantly.

Then I tackled my health and fitness.

I had to learn what healthy eating looked like. I had to force myself to start exercising regularly for the first time in my life. I began just walking, until I could jog, until I could run. Running my first mile was a huge milestone, and at the same time I was annoyed that I just barely did it. But my enthusiasm bubbled over as I was doing more positive things for myself than I could ever remember.

And while I charged forward with gusto, huge life changes are difficult and require a ton of dedicated, daily focus. I fell off the wagon often, and there were plenty of times when the wagon rolled off into the distance and I had to start all over again.

With the urge to do more, I started raising money for cancer charities.  For the Susan G Komen, I earned a Pink Honor Roll Star award for my fundraising, and I was featured in a few newspapers for sharing my story as a “Pre-vivor”; The most rewarding part was as word spread through my circles of friends and acquaintances, I've had many opportunities to coach and support other women who learned they were BRCA gene carriers too. 

I never expected this outcome, but the BRCA gene empowered me. I know I wouldn’t be who I am today had I not been dealt this hand.  I’ve had to make other agonizing decisions related to my cancer risk since then, but I always remind myself that the consequences of those decisions are never as worse as the risk. My mother would often say how thankful she was that at least I have a fighting chance to not ever hear the words “You have cancer”.

Those three little words just suck. Smart people at the Moffitt Cancer Center are working extremely hard to find a cure so we can remove cancer from our vocabulary. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? My girls are counting on me and I’m doing everything I can to protect them. Just another reason I started this fundraiser. Please donate and let’s work together to eradicate cancer for all of our family and friends forever.
https://www.crowdrise.com/tracys-climb-to-combatcancer/fundraiser/tracyfives

 

New Schooltime Routines

I’m already dreading the first day of school, which is just around the corner, because that means my kids will be relying upon me to get them there on time, every day. At 7:15am. I’m hosed.

I’m sweating the thought of trying to add a “Routine” to my day. I’m terrible at routines. All that same-old, same-old every day routine goes against my grain. I’m great at formulating a routine. I suck at the follow-through. I realize that “routine” must become my new BFF and fast. Because who else do you think Maya will blame when she sees the tardy count on her report card? (“No, honey, those tardies don’t count against your grades. Really, I promise. What?...No, I will not call your Principal to double check!”)

At least in past years, I had a carpool. So that meant I didn’t need a routine, I just needed to focus on getting my act together on time a few days a week. That’s a manageable task. That’s not the same thing as every day, all five days, every single week, for an entire school year. I figure while I’m working out my new “be-on-time” routine, I’d be best served adding a few more to the super-working-mom list:

Routine #1: Remove my make-up nightly. I’m not sure why after 30+ years, I still struggle with this simple act. I’ll brush my teeth before I go to bed, but makeup removal is a hassle. Those darn little pads take an extra thirty seconds. At this point in my life, I should get over this one and drop it from my routine “wish-list”….accept the raccoon eyes… but its simplicity still taunts me. This has nothing to do with my new school routine, but it’s always the first one that comes to mind.

Routine #2: Pack lunches the night before: I’m embarrassed how simple this task is and how I still need to push myself to create a routine around it. Seriously, I’m just lazy. I’d like to do it at night but with the eight thousand other things I do when I walk in the door after work, it just falls really low on the priority list. It kills me because this routine could clearly save me ten precious minutes I so desperately need in the morning. I wish I could pack lunches for a week—make Maya five PB&J sandwiches and store them in the freezer and then pull one out each day….Oh yeah, it’s called Uncrustables and she hates those…

Routine #3: Get up at 5am to exercise. Really, do I need to explain why I can’t make this a routine? I’ve been doing well this past month, getting out by 6-6:30. But 5am seems unfathomable. Please don’t email me to say you get out to spin class at the gym by 5am. I already have a friend that does that. One’s enough, thank you.

Routine #4: Twenty minutes of reading. This is required by our elementary school and I totally agree with setting aside time each day to read. I’m an avid reader, so this should be a no-brainer. However, I’ve got two kids at two very different levels, with two very different interests in books and only one of whom can read. This presents a problem every time we sit down to do this routine.

Sometimes Maya wants to read on her own near me, but can’t concentrate as I’m reading aloud to Camryn. Half the time I’m raising my voice at Camryn because we can’t read one page without thirty-six interruptions about nonsense that has nothing to do with the story at hand. I suggest Maya read in her room, but she wants to be with me. (Who can argue with this logic?)

Other times, Maya wants to read together. That usually begins with a half-hour argument between the girls over which book to read. Once that’s agreed upon, we all snuggle up for our story. Maya-the-director, interrupts regularly to advise me of exactly how I should read the book. She’s my over-the-shoulder editor. (“You pronounced that word wrong!”) I can’t skip irrelevant passages to speed up the story. (“Wait a minute, you didn’t read this part!”) I didn’t spend enough time analyzing the pictures. (“You’re turning too fast! I didn’t see”) I can’t read in my “voices”. (“Don’t give that girl an Indian accent mom! Stop using French words!”) It’s an exhausting 20 minutes, as you can now clearly imagine why doing this task on a daily basis is painful.

