Chicago Moms Blog

I buy clothes like its going out of style

2009-07-17T05:00:00-07:00

I have a confession: my clothes are out of style. Or maybe that's a confusion, not a confession. How did this happen? On the rare day that my two young boys allow me to go out dressed as something other than "lactating Mommy" I select nice, attractive garments from my closet and the reflection in the mirror isn't half bad. But once I arrive, looking around at the people in the crowd I realize they are dressed nothing like me. I seem hopelessly out of date and out of style.

Granted, my recent pregnancy and postpartum body have stopped me from running out and grabbing the latest fashions. The clothes in my closet have been there for awhile. But I'm not talking bell bottoms or flannel shirts. My clothes aren't Nixon era or FDR era. No, I bought nearly everything I own solidly within the reign of George W. Bush. Most of them in his second term.

There's nothing wrong with my clothes. They aren't threadbare, faded, ugly, or fadish. They just happen to be two or three years old. Why should I get rid of them? Who has the money, or the shopping time for that matter, to turn over a wardrobe every year or two? Not me, that's for sure.

So Fuddy-Duddies of the world: Unite! I say you can be cool AND wear last year's fashions.

This is an original post of the Chicago Moms Blog. Catherine is hoping her personal blog, everyday life as lyric poetry, hasn't gone out of style this summer as well. Come have a look!

What Happened to the Girl I Married? by Michael Miller: A Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Club

2009-07-17T04:00:00-07:00

Silicon Valley Moms Group bloggers' monthly book club is tackling a subject today that can become heated. What DO stay-at-home-moms do all day?? We are a diverse group here on Silicon Valley Moms Group - we are SAHMs, working moms, WAHMs, moms somewhere in between. We ALL have different perspectives and we're sharing them today as we discuss what this guy, this dad, a Silicon Valley executive, learned when he walked a year in his SAHM wife's shoes.

Join in as Silicon Valley Moms Group bloggers discuss the book What Happened to the Girl I Married? by Michael Miller.

Silicon Valley Moms Blog's Jessica leads us off with a confession
Julie from Just Precious toasts another 111 years of understanding, love, trust and family
Sophia from Moody Mommy says she's NOT the girl he married
Cynthia from Cynthia718 announces that the woman you married has left the building
Bonnie from Just Peachy Baby loved the payback!
Stacy from The Fabulous Miss S wants her husband to take another dude's word for it
Erica from wellthoughtoutspot thinks about a parent's identity: segmentation or fragmentation?
Nicole from Not Just a Working Mom and her husband don't really fit into a parenting category
Silicon Valley Diva from Blog on the Wall turns the tables and asks what happened to the (french) guy she married?
Melanie from Tales from the Crib thinks her husband will be getting a crash course on staying home with kids when she heads to BlogHer next week
Bonggamom from Finding Bonggamom will also be leaving her husband next week to live her life...sort of...while she's at BlogHer
Jennifer from Connect with your Teens asks: did marriage and kids change you?
Amy from Le ShallowGal took the Seal/Heidi Klum angle on this book
Rox from Rox and Roll muses on adaptability
Chefdruck from Chefdruck Musings re-establishes a balance of power
Laughing at Chaos from Never a Dull Moment says "OH, I'll tell ya what happened to the girl he married"
Musings from Me from Musings from Me bristled at Mr. Fix It
Linsey from Me Too You has never-ever-ending laundry
Heidi from Coast 2 Coast Mom advises you to man-up and find yourself already
Teresa from Elebelly thinks she may be at the point where she is ready to take care of herself, so she can take care of others
Robin from My Life As It Is says I'm right here, you're right here
Lori Landau declared The Girl You Married is a Woman

More posts will be put up throughout the day on our writer's personal sites, so be sure to check back to follow along.

.... and if you have a post up on YOUR personal site on this topic, please leave a comment here and we will add your link!

About the book - read a description here.

Past Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Clubs have included:

Testimony by Anita Shreve
Comfort Food by Kate Jacobs
Much to Your Chagrin by Suzanne Guilette
It Started with Pop-Tarts by Lori Hanson
Who By Fire by Diana Spechler
The White Trash Moms Handbook by Michelle Lamar
Writing Motherhood by Lisa Garrigues
The Vaccine Book by Dr. Robert W. Sears
The Other Mother by Gwendolen Gross

I Want to Become a Tree

2009-07-16T05:00:00-07:00

When I heard, on NPR of all places, that Michael Jackson was going to be buried in a $25,00 gold coffin, I choked. It could not be farther from what I want to happen when I die. As a former attorney and current control freak, I've had a will for many years. I decided long ago that I wanted to rest as naturally as possible. After donating all the organs one can use from my hopefully very old but in very good condition body (If I have my way, I will have died peacefully in my sleep next to my husband), I state in my will that no embalming fluid may be used (toxic to the environment, especially the water supply and it is toxic to those employees in the funeral business) and that I should be buried in a simple, inexpensive pine box without a liner in the ground. My desire: to be "worm food." Some of my friends and family members are freaked out about the idea of worms and other bugs eating away at one's own corpse. To me, it couldn't be more natural. I am Jewish and we are supposed to go back into the ground, the whole "ashes to ashes and dust to dust" thing as G-d created man from the dust of the earth. Cremation is a no-no for my religion.

When someone wants to memorialize a friend or relative who has died, it is common among "my people" to plant a tree in Israel and send out a certificate commemorating it. Recently, I heard that there is a new trend which expands on my desire to go as naturally as possible. It is called a "tree burial." A tree is planted on the grave site. Yes! I want to be a tree! Trees are beautiful! Trees are strong! Trees clean the air! What a beautiful site it would be to have my children and my grandchildren picnicking under me, the tree. After some research, I haven't been able to find a place in the Chicagoland area to do this. I hope that, by the time I go, this will be an option for me and for anyone else who desires it.

This is an original post to Chicago Moms Blog. Sophia Leto also muses about religion, politics, food and the life of a SAHM with PMDD at www.moodymommy.wordpress.com

Wired Kids

2009-07-15T05:00:00-07:00

As I sit and type here in my laptop, I noticed my 2 year old is as busy watching a video on my iPhone lulling her to nap. I guess just like my husband and I, all 3 kids are quite adept when it comes to technology. But whose kids aren’t so technologically or virtually inclined now-a-days anyway? Are other families really that different from us? I mean our society is so infused with technology and I can’t imagine that this isn’t simply the case.

My kids took on the laptop mouse / mouse touch pad faster and better than they did with potty training. My 9 yr.old son uses Office documents with ease and saves his work on a memory stick for school, and my 6 year old can manage to install a cd game by following prompts. They also happen to know how valuable it is for us to have wifi when we were traveling recently.

Ok, maybe because in my kids’ elementary school, blackboards are a thing of the past. 3 years ago the whole entire school installed a Promethean board. An interactive computerized touch screen board. Yes, as big as a blackboard. And a truly powerful machine that can be used for browsing the web and used for lessons. Instead of a chalk, now comes a pen sized stylus.

