Mommy Melee

Girl Talk Thursday - List of Five (Fictional Character Edition)

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 16:27:00 +0000

Okay so it was hard (heh heh) enough listing my List of Five a couple of months ago. But fictional list of five? Nearly impossible. I have a super overactive imagination. I’ve been obsessing over cute boys (and girls) in films and books for literally as long as I can remember. And when I say obsess I mean I am seriously not fucking around—we’re talking full on fanfiction writing, getting rides to the library before the Internet existed, and listening to Broadway musicals on huge stereo headphones way past my bedtime in high school.

Here’s what I came up with before my head exploded:

Madmartigan: Probably my first crush. I think this character spontaneously caused me to hit puberty. I remember blushing when Willow was on. My mom teased me and I flew off the handle like “WHATEVER, SHUT UP I JUST LIKE THIS MOVIE.” I think was ten. I’m pretty sure Madmartigan influenced my love for trashy long-haired characters in eyeliner and men in tattered dresses and swordfighting and snarky dudes who are secretly great fathers. Just sayin.

Doc Holiday: Seriously, Val Kilmer again? Embarrassing. So yes, I would catch many diseases and die if I actually slept with Doc Holiday. But would it be worth it? Maybe. He is witty, deadly, and totally made consumption hot somehow. Unfortunately I’m pretty sure that he only wants to do Wyatt Earp and not me but man, I’d roll for Doc Holiday. When he’s all, “you’re not wearin’ a bustle” I die. True story: one time my best friend and I, when we were like 14, pretty much nearly got kicked out of a youth group meeting for giggling the entire time about Tombstone. I don’t even know. This character causes a scary short circuit in my brain.

Chuck Bass: This is so shameful. At least the character is over eighteen now! I can’t help it. I love Chuck. I love his stupid metrosexual wardrobe and his sleepy eyes and his pervitude and his rich boy bad attitude and his secret vulnerable woobie love for Blair Waldorf. I love his snark and the chip on his shoulder and his love affair with speakeasies. I would do him in the back of a limo. And then I’d cry about it. I love you Chuck.

Alan Shore: Even if he’s gotten kind of poofy in his older-age, James Spader absolutely destroys me as Alan Shore. He has a heart of gold, a bad-boy streak, crazy intellect, weird mommy-issues and an insatiable sex drive. He would spank me, and I would like it. I love that he isn’t afraid to make an idiot out of himself. I love that he always wins. I love that he will do anything for his best friend. I would definitely measure his pants for him. I miss Boston Legal.

Han Solo: Han Solo is up there with Madmartigan in regards to majorly influencing my opinion of dudes when I was a little girl. For example, it’s hot when dudes have a sense of humor about having the shit beat out of them. It’s hot when dudes are in love with a janky vehicle. It’s hot when a dude loves his ~~dog~~ ~~best friend~~ Wookie. It’s hot when a dude is encased in carbonite and then wakes up and is all shaky and confused but is clearly majorly in love with the girl he’s been snarking at. It’s hot when a scrubby guy cleans up and wears a military uniform. You know, inspecfic things liket hat.

Runner Up List: (I HAD TO, SHUT UP.) Ned the Pie Man, Giles from Buffy, Spike from Buffy, Severus Snape, Tumnus (don't look at me like that), Robin from Disney’s Robin Hood, Richard St. Veir from Swordspoint, Tim Riggins, Gambit from the X-Men, Sawyer from Lost, Don Juan Demarco, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid preferably at the same time, Ferris Bueller, Sorcha from Willow, Ari Gold, Jesse Custer from Preacher, Justin from The Secret of NIMH, Judas Iscariot as portrayed in Jesus Christ Superstar, Simon Tam, Jim Halpert, Inigo Montoya, Rhett Butler, Indiana Jones before he was old and sucky, Malcolm Reynolds, Fox Mulder, Jack Sparrow, Remus Lupin, Jareth from The Labyrinth, and Batman.

love today, and always, Maddie

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 07:00:00 +0000

Today is Madeline Spohr’s second birthday.

Birthdays should be full of joy. It shatters me that for Mike and Heather, November 11th will always be a reminder of what should have been.

Today I will celebrate the mornings I opened my browser and clicked over to The Spohrs Are Multiplying and grinned and giggled over stories of Maddie and photos of Maddie. I will celebrate all her milestones and her love and strength. I will celebrate the impact she made on thousands of people. I will celebrate the everlasting love her parents have for her.