All this is in an effort to get six bazillion things done before I walk out the door. I’ve got to exercise myself & Casey; shower & dress; throw up a load of towels; wake, dress and wash/brush two sleepy, cranky kids; run upstairs for something I will forget; feed two kids (different breakfasts because of course they can’t agree) and one dog (who luckily eats the same thing every day, so no thinking on my part); pack two backpacks; raise my voice to settle a random squabble; sign permission slips; locate homework; prepare three lunches; run through spelling words one more time; find my keys; run back upstairs for something one of the girls forgot; hustle everyone into the car (and settle a disagreement over who is sitting where); run into the house for the keys I left in the laundry room; drive the kids to school, stop at Starbucks, drive to work and start my day.

Whew—tired just writing what my routine will encompass. Must enjoy this last week before the chaos ensues. Hope everyone else’s back to school is less stressful.

Tired from mother's day

I had a wonderful Mother’s Day. My goal was to not do much but relax. I had breakfast and Starbucks served to me, and spent some quality time in the pool with Maya and Casey. Then I had the family over for dinner. It was lovely.

Later that night, I checked my Facebook to see that Maverick had updated his status. It read: I love to spoil my wife, mom, sister, mom-in-law…for mothers day! But, it is one tiring damn day!!

I wrinkled my nose in despair at that last part “one tiring damn day!” I have to laugh and at the sake of killing the good place Maverick and I are in right now, I have to give a very loud HARRUMPH to this notion that spoiling me on this day could be so tiring.

First, the bagel and egg breakfast paired with Starbucks arrived after 11am. Maverick slept in with me and then, when he was ready to head out to get my breakfast, also informed me that he was going to run an errand to Home Depot too. I did ask him to go to Home Depot, but I kinda expected him to bring me breakfast first!

So, instead of having my nice, warm breakfast served to me on a tray, in bed, I had to wait for him to run his errand. I should not have to wait, stomach growling. Breakfast should have been prepared and anticipating my beck and call, preferably from a bell placed on my nightstand. I’m a fantastic mother. I deserved it on my day.

Afterwards, Maverick had to run yet another errand. He was not home all afternoon while gallivanting around town doing stuff. I didn’t get to hang out with him, nor was he around to fetch me a drink when I got hot. I had to do that myself on MY mother’s day. Plus, if he didn’t leave his errands for the last minute, I wouldn’t have had to suffer. So if he was tired, this was completely his own doing.

Meanwhile, I still had to make lunch for Maya, and listen to her incessant whining about how I wasn’t playing with her in the pool. Finally, I informed her that his was my day, and all I wanted to do was float quietly on my raft. If she wanted to join me in doing what I wanted, I would like it. But on my day, I didn’t want to play mermaid. I wanted to do nothing.

At three, I had to get out of the pool and prepare for the troops to arrive. So I straightened up the house, cut up the veggies and assembled the appetizers, washed the dog, prepared the kitchen for dinner and vacuumed the floor. I bathed the kids and myself. All in an hour. On yet another errand, Brian left to pick up the to-go food.

Everyone arrived, and I served the appetizers and made sure everyone had a drink. I heated and served the food. I made plates for my kids. I fed the dog. Maverick, along with Doc and the other men watched golf. Finally, someone shouted that the women were going to sit down and leave the men to handle the rest.

Afterwards, I helped clean up dinner, pack up the leftovers, serve five (5!) cakes, clean up dessert and usher everyone out the door. Once the company left, I got the house back in order, vacuumed again and walked the dog. So much for me not having to do anything on this day.

All in all, Mother’s Day was not much different than every other day. It was a very nice day but I’m not sure what constituted “so much work” for Maverick. Nor am I sure I accomplished my goal of rest and relaxation either. I guess I can take another shot at it come Father’s Day.

Baby no more

Last week, I had to drop Maya off at school by herself. Typically, I carpool with a friend and drop the girls off at the light by the school;. Maya and her friend walk to the corner, cross with the crossing guard and make their way into the building by themselves.

On this day, the friend was sick, so I planned to park the car and walk her in. I pulled into a standing spot, turned off the ignition and opened my car door. Maya asked me where I was going and I explained.

She said, verbatim: "Now, Mom, I love being with you and like that you want to walk me in, but only the babies in kindergarten have their moms walk them in. I can go alone."

With my mouth agape, I slowly closed my door and mumbled, "Of course, honey, I know you can." And off my baby went. I sat in parked silence and watched her walk to the corner, wait for the crossing guard and run across the street. That day, my daughter was just a step ahead of me.

It was one more sign that my little girl was moving ever closer to young adulthood and farther away from being the babe in my arms she once was. I'm not surprised by this change, as growth and development is obviously expected. I just didn't realize it would happen so fast and made me a little sad.