Every school year, their heavy loads of books and homework are turning into digital versions. This excites me more than I explain. If you can imagine, I end up carrying their heavy loads when picking them up from school. But besides that, all the info that I need to help my child are now at my fingertips. School grades can be viewed and seen as fast as the teachers can grade them, homework and notes can be downloaded and stored, and teachers can be contacted at any convenient time.

I once got in a conversation with Mom friends about the concerns of having our children exposed with too much technology. Other than our children’s handwriting are suffering, and missing the smell of books, I don’t see what’s wrong with it. Do you?

MJ Tam has a personal blog called SugarMyBowl.com and is the Founding Editor of Chicagonista.com, movers, shakers, and babymakers and MomViews.net - The site for smart parents.

Do you Twitter? Follow mjtam here.

Harry Potter in Chicago

2009-07-14T03:08:00-07:00

After my mini-bash of Chicago events in my last Chicago Moms Blog Post, I'm happy to do a little Windy City ~~ass kissing~~ boostering for the Harry Potter exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry. We recently reupped our membership for the sole purpose of seeing it. I wasn't that excited, even though the Stars Wars exhibit a few years ago was a lot of fun, but my kids could could hardly wait for the Hogwarts Express to come rumbling into town.

Moms everywhere should be Harry Potter fans. First, the books got kids reading. Then the movies came along to keep them entertained. Now, there's an exhibit to lure them to the museum — a place where actual learning may occur. So, some of the marketing and product pimping has gone a little overboard — OK, a lot overboard. What mom among us wouldn't love to use a few of the spells found in the pages of Harry Potter?

How about Accio binky — when the baby is screaming and you don't have a free hand to pick up the pacifier; or Episky leg, to heal that skinned knee after a bike-riding mishap; or maybe Geminio, the duplication charm, for those times when two kids want to play with the same toy at the same time.

I admit it — I have loved the films almost as much as the books, and not just because they are fun to watch. Three of the first four Harry Potter movies were released in November, within days of my boy/girl twins' birthday, and they helped avoid a great deal of birthday party angst. Thank you, Warner Bros.

I think the casting directors and set/costume designers did an amazing job of recreating Rowling's world. Could anyone else except Rupert Grint have played Ron? (BTW, the actor is apparently recovering nicely from his bout of H1N1 flu). Every detail seems to have been carefully observed, and many of those same detailed props and costumes comprise the museum exhibit.

If you are a fan of the books or the movies, don't miss the chance to see a life-sized Buckbeak, sit in Hagrid's giant chair and even, if you're as lucky as my son, have the sorting hat confirm whether you are a Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or Slytherin (he was a Ravenclaw). If you haven't read the books or seen the movies, however, maybe you should skip it and hang out by the model trains. I'm not sure the exhibit would mean much to you.

We also got our tickets for the latest movie, Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince, which will be shown in the museum's Omnimax theater between the July 15 release date and the conclusion of the museum's HP exhibit on September 27. Fair warning — these movies are really scary. If your children are too young for the books, they are definitely too young for the film. I'm not even sure I want to see He-who-must-not-be-named in the huge IMAX format. Hmmm, maybe I should wait for the DVD.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan Bearman isn't haunting the halls of the Museum of Science and Industry, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

16 Months is the New Terrible Two

2009-07-13T03:19:00-07:00

Whoever coined the phrase “The Terrible Twos” must have counted wrong, because they start waaay earlier than 24 months. With both of my children, I can almost pinpoint the week that they changed from Angelic-Babies-Straight-from-Heaven to Screeching-Banshees-with-a-Penchant-for-Violence. There’s a look in the eye that wasn’t there before, a sneer on their face when you say the word ‘no’, (which enters your vocabulary with a vengeance at about the same date), and no regard whatsoever for the physical pain they cause while kicking and screaming as you remove them from the top of the diningroom table (or whatever dangerously high place they’ve climbed to in the 3 seconds since you removed them from the last dangerously high place.) All of a sudden, at 16 months, they’re not as cute as they were just a day or a week before.

Now, I know this is all part of normal development, and I do want them to eventually function as independently as possible, but sometimes I have to shake my head and just walk away from these creatures I’ve spawned. Who taught them to look me straight in the eye and grin when they know they’re doing something wrong? What is really so horrible about putting on clothes? Do I not give them enough attention that they have to resort to biting my leg?? Time outs are lasting longer and longer these days just so I have time to nurse my wounds.

Like so many other things about parenting, my husband and I declared to each other (and our parents) that we did not have to give in to the social and cultural norms. After reading Love & Logic, we thought we’d join those exultant parents who laughed their way from 24 -36 months, welcoming each infraction with a smile and an, “Oh, isn’t it great to have this chance to discipline our child before they end up in jail?” We wouldn’t even give name to the ‘Terrible Twos’. We toned it down a bit, trying to give it a positive spin. ‘The Trying Twos’, we said. This was at 15 months. When our oldest was probably 2, (about 9 months into the TT’s, according to our calculations) and had to be repeatedly peeled off her sobbing and frightened playgroup friends, we gave in and called it what it was, and then some.

Last week, my husband made the declaration that we could not eat out for at least another year, or until our youngest was under control. While stopping for a mid-week dinner at Lao Szechuan, we alternately walked/ran/chased our youngest up and down the sidewalks of Chinatown while the other sat eating in shifts next to our very civilized 3 year old. So much for a quick family dinner out. It was all we could do to leave the restaurant without breaking or spilling anything. I’m sure the other patrons didn’t think her screeching was charming, either. The craziest part, though, was that we had had that very same experience, just a few tables over, only two years before. And now, our oldest was sitting there like a human being, enjoying her tofu and her Szechuan string beans, drinking tea, and making conversation. If 16 months is the new 2, then 3 ½ looks like the new 5!

This is an original Chicago Mom's Blog post. Liz can be found relating other stories about her children not acting their age at SuLaLi.

The Big C

2009-07-12T11:05:00-07:00

"The tumor is cancer," wrote my brother via a text message.

I was in Vegas for an 8-day stint with my company and I learned that the tumor that was recently found was indeed cancer. I was hoping that the large mass in his esophagus was benign and that it could be removed with surgery, but my brother’s text proved that the "C" word was back, this time in a much scarier state.

This wasn’t the first cancer battle for my dad. A few years back, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. For some reason back then, the diagnosis didn’t shake me. I felt confident that he would be fine after treatment and he was. He opted to have radium pellets inserted and the tiny bullets did the job.

After the initial cancer diagnosis, life quickly settled back into a routine. My dad turned 80 and then two years later, so did my mom. Their retirement years were humming along. During that spring, we sat around the kitchen table and the subject of traveling came up.

"Where have you always wanted to go?" I asked my dad.

"I’ve always wanted to go see Pearl Harbor."

Dad had served two years in the Second World War, landing in Guam and facing battles in Guadacanal and Okinawa. After the war ended, he stayed for the Occupation of China before heading home to marry my mom. He rarely shared the bloody side of the war, preferring to remember the buddies he hung with and the people he met along the way, including a little orphan who the soldiers befriended.