I think of Maddie every day. I think of her parents and the grace with which they have honored their daughter every day.

Today I celebrate the life of Madeline Alice Spohr. Will you light a candle, or eat a cream puff, or wear purple or simply love with all your heart today, for Maddie?

but I don't mind, no I don't mind

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 20:02:00 +0000

In high school, I hated mornings. I hated driving to school. I hated being there. I hated spending Sunday dreading the upcoming week, and I hated Mondays the most. The only joy I found was in blaring Fleetwood Mac’s Monday Morning and singing along at the top of my lungs. I’d roll the windows down and I’d think about how Lindsay Buckingham’s voice made my tummy all squiggly. (You’d think this was 1976, but no, it was 1997.)

I went to the beach on Saturday with Izzymom and her beautiful children. My son held hands with her son. We spent three and a half hours together and didn’t mention the Internet once. (To be fair, we were wrangling kids most of the time.) But still.

Feeling disjointed. I have a sore throat. Beef stew in the crock pot — the house smells like sage and salty broth. My girls are coming for Thanksgiving. I planned meals again this week. The baby got his first skinned knee today. I reconnected with an old friend this afternoon. I'm going to work on my fiction again. I want to bake a pie. My girls are coming for Thanksgiving and they'll center me and for a few days our family-nouveau will be whole and for that, I am so very thankful.

Girl Talk Thursday - job venting

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 17:15:00 +0000

I started working about a week after I graduated from college. I found an ad in the paper for a copywriter with web and design knowledge and nailed the interview and dove right into the whole grownup work world thing while my then-boyfriend went to grad school. At the time, he and most of my friends were still in school. I became that cranky lady yelling down the stairs and reminding my friends that some people had jobs.

For a while, I loved the novelty of coming home with a paycheck. But it didn’t take me long to learn that bosses weren’t especially wise or smart or awesome just because they were in charge.

I stayed at that job for four and a half years. Despite a lot of craziness, I learned a great deal about graphic design for the web, web marketing and—at risk of sounding pat—life.

Highlights of my years of job venting include:

My boss telling the rest of my coworkers that I was screwing a female friend of mine.
My boss telling the rest of my coworkers that I was having an affair with a male coworker of mine.
My boss yelling “I AM SICK AND TIRED OF YOUR OPINIONS” after I pointed out some pixilated images on a website.
My boss holding a staff meeting to let us know that a new employee was “clearly a homosexual.”
My boss telling the management staff that my husband smelled bad.

Before you ask me why I stayed—well, I was making very good money. And the job had great perks. I stuck it out until I had a six-month-old and my priorities and tolerance for bullshit shifted.

I left that job for a tiny web position and an enormous pay cut. I learned a bunch about CSS and a little about PHP. When that web company started to flounder, I took a receptionist job for about two months. That was a major lowlight in my career. One of my tasks included mopping a bathroom floor and cleaning a toilet each morning before the office opened.

I interviewed at a huge digital media and advertising firm in another city but decided the hour-long commute would be too much for me when I had a 14-month-old baby at home. But that last month of toilet cleaning sealed the deal. I called them back and said I’d take the job.

That was a huge turning point in our lives. We moved out of our home and into my brother’s home in another city so that I would have a short commute and my husband would have the longer commute. We tried—and failed—to sell our house. We rented an awesome, quirky home. (Where we continue to live now.)

At the digital media job, I learned that I could be a total grownup. I was promoted twice in a year. I became the head of my team. I led conference calls with major brands. I supervised content plans and coordinated between editorial and creative teams and in general sort of kicked a lot of ass. My supervisors recognized me repeateded, and publicly, for my hard work and success. In that year, I worked harder than I’ve ever worked in my life. But I also spent 50+ hour weeks away from my toddler son.

Highlights of that year of job venting include:

Working until 3 am in the office on a last-minute request from a higher-up because a crazy woman in the art department refused to assign a designer to it.
Mandatory hour-long meetings at 12:30 every day because the biggest west coast client wanted 9:30 am meetings.
Getting sick every month because we had no air circulation or windows.
A coworker getting fired out of the blue in a really ridiculous way that involved a bunch of ladies crying a whole bunch in the aftermath.
Getting in trouble for arriving at work at 8:40 am instead of 8:30 am. Despite having to work late every single day.