Lost freedom

Driving with my kids, I had to laugh as they listened to their I-pods while playing their Nintendo DSs. They don’t even realize how lucky they are to have these fabulous, portable toys to play with in the car. When I was a kid, all my brother and I had to do in the car was fight, usually about who was going to sit in the middle of the backseat.

When I think about all the things our children have that didn’t exist when we were kids, I could be envious. Even with all their cool toys though, there’s one thing that we can never give our kids that we had and that’s worth all the gadgets in the world. It’s freedom.

As a kid, I remember running around my neighborhood for hours and my mother didn’t feel the need to be outside with me. We used to run in the woods, build forts, pick blackberries, play ring-a-levio or tag. We'd ride our bikes all over and then throw them down to play inside someone's house for a while. We never though to call home. We just knew to be home by dark or when the neighbor stood outside at dinnertime and whistled to his kids like a dog. Even as a tween, I was allowed to walk down a semi-major road to the 7-11 or take a bus to the mall or go to the movies with my friends and just be free.

No one worried that we were going to be snatched away by a stranger in our own driveway. No one worried that the boogeyman was hiding at the playground. Play dates and sleepovers with friends were no big deal, even if my parents didn’t really know their parents. It was a different world.

Now, I’m not even comfortable allowing my girls to play hopscotch in the front of the house without supervision. And sadly, it’s not because I don’t trust them not to run off into the street. You just never know anymore who’s lurking in their car or watching them exit the building at school.

Even without a cell phone, we were afforded so much more freedom and trust than we can give our kids today. And for that, I feel sad for them. That we have to be so guarded and protected and force them to understand potential dangers of this world much earlier than we would like.

Everything is always so structured now, including their free time. I think there’s some life lessons to be learned about interacting with others, especially when a parent is not around to mediate. Too often, we jump in too fast to “help” instead of letting the kids work it out for themselves because we don’t want to listen to the bickering. Maybe next time, I’ll give them the latitude to work it out on their own. It’s the smallest bit of freedom I can give.

Losing ourselves

As little girls, women dream of a life like Cinderella. Not the rags and housework part, but the dream of meeting our Prince Charming and living life happily ever after. Each of our versions may be somewhat different but collectively, we all wish to find happiness and fulfillment one day when we wed our true love and become a Mrs.

Then there’s other fairy tale of the house with the white picket fence, an adoring husband and two lovely children. Again, the stories we’re fed as children fuel this desire to have a perfect life. How often we sung the song of “…k-i-s-s-i-n-g! First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes so-in-so in the baby carriage!”

Unfortunately, our mothers did not do a proper job of filling in the blanks. Perhaps it was the Mean Stepmother’s story: the one that teaches us that oftentimes, in our quest to fulfill these childhood fantasies of what married life with children would be, we lose ourselves along the way.

We’re so consumed with our work, our home, our husbands, and our children that we squash any sense of self. There’s just no time left in the day for us. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve noticed a wrinkle in the mirror and wondered how long it had been there. God knows, who has time to look that closely in the mirror anyway?

And then after a while, we stop one day, look in the mirror and realize we don’t know who we are anymore. We know we’re “wife” and “mother” and “daughter” and “friend” but we don’t know ourselves.

It’s scary to acknowledge the fact that we let our passions (and ourselves) go. We’re consumed with filling our kid’s day with meaningful activities to uncover their passions but what about ours? We used to be dancers or painters or photographers or roller-skate queens with ambition too. We had dreams and desires. Wants and needs. But we’ve prioritized ourselves right off of the list.

Of course, when we come to this realization, it causes strife with our spouse. He can’t imagine what we’re going through because it’s just not the same for men. But the truth is, we need to find ourselves again sometimes. Take a new class. Schedule a lunch-date with a girlfriend. Read that dusty book on your nightstand. Call an old friend for a good laugh. Go for a run. Make time for YOU!

In the long run, not only is it best for us, it’s best for our kids and our marriages too. So don’t be afraid.

Stepping back

I got home from work early last week. Usually, I don’t walk in the door until at least 6:30. But on this day I was settled in right after 5. The kids were playing indoors with a friend and I realized I had time to get a few things done around the house. I made lunches for the next day, put away a basketful of laundry, picked up the mail and had a nice conversation with a neighbor, scheduled a doctor’s visit and put something in the oven for dinner.

While I was waiting for dinner to cook, I realized I had enough time to vacuum the floors. As I pushed the vacuum, I fell into the well of my own thoughts. I considered how nice it was to be home early today. To accomplish tasks that usually had to wait until the weekend to get done, or never done at all. I thought about how relaxed I felt, even though I was wrestling with the vacuum hose as I sucked up the dirt that hides behind the couch cushions.

It dawned on me that I’ve been so consumed by my work these last few years and so accepting of my crazy schedule that after a while, that’s all I know. While my friends remind me how crazy my life is, with a 45+hour work week and a two-hour roundtrip commute to boot, I’ve forgotten the simple joy of being home from work before dark. Before my kids have already eaten and been bathed by someone else.