My Dad once snuck away from his company to grab an ice cream bar from the PX. He soon heard his name being called and stood to attention--with the ice cream bar melting away in his back pocket. There wasn't much of the ice cream to salvage after he returned to his quarters.

So, on that spring morning, we impulsively decided to book our trip to Hawaii. We had never done anything so last minute, so unplanned. It’s too expensive, we always thought. Yet, there we were-- my parents and my sister—flying over the ocean to a state that we had never imagined finally seeing.

It was a glorious week in Hawaii. We rented a car and drove around the island. We spent two days at Pearl Harbor and my Dad quietly reflected about the war. We took a dinner tour on a boat and enjoyed the dancers swinging their hips around us. It was supposed to be a sunset cruise, but the clouds hung around for a long time. I had hoped to snap a photo of a Hawaiian sunset, but it didn’t look like I would be able to capture a single ray. In the middle of our meal, the clouds suddenly parted. I grabbed my camera and ran outside to capture the stunning sunset that peeked out.

After that magical week, we talked about taking another trip, this time out east to see the World War II Memorial. We talked about heading out there this spring, but I took a full-time job and I kept putting off the trip.

"Let’s aim for this fall," I said.

Now here I am, sitting in the doctor’s office, waiting for the guy in the white coat to come in and discuss the "options." It has been a tough week. Thirty-one pounds have melted off Dad’s frame as he struggles each day to coax food down a tight pathway that is blocked by the ominous tumor.

I think about the trip that was postponed, and hoping that we have another someday to take that trip.

"What do you hope to get from treatment?" the doctor asks.

"My wife is a great cook," said my Dad. "I’d just like to be able to eat again."

His answer makes me smile. Here I am thinking, I want him to travel again, and he’s got food on his mind.

So I’m envisioning us sitting around a restaurant in Washington D.C. and Dad polishing off a plate of food.

Please God, let us have that opportunity.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. Karen Putz also blogs at A Deaf Mom Shares Her World and is a writer for Disaboom.

Why Yes, I AM Dependent on Modern Technology

2009-07-12T03:00:00-07:00

I never thought of myself as overly dependent on modern technology. In fact, as I prepare to birth my third child, sometimes technology feels like my mortal enemy. Planning for a natural childbirth involves so much strategizing on how to avoid the use of electronics, modern drugs and modern-day protocols.

But a 7-hour power outage -- and its aftermath -- showed me just how much hubris was involved every time I turned up my nose at folks who use air conditioning more than I do or drive their cars more than I drive mine. Really, the difference between me and someone who relies on modern technology a little more than I do is much smaller than the difference between me and someone -- like my hero Laura Ingalls Wilder or your average Third-World family in poverty -- with no electricity or running water.

My humbling adventure started when my husband and I were driving home from a date on the North Side. My parents -- the babysitters -- called to warn us that we were going to have to open the garage door manually because the power was out. At first, as we cruised down the Eisenhower in our air-conditioned car, it didn't hit me what a big deal this was. I thought, no big deal, it's 11 o'clock at night -- time for lights out anyway.

Then I remembered that it was almost 90 degrees out. Still, hours after dark. Practically any other night this summer, an evening power outage would have literally been no sweat. But of course, it had to be on the hottest night so far of 2009. I still don't know what caused the outage, but massive numbers of people cranking up their air conditioners on our geriatric Oak Park power grid is probably a good explanation.

The first unexpected frustration we encountered was that once my husband figured out how to get the garage door open manually, we could not lock it. This didn't trouble us so much at first, until we stepped into our dark yard and saw a neighbor standing in her yard, talking on a cell phone. She paused her call to inform us that her house had been robbed that afternoon and that the burglars had escaped the police.

Well, we thought. What a great night to leave the garage unlocked and all the house windows open. The temperature out in the yard was pleasant enough, but I got about four mosquito bites while standing talking to my neighbor -- including two on my 9-months pregnant belly. Sleeping outside was not looking like a good alternative.

When we stepped into the house, it was clear that locking the windows for safety was not going to be an option either. We found my parents relaxing in the living room, all five windows open, with a transistor radio playing and a few candles burning on the table. I got myself a glass of water from the sink, tried unsuccessfully to get ice cubes from the fridge dispensor, but still, I thought, this is a piece of cake. We have cell phones, running water, radio, candles. We're still way better off than, say, pioneers.

Then I noticed the 2-year-old on the couch, looking at a book with a flashlight.

"She said she was too hot to sleep," my parents explained. The 5-year-old, fortunately, had fallen right to sleep upstairs in their room, with the one window open wide.

I thought it was great that my laptop was charged up -- maybe I could check Comm Ed's Web site to see if the 2:15 a.m. return to power my neighbor had told me about was still the latest. But of course, I quickly realized I wouldn't be able to get on the Internet since our modems are dependent on electricity.

We joked that this would be a great night for me to go into labor, since even if the power outage extended as far as the hospital, they'd of course have a generator. Even fake labor, said my mom, a labor and delivery nurse, could probably buy me at least an hour or two in an air conditioned triage room.

My husband went upstairs to check on our sleeping daughter, decided that although she was sleeping peacefully she was too hot, and walked her downstairs. I grumbled at him as we moved furniture, pulled out the hide-a-bed, and made it up that he should always let sleeping kids lie. But soon enough our older kid was sound asleep again, despite the sounds of her little sister playing and chattering as if it were 12 noon instead of 12 midnight.

My husband lay down with the preschooler, my parents went upstairs to try to sleep in the airless guest room, where an air conditioner blocked the only window, and I sat down to get some work done with my laptop while I watched the toddler play. I hoped the hot laptop on my legs would not generate enough sweat to short itself out. A couple of times my husband tried holding 2-year-old Pebbles down on the hide-a-bed with him, but that only resulted in her screaming and waking up the preschooler and I snapped at him to leave her alone. I knew all our neighbors also had their windows open, and I didn't want to disturb them. So the minutes dragged on, and the toddler went free.

When the heat got to be too much for me, even sitting in the most ventilated part of the house, I took the toddler out on the deck for a few minutes. But she chattered and chattered, and again, I worried about the neighbors and brought her back in. Besides, the mosquitoes were still out. My eyes glazed as I watched her play and felt sorry for myself. Surely I was the tiredest, hottest member of the family in my advanced state of pregnancy, but everyone else had gone off to bed and left me in charge of robobaby.

Finally, at around 1, Pebbles lay down on the kitchen floor for just a moment before popping up to play some more, and I figured I might have a chance of getting her to sleep. We went upstairs -- where the heat was worse than I could have predicted -- and lay down on the bed. I tried to ignore the sweat trickling here and there on my mountainous body while Pebbles crawled around on the bed and talked to herself, and within about 15 minutes I was rewarded -- she fell asleep. I dozed too, although I was so sweaty my maternity pajamas were sticking to my body. Had my parents not been staying over, I'd have drawn myself a cool bath, but I didn't want to wake them. Stripping naked was also out of the question since we needed to keep the doors open to maximize what meager air circulation was going on from window to window.