Still—I wouldn’t take back the time I spent there. I have no regrets. I learned a lot from amazingly talented coworkers and from a few great management folks. I also learned a lot about big brands and big box stores. I learned to spot subversive marketing from a mile away. I learned that money will always be more important than people to big corporations.

I discovered that I’d rather embrace small businesses and small business values. And I developed enough faith in myself to leave my job for a part time position (at a company that went out of business while I was on maternity leave last year—oops) and a crazy mishmash of freelance writing, marketing and design gigs.

That was a year and a half ago. I’m still here at my desk with a window and good air circulation. It’s very hard work and a complicated lifestyle, but the only bosses I can bitch about are me and the two demanding, beautiful little boys who come knocking at my office door when they want to play.

scattered with a chance of nutballs

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 21:40:00 +0000

So now that I’m over Day One of crazy-in-the-head hormones and Day Two, which involved me being unable to stand up straight for several hours, I feel kind of normal again, if not normal-with-a-side-of-hemorrhaging. My normal is fairly scattered, which is actually a good thing, because I don’t fixate on bad feelings for too long. Usually. (You know, when I'm not convincing myself that everyone is mad at me or that I've inherited my mom's endometriosis.)

My general state of scattered-ness can also be a bad thing when I, for instance, head out to run errands—feeling all proud of myself for putting pants on—and then get a call from an unknown caller and pick up all suspiciously HELLO? and it’s my therapist all, “Um, hello Maria, are you coming in?” and I’m like 25-30 minutes away and I say “Sure, I’ll be right there!” And then I get there with 15 minutes left in my time slot and have a cheerful brief conversation about my hormones and husband and uterus and write a check for $40.

(True story.)

Also, did you notice that it's November? November means that this weekend I have nothing to do. Then the weekend after that it's the twins' first birthday party then the weekend after that it's my son's first birthday party then the weekend after that it's Thanksgiving then the weekend after that I'm finishing my aromatherapy certification then the weekend after that we're going to Disney (for the first time together in over ten years) and then hey we have one weekend off before Christmas. Holy shit, you guys.

My best ladyfriends are coming for Thanksgiving. We're going to cook and decorate and even though the next several weeks are busybusybusyscattered it's my favorite time of year. Eventually Florida will stop being the approximate temperature of Satan's ballsack and it will get all chilly and awesome.

"Let me check your heart," my son says, approaching me with his veterinarian kit. He holds a little plastic heart to my back and I take a deep breath.

"Great," he says.
I'm doing okay.

an unhappy period

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 18:21:00 +0000

The last time I had a real period was early February of 2008. With my son eating more solids and nursing slightly less, my body finally kicked back into gear this week—complete with a heinous migraine and bizarre vampire-related sex dreams last night. (It totally wasn’t Twilight, it was some sort of crazy shit involving Gambit from the X-Men being a vampire. In high school. Um.)

So.

The rush of hormones and weirdness has thrown me into the pit of despair, so to speak. (Actually it’s more like the pit of anxiety, overreaction, vulnerability and supreme crankiness.)

I am prickly and unhappy.

In the span of a few days I’ve lost a lot of the footing I gained in therapy over the past couple of months. It’s hard (I’m supposed to pay attention to how often I say “hard” and it’s totally a lot and totally not in relation to dicks, unfortunately) not to get discouraged by the onslaught of shitty emotions. I was feeling so great for a while there.

Recognizing the things that set me off ~~rarely~~ doesn’t always help me put a stopper on the bad feelings. Sometimes they come too quickly—disappointment or anger or jealousy or resentment shadowing everything I see and hear. Sometimes I don’t even want to fight it. I embrace the feelings, wrap them around me, welcome them and wallow in the haze of ugliness like a 14-year-old girl writing emo poetry on her sneakers.

I poke fun at the way I feel, but in reality it blows. I yell at my son. My marriage suffers. My creativity circles the drain. I lose sleep. Go away, I insist, cartoonishly, when I really mean stay, please, help me feel better tell me you love me, tell me, please tell me, that I'm doing a good job.

Hormones! At least right now I know I’m being poisoned by my own body as it kick-starts an unwanted phase of fertility. Dear uterus and related reproductive organs: The cramps and insanity and brief, random horniness and whatnot? Completely futile. I can only fit two car seats in my back seat.