I contemplated how frantic I feel every day because my laundry list of to-do’s never ends. Nor does it ever seem like it’s getting close to the end. Every week I struggle to remove items that will never get done, period. I thought about all the reasons I went back to work in the first place, to find myself and my sense of worth. To make a difference in the world. To make a meaningful contribution. Whatever happened to all that and is it still worth it, I wondered?

I questioned how happy I am right now, living my crazy life. I decided that what I do now is not the meaningful life contributions I imagined making. So why am I so dedicated to it? Perhaps I would be better off taking a job with less responsibility that would leave more time to do the things I’m missing… like driving my kids to dance class or making them a home-cooked meal more often than just Sunday nights. I thought for a minute that just maybe I was willing to take a step backwards, or laterally, in my career and focus more on my family. To be the mom I wanted to be. To stop having such guilt.

Even considering the thought of back-burnering my career had never dawned on me before. Never ever. As I called the kids to the dinner table, I decided to put some “thinking time” aside later to ponder this new idea.

Then, after I warned Maya to put the bowl of hot pasta down before she got a drink, she dropped the bowl. Not dropped it as in falling vertically onto the floor. Her friend knocked into her and the bowl of pasta went flying everywhere…it landed on counter tops and cabinets and on the floor six feet away. She started to cry that it wasn’t her fault…Camryn began yelling she asked for a drink and hadn’t yet received it…the friend complained she didn’t like what I had made…then I realized I burned what was in the oven…

…and I couldn’t wait to go back to work the next day.

I deserve it!

I’m a good mother, wife, daughter and friend. I commute two hours a day. I work hard at a full-time job with a lot of responsibility. I try to always do what’s expected of me. I often put others needs before my own. I make sacrifices every day for the well-being of my family. I try to be a good person and go above and beyond. I try hard to do all the right things all the time.

So, when I want something, I think I deserve it. It’s my mantra and I want to spread the word. You deserve it! Too often, we women deny ourselves. Why?

Why do we girls wait so long between our night out when the guys get together every single week to watch football?

Why do we watch for those gorgeous shoes to go on sale when the guys just run right out and pick up a new TV or computer or phone?

Why do we have to wait for a special anniversary for that piece of jewelry we want when the guys have no problem splurging for themselves on a boat?

Why do we settle for a 3-day trip around the corner when the guys fly off to another country for a week?

Why can’t we have a kid-free Saturday afternoon just for no reason?

Slowly, I’ve been watching my mantra take hold on my girlfriends and I’m proud. One girlfriend splurged on a new ring and told me she “deserved it.” Good for her! Another girlfriend told her husband she was going out and he was going to babysit because she deserved it. Good for her!

Not that I’m proposing we become spoiled bitches. Not at all. I just hate to see the inequities of how men and women view how easily (or not) it is to make ourselves happy.

When a man wants to run to the store to pick up something he wants or needs, he just says “Honey, gotta run out for a bit, be home later!” When a woman wants to run to the store, she has to make sure the man is going to be home, get approval for the trip, and confirm that he will, in fact, watch the kids. Sometimes, that involves making sure the kids are fed or bathed or sleeping before we women can leave!

Furthermore, when a man goes away, he just announces the dates of his trip. End of story. He assumes that everything regarding the house and children will just magically be taken care of while he’s away. When a woman goes away, she has to coordinate all the kid’s schedules, lunches, homework, carpooling etc before she walks out the door. She usually also makes extra babysitting arrangements too just to give her husband a “break” from his “babysitting” duties. It’s a carefully planned itinerary that sometimes takes as much work as coordinating the Inauguration.

Believe me, we women will do whatever it takes to go away, especially when its for a girls vacation. There’s nothing like the freedom from house and children and work and man. It’s well worth whatever coordination is necessary to escape every once in a while. Why? Because I deserve it.

Why can't you see my invisible work?

This past weekend, I wanted to spend my morning relaxing on the couch with a cup of coffee and the Sunday paper. As I settled into my seat and took a moment to breathe, I noticed a cobweb in the corner of my ceiling. After swiping it away with a duster, I then saw three other things that demanded my attention before I sat back down. Before I realized it, my entire morning was eaten up by a dozen other things I had to get done before I actually could sit down and relax.

I realize I fill several hours a day on my weekends doing what a friend coined “Invisible Work.” When I first heard the term, I laughed out loud, I loved it so much. Invisible Work. It’s all the stuff I did around my house each and every day that no one notices gets done except for me.

In a nutshell, Invisible Work is everything we women do every day that’s completely oblivious to our spouses, partners and children. Nobody thanks us for it. It never receives any recognition (unless of course, it’s not done and then it’s visible). It’s the work that fills our day and keeps us from doing what we’d rather do.