Then I heard a woman outside, calling her dog. Seriously. It was after 1 a.m., all the street lights were dead, and some woman was walking up and down the street, yelling "Buuuuutchie! Buuuuuuutchie!" After awhile, she went away, and I dozed off. But then, there she was again: "Butchie!"

This went on for, I think, two hours. I'd doze, she'd yell. Sometimes she sounded far away, sometimes right outside the window. Sometimes I heard a dog bark too -- was that Butchie? I found out later that my husband was lying a floor below going through the same exact hell, which is funny because he is usually a much heavier sleeper than I am. We both vowed that if we ever encounter a woman in the neighborhood with a dog named Butchie, we will punch her in the face.

The next time I was woken up, I didn't mind at all, because what woke me was the light and fan coming on in my bedroom. My father told me the next day that the time had been exactly 3:15. Even with the window closed, the sound of neighbors' air conditioners powering up had been enough to wake them from their light sleep. I turned on my window unit, closed the door, stripped down, and vowed to never again claim to hate AC because it keeps people shut up in their houses on beautiful summer evenings.

My parents were such troupers not to have gotten in their car and just driven home to their town an hour away, where there was of course no power outage. We needed them to babysit again the next day, and then in the afternoon they had a work appointment near our house. So they stayed.

Sadly, the power outage wasn't done messing with us yet. The next day, we noticed that the ice cream in the freezer was soft, but we figured it was just the effect of having had the cooling turned off for seven hours.

But we had to go out of town that day, and when we returned three days later, the ice cream was even softer and most of the ice in the ice machine had melted. Meanwhile, milk in the refrigerator side had curdled.

That's right, the power outage broke my fridge. Specifically, I'm guessing it was the surge when the power came back on. Today, a week later, a repairman finally arrived to fix the problem. Lonely Maytag repair man? My ass. It doesn't help that they've got a recall going on right now and they're super busy installing repairs on recalled units.

Over the past few days I discarded most of the freezer's contents -- including several full cartons of ice cream I'd gotten as part of a screaming good deal at Jewel. Almost as painful for a bargain hound like me, I've had to pass up several hot deals on yummies such as fruit bars and tater tots. We've been using the freezer as a refrigerator, and it works pretty well for keeping the milk from spoiling. I have to laugh when I think that, in the weeks before the due date, many moms-to-be are busy filling their freezers with casseroles to keep the family fed during those crazy newborn baby weeks. Instead, I haven't bothered grocery shopping all week as we rush to eat what didn't spoil. I'm thinking that pregnancy hormones -- which luckily always seem to have a stabilizing effect on my moods -- are the only reason I didn't freak out about the prospect of bringing a baby home to a house with no real refrigerator or freezer.

Original post to Chicago Moms Blog.

Carrie Kirby is waiting for baby to show up so she can write about the birth on My Funny, Funny Family. Photo by Mr. T in DC, used via Creative Commons license.

What Does Chicago Think?

2009-07-11T11:00:00-07:00

Sometimes I feel like I am being a bitter cat. Other times I think everyone must feel the same way...

Is Chicago on board with having the 2016 Olympics here? I'm not. I 'bout died when Mayor Daley was in Switzerland possibly signing the contract that puts the city on the hook for the Olympics! I understand that in order to stay in the running, they have to sign it...I don't think that means they should.

Am I the only one who feels like the city is kinda falling apart? The Mayor is, on the one hand laying off a thousand'ish workers, and asking for furlough days to be taken...and on the other hand, signing a blank check possibly putting the taxpayers on the hook for the Olympics!

It does NOT make me feel better when Patrick Ryan (head of the Chicago 2016 bid) says "as long as we come in on budget, the taxpayers have nothing to worry about" Really, how do you say that with a straight face?!? My understanding of Daley projects is that they DON'T come in on budget...at all. This does not comfort me...

The parking meeter mess, coupled with Stroger giving Chicago the highest sales tax in the nation have crippled retail in my neighborhood. One main drag that was booming, is now full of closed storefronts. Everywhere I drive, there are potholes that eat smaller cars for breakfast:P

I just worry that perhaps now is the time to keep our eye on the ball in front of us, and not be so wrapped up in a 2016 Olympic Bid...

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Cynthia is worrying about the state of affairs in Chicago, she blogs at The Chronicles of a SAHM, and designs at NW Designs.

The Season for Reading

2009-07-11T05:00:00-07:00

I have a summer confession. Given the chance, I could read all day. Let the ants take over the sink of breakfast dishes, let the damp pool towels pile up; I'll be on the couch with my book. Talk about the lazy days of summer.

Spring has its cleaning; fall is all about preparing for school; winter days get filled with labor-intensive holidays followed by the survival mode until spring. Now we have time and ease. School-year obligations have disappeared. The children are happy at daycamp and their world of play has expanded to the yard, the neighbors, the sidewalk, the parks, the beach, the pool.

In the last month or so I've neglected a long list of projects,

but I've completed Pictures at a Revolution: Five Movies and the Birth of the New Hollywood, (Fascinating stories of the five Best Picture nominees for 1968. Old Hollywood ideals clashing with the 1960's New Hollywood personified by Warren Beatty, Dustin Hoffman and Sydney Poitier), Lush Life (A random shooting in a gentrifying New York neighborhood throws together the law, new immigrants, street kids, boho slackers, wannabe actors and grieving family in a crime story told mostly in viciously true dialogue. The cleverest, most riveting episode of Law and Order you've never seen), A Mercy (Toni Morrison's latest novel about a cobbled together family of farmer, slave, indentured servant and found orphan in 1630's infant America. Terribly sad, written in lush and beautiful poetry), and Let the Right One In (The bestseller inspiration for the greatest Swedish child vampire movie ever made.)

Now I'm working on American Wife, a fictionalized version of the life of a Laura Bush-type First Lady that far surpasses its imitative premise. The new John Updike short story collection, released after his death this year, joined my growing to-read pile after yesterday's trip to the library. Hot off the presses, This Lovely Life by Vicki Forman arrived in the mail today.

Can you forgive me this indulgence? Should I even ask? Perhaps I need to rethink the guilty twinges that accompany my turning pages. Instead of thinking of my favorite pastime as a selfish escape from reality, I should accept it as a perfect accompaniment to the season. An enhancement of the summer air, light breezes and warm sun. A pleasure for your mind to balance out the joys your body experiences during this fleeting time.

And I'll go farther - I'd venture that my reading can be something truly important - even without writing a review or interviewing the author or even using what I've learned in concrete ways. Simply the act of reading itself can be immensely rewarding and a crucial step towards being a complete person. Meagan Francis has created the Mother's Hierarchy of Needs, a retooling of the landmark theoretical diagram created by psychologist Abraham Maslow. In Francis's version, the highest level of needs, those that give us self-fulfillment and a sense of being all that we can be, include "time to think, read and create." AMEN.