Today I feel this: I do not like feeling like this. This statement? Is where I started off a couple of months ago. This is my emotional ground zero.

So I have to dust myself up and start climbing again. I will not give up as much as I want to hide under the covers and cry.

And the wanderlust, it has me by the balls. This is the flight reflex, grabbing me and tugging me to places where the seasons change, to highways I’ve never driven on, to old cemeteries and roadside food stands and rolling hills and rushing streams and the seaside and fuck, anywhere but here.

weekly winners - oct 24 - 31

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 13:10:00 +0000

time travel at the Citgo

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 17:13:00 +0000

The “empty” light came on as I pulled out of my son’s school this morning. I went to the bank and then drove to the gas station.

I stood next to my car with my hand on the grimy gas pump. The unseasonably warm breeze picked up, carrying the scent of gasoline and oil. I smiled before I could identify the tickle of memory.

My stomach fluttered.

August in Massachusetts, the scent of fuel and hot grease in the winches. I’m climbing in the nets with my brother, and the twine reek of old dried fish if you get your face too close. I reach the top, where the Styrofoam floats squeak and shift beneath me. I stand, reaching my arms out in an unsteady pose. The wind blows my curly hair into my face. I am nine-years-old.

Summer isn’t as hot in New England, not on the water. The ocean exhales the slow, steady threat of fall and winter. As I stand on the top of the pile of netting and weights and floats, the boat shifts gently beneath me and huge gulls squawk a dissonant chorus.

I am nine-years-old.

When the pump handle clicked sharply against my palm, I jumped.

step one

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 21:02:00 +0000

On Monday night, my husband got home from work and said, “I thought you were going to the gym?”

I blinked at him owlishly, completely forgetting all the brave and sincere “I’m going to start working out again!” lines I’d given him since therapy the week before.

“Shit. Um, nah, not this week,” I said. Then I looked at my computer screen, looked back at him and said, “Wait, yeah—I’m going.”

Then I got dressed. Then I remembered that the baby still needed to nurse. Then I nursed him. And then? I went to the gym, dude. For the first time since late February when I caught like four bad colds in a row and then jumped on the excuse train for the duration of the summer and fall.

I almost left ten minutes into the kickboxing-to-music BodyCombat class because I was pretty sure I was going to be that asshole who passes out on the floor. But I made it. And by the end I felt sore and achy and happy and tired and PROUD. Because I hate the gym. I hate working out.

But I like the way it makes me feel.

That night, I slept really well. I even went to bed early despite having a few shows on the TIVO that I wanted to watch.

My therapist has been an enormously good influence on my life. I know that psychotherapy is not the answer for everyone. But I’m so glad I started seeing her. She does not let me complain and complain and complain. She holds me accountable for my happiness. She gives me good ~~skillz~~ skills to practice.

(I've been needing those skills a lot this week. They don't always work but I'm trying, I'm trying.)

Last Friday she said, “What I’m hearing is that you have a list in your head. You know exactly what you should be doing, and you’re not doing it.”

I nodded.

“That’s what we call self-sabotage.”

She gently teased me that the major thing going on with me is stress, a word—a concept—that I sometimes forget when I’m well, stressing. She’s encouraging me to work out, to meditate, and to care for my body.

It may have been mortifying, and I still can’t touch my toes, but I went to the gym.

And I’m going to keep going. (I hope that by writing that here, by saying it out loud, I'll feel more compelled to follow through with this. I have to.)

Plus I'm totally gonna get guns. It'll be awesome.

falling

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 12:20:00 +0000

Two years ago we moved into this rental home. And my 18-month-old son played in his new backyard.
About a year ago he was two-and-a-half. And he became a big brother. He was still in diapers.
This morning I took my three-year-old's picture while he ate breakfast in his underwear.
When I was pregnant with him, I scoured message boards. I read blogs. I read books. I folded new laundry and put together toys and a stroller and his crib.

But nothing prepared me for the searing ache of falling, falling falling through time.

Paging Dr. Twitter

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 20:12:00 +0000

When I have a medical question or I’m just wondering what some mysterious symptom might mean, I oftentimes make the mistake of consulting Dr. Google. Then I end up convinced my son has Scarlet Fever or that I’ve contracted Eye Herpes.