IW is putting away laundry, holiday decorations, or sorting socks. IW is going through your kid’s drawer to determine what’s stained, what still fits and what needs to be given away. IW is pulling down everything off the wall unit and cleaning the dust that the cleaning girl doesn’t seem to find. IW is washing the rugs in the bathroom, organizing the pantry, separating the crayons and markers into two containers. Replacing the air fresheners or scrapbooking your kids mementos, your husband’s fishing trip pictures and cleaning out the freezer. It’s writing out your 2009 calendar to ensure you have everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries properly marked. Writing thank you notes, RSVP’ing to the kids invitations. Brushing your dog’s teeth. Wiping down baseboards. Scrubbing paint off the back of the chair. Wiping down the countertops for the tenth time in a day.

Men aren’t as conscious about Invisible Work. They must need special glasses to see it or maybe they’re missing a chromosome for it, but I generally don’t hear about too many men that busy themselves with IW on a daily basis. I can’t imagine many guys who miss Sunday football because they were too preoccupied with IW.

I believe that’s why men and women fight so much. Men think we do nothing all day when women can actually fill their entire life with tons of Invisible Work. IW infuriates the kids too, because it’s all the IW I have to do that keeps me from spending enough quality time with my kids. IW never goes away and there’s always more to do.

That's the perfect arguement for 3-day weekends. I would spend my Friday getting all my IW out of the way, so I actually could read the newspaper and finish my cross-word puzzle. Imagine that...

(Sarah +Palin) + (Mother + VP)= Yes

I cannot believe all of the conversations going on in the news media and in the blogsphere regarding Sarah Palin. People are not just questioning her experience and readiness to become the future VP of the United States. They are questioning whether a mother of five can possibly have the time to be VP. Personally, I'm offended, irritated and aggravated by this entire line of thought. I surely haven't heard anyone on the radio, on TV nor on the Internet questioning whether Barack Obama or John McCain is capable of leading this country because they are fathers. The question is truly inane. And any American who asks it is a schmuck.

Of course, Sarah Palin can be the second in command and be a mother. For Christ's sake, us women do that sort of multitasking all day long. It's in our DNA. As a working mother of two, I'm so disgusted that I even have to waste my finger energy typing this post. No one questions me at my job if I can perform my job functions just because I also happen to have children. As a matter of fact, my hiring manager was not even legally allowed to ask whether or not I had kids when I was interviewed. Know why? IT'S AGAINST THE LAW!

I realize that when it comes to selecting a President or other high-level position, Americans want more information on their candidate than just their resume. I get that. But it really pisses me off when I see the double standard against women. Like we're not capable of doing what we always do and be just the same as men. Especially when I consider that as a generality, women ARE better at a variety of skills that would probably help this country recover from the mess we're in:

--Multi-tasking. Being the President requires the ability to juggle many decisions at once. Our male president, Bushwacker, proves my point that men cannot multitask like women. He's taken more vacation days than any other president. If he were my employee, I'd fire him for poor attendance.

--Communication. Women are made for communicating. Plus throw in our ability to see both sides; clearly communicate our feelings; express empathy and concern; and we can talk without sticking out our peacock feathers like men. Can anyone tell me these skills would not be most helpful to resolve the Israel/Palestine conflict?

--Organized. Our great country is such a hodgepodge of people, policies, bureaucracies, etc. Imagine a women at its helm. The first thing she'd probably do is spring clean and toss out the crap.

--Education. Our educational system is in shambles. Women care about education. We'd make a difference because we realize spending money on education is probably a more worthy en devour than lots of this country's other pork-belly spending.

I'm not saying I plan to vote for McCain/Palin. I still am undecided. but I am thrilled to see a competent women on the ticket. I just wish the country would start focusing on the issues and the candidates would truly speak about what's important and tell us where they stand. Because I'm sick of hearing about the damn glass ceiling that Sarah's trying to break.

Carefree thrill-seekers

I fancy myself a bit of a thrill-seeker. I fantasize about jumping out of an airplane...driving a Lamborghini at 140 miles per hour…surfing a killer wave…cruising on the back of a motorcycle without a helmet…moving to Europe on a whim…or just packing up our stuff and moving to another state.

Being a working mother of two doesn't often allow the opportunity to indulge in my inner fantasies. Not to mention, the thought of actually hurting myself! But these were the dreams of a young woman. Living my life to the fullest! Testing my limits!

Somehow, as we get older, and more responsible and dependable, we let go some of our young-and-careless wishes. I don’t think it’s a conscious decision; it’s just a fact of life when reality sets in that we have to prepare lunches, commute to work, and get the groceries. We put aside what we’d like to do for what we have to do. But once in a while, wouldn’t it be nice to go back to being a carefree teenager again?

When was the last time you and your girlfriends drove around with no particular destination in mind? Remember those days in high school when you'd have a whole afternoon to do absolutely nothing but whatever felt right at the moment?

Hit the beach, maybe a game of volleyball, grab a bite to eat, visit a friend, get some ice cream, listen to your favorite song and just cruise. My friends and I would put tons of miles on my Fiero. No place was too far to drive…nothing was off-limits because we had a vehicle to take us wherever we wanted to go.