Reading something marvelous, and of course, each of us has her own version of this, is akin to the flow of creating something, like a great adult conversation, or a fine paragraph, or for you arty-crafty types, a beautiful object. When you're lost totally in the flow of great prose, laughing, gasping, weeping, you're involved in a vital creative process. That wonderful thing you are making? Meaning. Food for your soul.

The other day I walked back into the kitchen to find the open book I'd stepped away from lying on the table. Next to it was a glass of sweet green tea and a plate of blueberries. I had to sigh with contentment at the summer tableau. And then I went back to my reading.

"We had achieved (on vacation), maximum family compression, and could only henceforth disperse. Growing up, leaving home, watching your parents divorce -- all, in the decade since, have happened. But on a radiant high platform of the Eiffel Tower I felt us still molded, it seemed, forever together." John Updike, My Father's Tears.

Original post to Chicago Moms Blog. Cindy Fey blogs at We All Fall Down.

Two and Done

2009-07-10T10:00:00-07:00

The debate about how many kids to have or when you decide you'll be done having kids never gets old. I've been reading some interesting blog posts about this topic lately where the authors wonder if they're really done having kids, or whether or not they want more. While I find the topic interesting to read about, my husband and I have never waivered on the issue. Two kids and we're done.

I don't care if my unborn child is a boy or girl (we don't know the sex). If everything goes okay this time around, this will be my last pregnancy, last delivery and last child I'll bring into the world.

My friends don't quite understand my staunch position on the issue. They wonder how I really know, how I can draw such a definitive line in the reproductive sand. They all have two kids and have left the door open for more. "Oh, if I have two boys, I'll try for a girl." "Oh, I can't say what I want right now."

I've known for awhile that I only want two kids, and discussed it with my husband long ago that we'll stop at two. We both come from a family of two kids, and really feel that it's about all we can handle. Two kids to us seems like the easiest family. One kid for each parent. We can all fit on a four-person ski lift (yes, I did think about that). It's more affordable to live in the city with a smaller family, and I'm hoping with only two kids I can avoid the purchase of a monster SUV for kiddie carpool.

I marvel at my friends who have large families. I don't quite know how they do it, but I bet it's fun for their kids to have several playmates running around. I sometimes get jealous of my friends who come from large families whose kids have many cousins to rough and tumble with. But my son seems fairly content being solo right now, and I know he'll be more than thrilled to have that one sibling.

Sometimes my mom laments that she only had two kids. She'll say how she wishes maybe there was another little one after my brother. I get that sentiment. Perhaps in several years when my unborn is older I'll have that tinge of baby fever.

But I know I'll never act on it. I'll be happy to have two *hopefully* healthy children. Two boys, One boy, one girl. Whatever. I'm sticking with two. And I'll be done and thrilled.
_______________________________________

Original post to Chicago Moms Blog.

Sara writes about her life as a SAHM on her blog, Self-Made Mom.

What Happened to the Girl I Married?: Join us for Silicon Valley Moms Group's next Book Club on Friday, July 17th

2009-07-10T06:00:00-07:00

Let's face it - sometimes a couple's relationship changes once they have kids. Join us Friday, July 17th as we discuss the book What Happened to the Girl I Married by Michael Miller and talk about what we think happened for our next book club.

About What Happened to the Girl I Married (from the author's website): In What Happened to the Girl I Married?, Miller steps out of his corporate executive job and into his wife’s uncomfortable shoes at home. With no staff or administrative assistants to support him, Miller’s “ah hah moments” begin on day one and become more profound with each step down the path. Through his journey, Miller offers a new found appreciation for the tireless efforts of stay-at-home mothers and clues as to why women might lose themselves in the job. For the men they married, Miller lets them connect with his evolution through humor, man-isms and motivations for change that are hard to resist.

In his journey to enlightenment in What Happened to the Girl I Married?, through both laughter and tears, Miller provides readers with:

A revealing perspective on the job of a stay-at-home parent and appreciation for it’s unique challenges
(from a man who never had it)
Creative imagery and colorful examples to help communicate the job’s complexities and the feelings they can generate that are sometimes hard to put into words
A non-threatening way for the partner of the stay-at-home parent to examine how their words and actions might be contributing to a loss of self worth and identity
Ideas for small, manageable changes that can have a big impact on the relationship, and how the stay-at-home parent feels about themselves and their job
A simple terminology that both partners can use to help get their love affair back on track and keep it that way

What Happened to the Girl I Married? is an honest and enlightening love story that’s funny and thought-provoking throughout. The story’s messages help heal old wounds and offer both partners a language to get back on a loving path together – and stay on it.

Read along with us: Buy your copy of the book today and get ready to discuss with us on Friday, July 17th. See you at book club!

Past Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Clubs have included:

Testimony by Anita Shreve
Comfort Food by Kate Jacobs
Much to Your Chagrin by Suzanne Guilette
It Started with Pop-Tarts by Lori Hanson
Who By Fire by Diana Spechler
The White Trash Moms Handbook by Michelle Lamar
Writing Motherhood by Lisa Garrigues
The Vaccine Book by Dr. Robert W. Sears
The Other Mother by Gwendolen Gross

The Toys of Summer

2009-07-10T05:00:00-07:00

When I was a kid, “go play outside” meant, “Please get as physically far away from me as possible. I don’t care what you do, as long as you aren’t doing it in the house.” The neighborhood—and the neighboring neighborhood, and generally the neighborhood neighboring the neighboring neighborhood—belonged to kids to explore, as long as we made it home for dinner.

In today’s more paranoid culture, sending kids out without supervision is far less acceptable—rarely do I see a child wandering away from the confines of his or her own yard. But, as my kids have told me, “yards are boring.” Luckily, the solution to mid-summer ennui is as close as the toy store, where you’ll find a supply of the latest and hottest water toys—ready to keep your kids cool, ruin the grass in your yard and possibly break a rib or two.

First there's the inflatable water slide. Perhaps you’ve seen one of these 19-foot slides hanging from the ceiling at your local superstore. Perhaps your kids have seen it, too, and begged you to please, please, please buy it, all the way through the grocery section, past the toilet paper and the cosmetics and the clothing, through the checkout counter, all the way home, and every five minutes for the next several weeks. Perhaps just as you thought they’d forgotten all about it, the thing showed up on the front cover of said superstore’s Sunday-paper circular and started the begging all over again.

I really waffled on this one. I mean, the thing looks incredibly fun. But besides the obvious aesthetic problems with having one of these monstrosities planted in the middle of our backyard, I was worried that it would make my boys the Most Popular Kids in the Neighborhood. And while I’m sure that would have thrilled my boys, I’m just not rich enough to supply popsicles to half the kids in town.

Then there's the Slip N Slide (or Crocodile Mile or Wet & Wild or...) Well, the Slip ‘N Slide’s gone deluxe since its early days, with a double-sided racing slide and improved wetting action. What could be better than hurtling one’s body through the air onto a piece of wet plastic?

Here’s a word to the wise—yes, the Slip ‘N Slide is very, very tempting, for kids and adults alike. But Mom and Dad, it’s not like you remember. First of all, you’re taller now, and therefore have a lot farther to drop than do your three- and four-foot tots. And you’re heavier, so you’ll get going a lot faster and have a much harder time stopping. Even when you’ve ripped the bumper on the end of the slide right off with your body. Even when you’ve flown off the slide and continued through the grass, getting cut up on twigs and stones in your path. I’m not saying don’t try it—just be sure your insurance policy covers emergency-room visits.

Then you've got the new breed of water guns. I'd always thought the purpose of playing with water guns was so that kids could enjoy some outdoor fun while also frolicking in a refreshing mist of tap water. But as it turns out, the real purpose of water gun play is to torture your friends and siblings with a high-pressure, freezing cold blast of water!

You can now buy water guns that actually keep the water chilled -- with ICE CUBES -- and blast it up something like 40 feet away. As though wet willies, snake bites and half Nelsons weren’t enough, now neighborhood bullies and big siblings have a new weapon to add to their arsenal—a forceful, ice-cold spray of water they can use on other kids at close range.

Sorry boys, but I think this year we'll stay away from the popular water toys. I don't want to enable sibling torture, break a rib, or spend all day watching to make sure no neighborhood kids fall off the top of a water slide in my yard. I'd rather take a more relaxed approach to summer fun, sipping lemonade while the boys play the old-fashioned way: running around the yard, picking up sticks, hunting for fireflies and riding scooters in the driveway.

And maybe once in a while, tossing water balloons at each other.

Hey, I'm not a total meanie.

Author and mom of five, Meagan Francis also blogs at www.thehappiestmom.com.

Original post to Chicago Moms Blog.

Gender Identity Divides A Family

2009-07-09T05:00:00-07:00

"You are setting him up to fail" was the last thing I heard before my throat began to tighten and my eyes flooded with tears. How could my own family say such things to me? "I will not listen to you!" sputtered out of my mouth as I frantically searched for the button to drop the call. Did that just happen?

Heavy sobs rippled through me as I heard their final words ring through my head. Earlier in the conversation I shared that I was searching for a transgender play group for my child who has known for almost two years that he is a girl inside. Just recently he began wearing his dresses outside of the house and mentioning his loneliness for friends who felt the same way as he did. I assured him that I would find a play group and felt confident this was a positive step in supporting him as he navigated through his feelings.

Earlier in the day I felt disheartened after a trip to the Center on Halsted (well known for their support of the LGBT community) only resulted in a voice mail message. Instead of everything quickly falling into place as I hoped, I had to be patient and wait. If I thought that the frustration of the delay was bad, the phone call I made looking for some encouragement ended up being the lowest point of my day.

It was a shock when my family member told me I was doing the wrong thing and "setting him up to fail". Is feeling like a gender that is different from the sex of your body a failure? Do they think I am pushing him to become transgender? How could supporting my child's expression of himself make him into someone that he is not? My biggest failure would be for him think my love was conditional or ask him to be anything other than who he is inside.

All of the sudden it dawned on me. There is a reason that 31% of the children who do not get help for a gender identity issue end up committing suicide and over 50% attempting suicide by age 20. Could you imagine feeling like you had to act like someone else for your whole life? Could you imagine feeling like your family wanted you to hide who you were inside just because they are either scared or narrow-minded? I made up my mind right then that I am not letting fear or anyone else stand in my way. For my children, I am fearless. I am their mother.

I can't say what the future holds or where this journey takes us. What I do know is that we will take one step at a time without shame, but with the knowledge that love binds us together unconditionally.

An original Chicago Moms Blog post. Jen Khatchatrian is a freelance writer that focuses on conservation, parenting and health as The Eco Chic Organizer and has been published in this month's issue of Mindful Metropolis.

3 is the New 2

2009-07-08T10:00:00-07:00

Whoever it was that coined the phrase "terrible twos" committed a huge injustice to parents, in my opinion. You brace yourself starting with the "I can move independently and thus get into trouble" stage knowing that the naughtiness and whining and exercises of free-will will continue but hopefully peak through that second birthday. Once you can see that third birthday on the horizon, relief from the tantrums and stubbornness is in sight. Right? Not in my house.

What is the phrase for three? Is there one? Can I suggest "Talk-back Threes" or maybe "Throwdown Threes?" After only three months experience with age three, I would gladly go back to two. My 3 yr.old son is stubborn, constantly testing the limits, playing Hubby and I against each other. He is smart enough to know my emotional buttons and is not afraid to push them. He has the vocabulary of a middle-schooler and never stops talking. He has very well defined ideas of how he thinks the day should go and what everyone around him should be doing and God-forbid if we should stray. The whining, the "No, I will NOT do that!", the shaking his finger at me as if I was in need of a lesson or two. I didn't have to deal with any of this at two. He has always been a smart kid and fairly whiny at times. But age three has taken the defiant whining to a whole new level.

The other morning, he went into full meltdown mode at 7am because I would not let him watch Cars (a very typical 3yr. old boy obsession from what I can gather). I told him he could watch it when I was putting his brother down for his morning nap which was a mere hour away. Not good enough. He started crying and stomping and muttering things like "I am just going to run away from you! Then how would you feel?" When I didn't respond, he said "Can anyone hear me? I said I was going to run away! Doesn't that bother you?"

Now, so as not to paint my little guy as a holy terror, he is a very sweet boy who loves his mama very much. He is tender and loving and comes up with the most adorable and creative things. I adore him. Truly adore him. We are deeply attached and connected and both prefer to be with each other than with anyone else. But, lately if things are not how he wants them, he scrunches up his cute little face and squints his eyes and tells me what he wants. Or he ignores what we say and continues doing whatever he feels like doing.

How did my 2yr. old baby who was simply learning to exert his independence and test the boundaries become this 3yr. old little man who can't be bothered with obedience? How can he go from the most loving child one minute to this whiny mess simply because I won't let him eat peanut butter out of the jar with his fingers while watching a movie on the couch?

It is a constant battle to ride the line. You know, that line between giving into his toddler-tantrums and trying to help him learn better ways to express himself. I don't want to crush his sweet spirit, just reign it in a bit. I certainly don't want to miss the joys of this age by focusing so much on the challenges. Even though the whining drives me to the point of insanity, this age is like the culmination of his "baby-ness" and the beginning of being truly a "little boy." Kinda bittersweet. I want him to grow into a functional, wonderful, healthy little boy who has a strong self-esteem and an even stronger sense of the love of his family. But I also don't want to loose my mind in this stage of dealing with his seemingly constant opposition.

9 more months to go.... 4 will be better, right?

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. Follow along as Farrah keeps up with the latest trends in motherhood at Baby Love Slings and Dupage Mamas.

Social Media Overload

2009-07-08T05:00:00-07:00

I love blogs and blogging, Twitter and Tweeting. I enjoy the ability to connect online in a variety of different networks, but I'm waving my white flag. I've hit the wall. I'm suffering from social media overload.