The most important item of the day was whether we had good tunes for the joyride to nowhere. Life was as simple as a sunny day, the right mix-tape and a full tank of gas. Perhaps a Diet Coke, Doritos and a pack of cigarettes too. (Because remember, this was high school...)

Thrilling back then was doing donuts in the bank park lot in your mother's car. Or spending the whole night at the beach when you were supposed to be sleeping at your friend’s house. Or having a giant slumber party at the Embassy Suites after homecoming. Or caravanning with a dozen of your best friends to Spring Break. Or sneaking out of your house at night like a CIA agent to meet your boyfriend. Or getting into a nightclub with your fake ID. And who didn’t try “dine and dash” at Denny’s at 3am at least once?

I’d even went as far as to help a friend spray paint (or “tag”) a highway sign over I-75 that read “J loves Jeff”. That was so very thrilling…not to mention dangerous and illegal. But when we were caught up in the moment, both with red, flushed cheeks of excitement, we felt very much alive and happy—no, thrilled—with living life. It was a rush, a high, that lasted several weeks, especially every time we drove underneath that sign on the overpass.

The scales of “thrilling” has changed for me over the years. Now, I’m thrilled when my first grader gets her first “A” on her spelling test. I’m thrilled when I get away once a year with my best girlfriends. I’m thrilled when the Friday night traffic on my way home is light. I’m thrilled when I score a new pair of shoes on sale.

The thrills may be a whole lot less adventurous than they used to be, but the thrills of daily life, love and family are just as much fun. I guess that’s what they call “with age comes wisdom.” The acceptance and understanding that I may not ever get to bungee jump off a bridge but I still can find excitement in my life. It’s just a matter of changing one’s perspective. Of course, though, when I’m vacationing in Hawaii later this month, you can be sure that I’ll be looking for a hand gliding adventure over a volcano or something like that. Because the glass-bottomed helicopter tour probably won’t be thrilling enough.

A Philosophical Question about Blogging

I’ve been questioned quite a bit on why I’m blogging and what’s the point. I’m not sure I truly have the answer. But for now it’s a personal experiment, a creative outlet, a voice in the blogsphere. All I know is that I have these thoughts rattling around in my head; and finally, I wanted a forum to share them with a larger audience. This is the stuff I usually save to entertain my girlfriends.

Jackie and I can pour a glass of Chard after the we put the kids to bed, throw some cheese and crackers on a plate, turn on the tunes, pull up a chair at the patio table, light a candle, and instantly create our own happy hour. About halfway through the bottle, Jackie shoulders begin to ease down from her ears. The weekday stresses start to melt away. She releases an audible sigh. She's finally relaxed. Wine does that to her.

On the flip side, there's me. I get fired up. The blood flows and my muscles get warm. Synapses begin to fire and the gears spin. My mind starts to process a thousand thoughts at once. I can go in two directions now. One is tear off on a tangent about some idea I've been tossing around. Or I can zero in on Jackie, and begin to question her about some random topic until I have her squirming in her chair, begging me to leave her alone and stop making her answer so many questions!

If you're my friend, I know you're laughing right now. Loudly and you should be. I know you've been victim to the entertainment factor of my tirades. Now, I just want to try it to a broader audience, and just maybe have a dialog about it.

At least blogging is something to do until I can write that children's story and make millions like my mother has been bugging me to do. Anyone have a idea about a plot?

The sucky fact of being a woman

I wish just once, a man would have to use a tampon. Not all day, that would just drive him completely over the edge of insanity. Just one tampon, rammed up his butt, just once. Of course, it would have to be one of those half-way dry days when you question whether you should use one at all. Men can’t even begin to imagine how getting your period is truly one thing that sucks about being a woman.

I didn't mind my period until I decided to stop being a reproducing human-being. We should be able to shut off the hose once the pool is filled. Instead, I have to live with my perfectly-tuned every-28-day cycle for another 10-to-15 year prison sentence. I'm tired of the cramps, the tears, the moodiness, the Doritos, the endless trips to the bathroom, and those damned tampons! Plus, as Maverick would agree in no uncertain terms, I become a bitch.

Furthermore, it sucks to be of the womanly-age that requires a mammogram. Talk about the cold chicken cutlet boobs! For those who have never enjoyed the delight of a mammogram, get ready for the panini press! Yes, girls, having your breasts checked for little bumps and lumps that harbour evil little cancer cells can be equated to watching a fat Italian man smashing up your tits on a hot panini press. Un cappuchino to go with that, senora?

Well that’s probably enough for now. I could fill this blog with so many other reasons but I think I’ll save them for a different post. I’m sure I’ve scared you young ‘uns away with that graphic description. You'll awaken with nightmares of the Italian guy chasing you with his George Forman grill. (Sorry girls. It’s the cold, hard facts about mammograms and someone’s gotta be honest.)

In the meanwhile, you tell me what one thing absolutely sucks about being a woman. Go ahead. I really want to know. Share. Let it out. It feels good!