Unlike the proverbial wall runners hit prior to a rush of endorphins, this one feels more like a dead end. I used to think I spent a lot of time reading and responding to email, and that was back when I received a scant 50 or so messages each day. Now, although I ruthlessly delete anything irrelevant, the number of messages building up in my inbox seems to grow exponentially each week.

But it's no longer just my email inbox that's daunting me, it's those inane Facebook invitations to play this game or take that quiz, or "friend" a person I've never met.Oh, and don't get me started on the daily requests to become a fan of this company or that blog.

Over at LinkedIn, the professional networking site, there's more of the same. Yet another inbox filled with friendly notes, link requests from people I know as well as those I have a specious, if any, connection to. And then there's the LinkedIn version of the Fan request- will you recommend me?

I don't mean to sound like a crab. I'm happy to help my friends and esteemed colleagues in any social media setting. But after a while it all seems so meaningless. If my peeps and I are tweeting and linking and friending and fanning and recommending each other over a range of networks, aren't we creating one giant echo chamber?

Twitter used to be the place where I forged new connections, and to some degree it still is, but as the popularity of the service has grown, so have the number of spammers. I receive dozens of new follower notifications each week, not because people have sought me out for my insight or wit, but because I've been recommended by some app. Life coaches, success coaches, wannabe porn stars, those who don't Tweet in English, or anyone who promises me a way to get rich quick need not apply. But they do. Every day.

I love the idea of unplugging and stepping away from a few days. "It will all be there when you get back," a friend advises. True, but instead of 110 emails awaiting me, I'll have 350. Buried once again.

Unplugging doesn't seem like a great idea, but then again, the more time I allow to catch up on social media, the further removed I get from real life, and that's no good. I don't know what the cure for social media overload is. If you do, let me know.

Original Post to Chicago Moms Blog.

When she's not responding to email, Tweeting, on Facebook or updating her LinkedIn profile, Kim blogs at Hormone-colored Days, writes about educational family travel at Traveling Mom, reviews products for The Full Mommy and consults on the connecting to online moms at Positive Impact, Inc. She occasionally pays attention to the people living in her house, too.

Photo credit: Babyjidesign

The Special Needs Mom Versus "The Future"

2009-07-07T10:00:00-07:00

Something a special needs mom reacts differently to, is the word "future."

We're used to running interference for our kids. I imagine myself as a NFL center or tackle, trying to protect my quarterback son. He's more vulnerable, not wearing a helmet, blinking behind his smudgy glasses, and he's trying to hurl that football past the goal. Watching the field like a lioness, I anticipate where the game is headed, trying to minimize any potential blow.

On a chalkboard, John Madden like, I sketch out plays.

If we can teach him how to better organize and focus, he can do this... If he can learn to type fast, the handwriting won't matter...

My teenage son has Asperger's syndrome and has sensory integration issues. Many of his teachers adore him. He has a quirky sense of humor. His many friends, other Aspies, often hang out at our home, howling at Jib Jab parodies and "Mystery Science Theater 3000" reruns.

He is nearly a straight A student. His vocabulary is college level, yet his handwriting is that of a third-grader's. He is a fascinating blend of brilliance with handicaps. When a test isn't timed, he scores way beyond peers. Extra time is accorded to him through his annual IEP, (individualized education program).

Real life won't make such allowances, won't give him an extra five minutes to finish a book report or history essay. It won't stop bullying or make his peers accepting or welcoming.

A recent grocery shopping trip drives this reality home.

The female cashier appears to be 18 or 19, and has curly, overprocessed, shoulder-length hair. Her pale skin is bumpy and thick with make-up. She wears heavy eyeliner and pink lipstick. She is pleasant to me, tallying my order, sweeping barcodes across the scanner, electronic beeps sounding in staccato. At the end of the counter is a burly teenage kid in a navy polo shirt, packing groceries into green recyclable bags. Even though he should be rotating between checkout lanes, helping other middle-aged cashiers, he likes her. She keeps smiling, telling him to "stop it" in a teasing, flirting voice. He barely pays attention to whether he is packing ice cream next to the warm roasted chicken.

Another employee, a teenage boy in glasses, approaches. He is lower on the grocery foodchain, having the more menial task, collecting leftover items in a large plastic bin. He places two bottles of ketchup next to the cash register. She snaps at him, brushing her arm forward like she's swatting a fly. "Put it (in some designated area), NOT at the back of MY register." He doesn't even merit eye contact.

The kid in glasses has a sweet, open face, less stony or robotic as the burly peer. His muscles are soft and underdeveloped because he's never been recruited for a team. He's likely picked last. What is bothersome, though, is he seems resigned to his treatment as lowly serf, the "not-as-good-as." He doesn't fight back.

In the future, coworkers might treat my son like that boy at the grocery store. They'll walk right past him and won't say hello after he greets them. They won't be tolerant of his quirks or know that he prefers Velcro fasteners on his shoes, not laces... not understand his freaking out over ketchup on his plate. To them, he'll be a caricature, a Napoleon Dynamite, a punch line to their jokes.

I will not be there to run interference, to make them treat him with respect and decency, or ask them to include him when they walk laughing to the company cafeteria.

Sometimes, it keeps me up at night, when the street lamp across from our house casts shadows on the bedroom ceiling, maple leaves rustling, the occasional car engine vibrating the pavement. It's so quiet I can almost hear my anxiety. I fight a despair about this celebrity-worshipping, plastic-surgery-ied, cool and trendy, "who wore it better?" culture which splinters people into the haves and have-nots. I won't be there to put my arm around him and tell him the mean people don't matter.

This is an original post to the Chicago Moms Blog. Contributor Cheryl O'Donovan is a weekly humor columnist for the Pioneer Press. Recent columns include a take on the summer vacation and White Sox versus Cubs fans. Her work has appeared in Chicago Parent and the Tallahassee Woman magazines and other publications.

The best parenting advice I've heard

2009-07-07T05:00:00-07:00

As a mom, parenting advice starts as soon as you announce you are expecting or when your baby belly starts to show.

At first, it's about pregnancy; sleep on the left-hand side to help blood flow, never take steaming baths, drink lots of water, no luncheon meat. Later the advice zeros in on delivery; don't take an epidural, take an epidural, make sure your toes are painted before you go into labor (I really agree with this one, by the way).

Then your little one is finally here and advice runs rapid in your house for weeks; never sleep the baby on her tummy, breast is best, use cloth diapers, how to find the best price for Similac.

And the advice soaks in because we don't have a clue how to take care of this baby entrusted to us.

Later something changes. Around age two a lot of parenting advice stops. No one wants to tell you how to raise your kid, especially in a world with so many options with child rearing; like attachment parenting or On Becoming Baby Wise, or parenting styles that indicate how moms and dads tend to parent naturally. In this day, with our independent culture, unless something is blaringly wrong with the way a person parent's (read, the police need to be called) families are on their own.