Here's one from me: one good reason why being a woman is not sucky. It's the fact that we women have a wonderful ability to understand our own feelings, rationalize the "why" behind it, and create an action plan to solve it. Then we discuss it with our three closest friends. Modify based on their input. Vent it aloud. Afterwards, we feel better and say, “Yes, that feels good!” I’m glad I got that off my chest.

6-year-old Smart Ass

I think I must have missed the chapter in the mothering handbook entitled, "Six years old equals smart ass." It was probably an oversight that happened somewhere between reading "What to expect when you're expecting" and "How to discipline a spirited child." I must have convinced myself I had this parenting thing under control.

Then my daughter turned 6 and all hell broke loose. She transformed from a sweet, inquisitive five year old into a Miss I Know It All, Prove It To Me Smart Ass. And yes, the capital letters are intended for emphasis.

I heard about this stage from my friends with kids older than mine, but I thought, no, that couldn't happen to my precious child. I'm a great mother. It must be some deficiency in my girlfriends' parenting style. I've got my kids whipped into perfect shape.

Ha ha! Laughs my six-year-old. She knows better. That prim behavior was so last year. Now, I've got my little shadow questioning me, quizzing me, challenging me. Nothing I say is ever taken for granted anymore. I now must prove myself.

Such as today, when I received an email from her camp counselor informing me that tomorrow would be "Super Hero Day" and Maya should wear her favorite superhero costume. Maya insisted I show her the email. She wouldn't take my word for it. I puffed out my chest in a childish response and told her she'd just have to trust me. Maya crinkled up her nose as she processed this idea. Then she promptly responded that she'd just have to pack the costume in her backpack "just in case".

I thought part of the fun with parenting would be to actually teach your child about life. Imagine that at six, she's fully in control of all her faculties that goes into living it. There's nothing I can say to Maya anymore that she doesn't already know. Her favorite sayings are "I know that already!" or "Daddy already told me!" or "That's not true!" She gets annoyed when I try to show her anything because she can figure it out on her own whether it be the TV remote, a new game, tying her shoes and such. Even when it's quite obvious she can't, her response is that she doesn't want to. (As in, I CAN do it if I WANT to but I don't WANT to.)

Add to the smart-ass frustration the fact that now I have yet another person living in my house who is quick to pick up and pick on all my flaws too. "Mommy, you ate six cookies already!" or "Mommy, that makes your butt look big." I especially enjoyed her observation of my Saturday night outfit that "It doesn't look very good on you." (Of course, I was just thinking the same thing but do you think I want a six year old criticizing me about it?)

Maya now has a running commentary of critiques and smart-ass questions such as: whether her homemade pancakes are fluffy enough; why didn't I finish folding the laundry?; what's the matter with the first six outfits I just tried on, why did you forget to wash my camp shirt; why are you yelling at Daddy?; why do you always need to suntan?, your panties up your butt is gross; how could you not have bread for my PB&Js?; why are so tired?

Pair that with the "It's Not Fair"...that I get to stay up late, I sleep in the bed with Daddy, I get to go out for dinner with my friends, I get a new lipgloss....you get the point. It's not so much what she says but the perfectly pitched whiny/annoying voice that goes along with it.

I try to chalk this all up to the fact that she's a smart cookie. And she is. Sometimes I just wish it wasn't so smart-assed.

Baby Shop: Closed for Business

I'm supposed to be creating baby shower invitations tonight but every time I sit down at the computer and start to think of cutesy wording to introduce the proud momma-to-be, I gag. I can't believe how far removed I feel from baby showers and all that goes along with it. The adorable diaper towers, the "how big is her belly?" toilet paper game, the forced "ohhs and ahhs" that must accompany each tiny outfit as its passed around the group. Seriously, gag me.

Right after the birth of my second, I was so positive I was over it, I closed up my own personal baby-making shop and burned it to the ground so it would never see the light of day. I wanted to ensure that no small egg would dare ever even try to covertly sneak its way down my fallopian tube towards my fertile uterus in search of the forbidden fruit. Two human beings calling me Mother was enough. I couldn't bear the thought of gaining another fifty pounds again. (My god, I had already put on enough weight to create a whole other person between the two and my stretch marks can prove it!)

No way, no how. No thank you.

My girlfriend, Callie, had a baby some months ago. I've held the baby once or twice, just to see what it would feel like again. I wondered if it would conjure back warm memories of my own two daughters whom I had each breastfed for almost a year. Or perhaps I'd associate that delicious baby smell with the early months of bonding with my girls. But it didn't.

Actually it had quite the opposite effect of been there, done that. It reinforced the fact that I'm so happy I do not have little babies anymore. The other day, a woman ten years my senior told me she would happily adopt a baby to save him or her from the perils of a depraved life in some third-world country. I thought she was stark-raving mad. I can't imagine starting over. Yes, I'd love to save all the starving, homeless children of the world, but I'd rather send my check to "save the children." I couldn't imagine the dirty diapers, the spitting up, the lack of sleep, the sopping wet breast pads, the nipple cream, the butt cream, the nasty diaper pail, did I mention the sleepless nights?

Some women are actually surprised by my somewhat vehement shudder of horror I uncontrollably exude when asked that infamous question of whether I'm going to have more kids. Maybe there's a short circuit in my motherly wiring, but I like having one hand for each kid and not being out numbered. I like having a life again.

Having babies was a joyful period in my life that is thankfully now over. I shut the door on the "Mom is a human pacifier" chapter. I don't want to relieve it nearly as much as I enjoyed reliving the salad days at my 20 year high school reunion. Not to mention the permanent wounds left on the landscape of my body. It's not a pretty sight...I lost the battle and the war with stretch marks and deflated boobs that looked like cold chicken cutlets. Whenever I get out of the shower and dismally see this body reflecting back at me, I thank the marvels of modern medicine that enabled me to ensure any more damage of this kind can never be inflicted again.

Don't get me wrong. I love my kids and am thrilled to be a mom. I just don't miss the first nine months of being pregnant along with the first six months of the newborn stage. I know some are horrified when they hear my diatribe. But for how many other women do I speak their deep-seeded truth? It doesn't make us any less of a woman to concede that one or two, or even no children at all are quite enough for any one of us.

So stop looking at me like I have two heads.

Jinx, buy me a coke! (or not)

During my girls' weekend away, a friend and I were strolling along a boardwalk that connected the Gulf of Mexico to our hotel. Strong afternoon sun, paired with even stronger afternoon cocktails, left us both more-than-slightly tipsy as we chatted along the path back to the hotel pool.

It was a rather hot day, and once we climbed the stairs that raised the boardwalk over the beach and into the lush foliage that lined the boardwalk, we were offered a pleasant reprieve from the sun. As soon as we hit the shady portion, our typically incessant banter slowed and for a few minutes we walked in silence. (Perhaps it was the delightful shade that got us to shut our yaps, or maybe it was the wooziness that accompanied the drinks mixed with the 90 degree temperature--I'm not sure.)

We continued to walk down the path completely alone, lost in our own private thoughts, until a family came upon us from the opposite direction. A young mother was leading her brood towards the beach. She was laden with floating devices and beach toys and other necessities to occupy her small children that were in tow. The older child, perhaps 6 or 7, followed behind her, then the husband (not surprisingly, his hands were empty) and finally bringing up the rear was a barefoot toddler crying.

My friend and I turned to watch as the family passed us by, and the mother called to her husband that the boardwalk was probably too hot to walk upon barefoot. (Ugh, ya think? I commented to my friend, as I stopped at that moment to put on my shoes....a dark wooden, splintery boardwalk that has a sign at the entrance that clearly states: Shoes are Recommended" must have been overlooked by the hapless mother...but I digress and that's not the point of my story....)

At the point at which the family with the shoeless child passed, two conversations were had between my friend and I. You know, it was one of those "Jinx, buy me a Coke" moments when we both turned to each other at the exact, same time to comment on what just happened. Except you usually only buy your friend a Coke when the same thought comes out of each others' mouths. In this case, it was not the same but still of interest to me...follow along.

So my friend's reaction to the family was to wonder what was happening at that very same time with her husband and kids at her home. She started to question if one kid would have a sunburn and if her other kid would be wearing any sunscreen at all. She wondered aloud if her husband would be smart enough to remember to apply a second application of sunscreen after the kids got out of the pool. Blah blah blah.

She essentially STOPPED being on a vacation and allowed herself to slip back into her role she played at home....the leading lady part of "Mother." I betcha if she had her cell phone handy, she would have made a call there and then to ensure the worrisome sunscreen was reapplied.

I, on the other hand, had this immediate and gratifying thought at the very same second within our "jinx, buy me a coke" moment. Here's what crossed my mind with glee: Thank god for girls' trips so I don't have to THINK about that for the next 72 hours!

I laugh at my friend. Why do you think about that now?, I rib her. This is your time, I remind. Truthfully, she's not very good at forgetting, even for a while, and truthfully, I can be very good at forgetting.

Once a year, I go away with my girlfriends and leave the worry, cleaning, shopping, cooking, preparing, planning, chicken nuggets, bathing, laundry, work, husband, stress, responsibilities, appointments, organizing, compromising, kids, and check-lists all home and take off for three days of me.

It's all about me... and sun, and me and drinks, and me and exercising (or not), and me and my friends. It's me, me, me. I smiled as I had that thought of carelessness regarding sunscreen on my kids. I know my husband will take care of it. The kids will be perfectly fine without me for three measly days. So, of course, I torment my poor friend and poke fun at her for not playing along as well as I.

But truthfully, later, soberly, I have to question if it IS okay to turn off my brain for a while. Am I being selfish? Should I call home more often than my once-daily check-in? Am I being a bad mother or wife? Maybe I should have a little guilt. I mean what would all this pleasure be for if not somehow counterbalanced with a little Jewish guilt, right?

Maybe. Maybe not. But not today for me.