Before I had children I was definitely opinionated about kids I knew, "if that was my kid he would never walk around with a dirty face" or "my kid would never talk back like that to me." Soon after my first baby I realized that a lot of times parenting is like treading water and we all are doing what we can to stay afloat. That generally looks different in each family. So I understand and unless asked, I don't usually offer parenting advice.

But I have a couple things to pass along that I believe is universal. It will work if you sleep with your toddler in the same bed or if you put her in a crib as soon as you got home from the hospital. It will work if you home school or if you send your kid to public school.

A good friend of ours told my husband and me two things when our girls were very little. He has four grown children, all of whom love their parents and are living productive, independent lives but still enjoy going back home to spend time with their parents. I tend to listen to people whom have not only survived parenting their kids, but where all parties involved actually thrived.

His advice? Two things: 1) tell your children you love them at least once a day and 2) whatever form of discipline or correction you choose to use with your kids BE CONSISTENT.

Telling our children we love them is easy and doable. Are we all doing it?

The second piece of advice makes complete sense and is one of the hardest things about parenting in my opinion. Being consistent is hard work. When the cell is buzzing and the television is blaring and a toddler has melted on the floor in tears it takes every ounce of mothering wherewithal to handle the situation in the proper way instead of chucking that kid in her room and turning up your favorite daytime talk show louder. Unless that is your parenting style...then go with it I guess?...for the sake of consistency?

But I think it's true. When our kids know that we are going to follow through, their behavior is different and most of the time all parties are more comfortable within the perimeters.

So there you have it. And please don't stop by my house next week expecting my kids lined up at the kitchen table studying a foreign language, the house spotless, a home cooked meal bubbling in the oven.

It's not consistent with my parenting.

This post is original to Chicago Moms Blog. Read about Gillian's inconsistent blunders in parenting at Pocket Lint.

A very soggy 4th of July

2009-07-06T19:52:43-07:00

Can you remember a soggier 4th of July weekend?

It drizzled as my daughter and I marched with her preschool in the Oak Park 4th of July parade.

A steady rain fell on a neighborhood block party. Swimsuit-clad kids trembled, blue-lipped and goose-fleshed, as they waited in line for their turn down an inflatable water slide. Adults took shelter on front porches, sipping margaritas and shoveling guacamole onto soggy tortilla chips.

By the time we headed--windshield wipers squeaking--to a barbecue at our friends' house, it was pouring. Buckets and buckets of rain. They'd erected tents in their backyard, but for a couple of hours the rain came down so fast and furious only the children ventured outside.

But finally, around 6pm, the rain stopped. We pigged out on ribs smoked all day, hot dogs, coleslaw, potato salad and rhubarb crisp before saying our goodbyes.

After such a long, wet day, I decided that fireworks might best be enjoyed in high definition, from the comfort of our living room. But as the sky darkened, I couldn't resist. I grabbed my 4 year old daughter and a stroller and pushed her the mile and half to our local high school football field. We arrived just minutes before the first blast lit up the now nearly cloudless sky.

But the rain wasn't quite finished with us. Sunday the 5th was glorious. We spent time in the city, swam at our local pool and picked up Chipotle for a picnic at Scoville Park.

But the country-rock cover band had only played two songs before the sky opened up again. So we all fled to the Brown Cow Ice Cream Parlor, soaked to the bone.

Original Chicago Moms Blog post.
Alma writes about life as the working mother of two little girls at Marketing Mommy.

I am a Bad Chicagoan

2009-07-06T10:00:00-07:00

I've lived in Chicago or its immediate surrounds since I graduated from college, more than 20 years ago. Chicago is, by far, the best big city in the world (with no apologies to the Big Apple). We have a vibrant arts community, from richly endowed museums, to wonderful public art to a whole panoply of street artists. The city is clean, welcoming and accessible by public transportation. And, we're nice.

Chicago proffers a steady flow of activities, from pricey season tickets for the Lyric or the Cubs, to the graciously free beaches, parks and gardens of our unsullied, unparalleled lake front. The architecture alone stimulates peace, wonder and lively debate (hate the spaceship on top of Soldier Field; the Sears Tower will always be the Sears Tower; and there's still no consensus, at least in my family, as to whether Trump belongs here). We have celebrations every 10 minutes and the melodrama of Chicago politics provides daily (pardon the pun) entertainment.

Even though we live in Evanston, the first suburb north of Chicago, I consider us a part of the City of Big Shoulders, more like the sleeve than one of the collar counties. I admit I've lost some of my urban edge since drifting north. It takes me a while to pick up the rhythms of both foot and car traffic when I venture downtown, but the muscle memory kicks in pretty quickly. I love taking the Metra — it's fast and efficient, a sophisticated mode of transportation. I love taking the El — it's young and alive, a little gritty, a little sweaty, a little slower, but you get to see the city from the inside out. I love the museums and concerts, the restaurants and street scenes. And though I'm happy with our chosen community, I'm occasionally rueful that I was too practical (or too chicken) to raise my family right in the city.

Here comes the confession:

I find myself a little afraid of the city these days. It started when my twins were in kindergarten and a classmate of theirs was shot in a drive-by while visiting his grandmother on the south side. I had never been afraid of the city before, and I know that shootings happen everywhere, but the story of this little boy (who thankfully survived) really shook me up.

Then, last year, we were sitting on the lawn of the Museum of Science and Industry, waiting for the fabulous laser light show that celebrated the museum's 75th anniversary. It was a festive occasion, with hot dog and ice cream vendors hawking their wares as our family sprawled across a blanket, waiting for the skies to darken. At one point, I heard my husband say to some passing children: "Hey, kids be careful. Watch where you're stepping." It was a gentle admonition, said without rancor. He simply did not want them to step on him or one of us. Suddenly, their dad turned around and kicked my husband with the toe of his boot — hard! — in the arm. Had my husband's arm not been there, the boot would have landed right in his kidney. As it was, he sported a bruise the size of a small pancake for weeks. My youngest son was hysterical and begged to go home, but we stayed and enjoyed the show. The guy, whose dinner had obviously been 80 proof, did apologize at his wife's insistence.

It's these huge public gatherings that truly terrify me. One of Chicago's most venerated traditions is the Taste of Chicago, held annually the week prior to and through the Fourth of July weekend. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I hate The Taste. It's crowded, it's expensive and it's invariably too hot. Years ago, the last time I went, we were standing amid the crowd when there was a sudden surge, like the seiches that are sometimes found in Lake Michigan. People pressed in on me from all sides. I lost my husband's hand. I couldn't move. I could barely breathe. All I could think about was that there are a lot better ways to die than being crushed by a mob. I've never been back.

This year, The Taste ran from June 26 through July 5. On the morning of the 4th, my kids woke up and asked if we could go. I made up several lame excuses: it's too late to go now; the fireworks were yesterday; it looks like it might rain. The truth is, I really didn't want to go, and I really didn't want to have to worry about keeping track of four kids in that crowd. I feel like a wuss, like I'm depriving them of a vital Chicago experience, something that is their birthright. But I won and we didn't go. If that makes me a bad Chicagoan, so be it.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan isn't avoiding crowds (other than her crowded family), she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.