More often, I end up calling my sister-in-law. Our kids are about the same ages, and she and I are the same age, and we share a lot of parenting beliefs and styles. We've spent a few hours this week talking about Tamiflu and vaccinations.

Once in a while I also poke Twitter with questions like, "Have you had a baby with Swine Flu? Is it bad?"

And when my friends give me medical advice, I take it with a grain of salt. Usually I’m reaching out for personal experiences. What did you do when this happened? What would you do if this happened?

I know that my pediatrician is a phone call away if I need solid answers. (Even if apparently I get charged $25 for calling after hours.)

I also know that doctors don't always agree, and that what your doctor recommends may be wildly different than what my doctor recommends.

Lately, I’ve seen a trend on Twitter that, in my opinion, screws up the organic relationships we have with each other when it comes to asking medical or medical-ish questions. Over the past week, two “Twitter Parties” (for lack of a better description) went on for a couple of hours. One was about the flu—sponsored by Walgreens. The other was about MRSA, sponsored by Clorox.

Moms, many of them friends of mine, listened in one what appeared to be calls with medical professionals. They then shared the medical information they were hearing in series of tweets using hashtags.

These were a few of the tweets:

“flu masks are not effective at preventing H1N1.”

“Bleach is the only sure fire cleaner to kill flu and H1N1 germs”

“This may not be the time to use all Natural green cleaners.”

“myth #1: H1N1 vaccine contains a dangerous preservative”

Hold the phone.

Seriously?

I’m all for sponsored conversations and Twitter Parties. But it makes a lot more sense to me when we’re talking about buying clothes or playing with sex toys or reading to our children or even car seat safety.

When it comes to medical info, I want to speak to my doctor. Or another doctor with a second opinion. I want to make sure that the facts being shared with me weren’t sponsored by pharmaceutical companies or any other entity that might make a profit from swaying opinions.

My grandfather died unexpectedly of MRSA complications in March. I would love to learn more about MRSA prevention. But not on Twitter, and not when I have no context or reason to believe that the information being shared is unbiased.

Where does liability come into play when random Twitter people are giving out medical advice? Where does responsibility come into play when it comes to fact checking? Are those individuals tweeting taking the time to make sure that the information they’re sharing is true?

The PR companies responsible for these medical-related Twitter parties may benefit from reconsidering the way information is being shared. Walgreens and Clorox, for example, are perfectly capable of putting transcripts up on a website, or providing a streaming webcast or MP3 for download.

Putting their words into the mouths of our friends? I question that tactic, and frankly, it disturbs me. There are better ways to share medical information than tossing a whole bunch context-less statements out on Twitter.

My suggestion? Let the doctors share their suggestions. Eliminate the middle man. Create a specific platform for your campaign, such a website, press release or podcast. If you’re involving mothers and other Twitter users, let the conversation stay organic.

We are real people with real connections. I’d rather read about someone’s personal experiences than have that individual tweet a script and offer medical advice/facts. Especially when it comes to touchy medical topics.

gonads and strife

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 15:48:00 +0000

Sometimes we oversimplify the experiences we have online. We oversimplify the relationships we have. We oversimplify conflict as Drama! Jealousy! Judgment!

But the emotions we feel toward each other are real. And the dynamics and politics that go on between bloggers? Those are real too. As real as workplace dynamics, as the dynamics in your family, as the dynamics between friends “in real life.” It’s easy—and a cop out—to sum up all Internet strife as drama.

As a blogger, when you post a story about your life, it isn’t news. But those who read it generally assume it is the truth. Especially if your goal is to elicit an emotional response. Especially if you ask your friends to re-tweet it, if you ask your friends to spread the word. If you ask your friends for love and support and understanding.

When I read blog posts written by my friends, I read with my heart. Maybe that makes me naïve. But I’m not here for literary analysis or fiction. I’m here to embrace the experiences of my friends, and to share my own. Heartbreak, laughter, fear, depression, joy. These experiences resonate with all of us. I enjoy “good” writing. I love beautiful pictures. I love many forms of expression.

And.

I don’t believe that one “bad apple” has the power to give an entire diverse community a bad name. Last week I spend a lot of time arguing against the epic hullabaloo (liar! take her kid away! she's crazy! if you don't have an opinion on this your head is up your ass! people on Xanax are drug addicts!) that occurred after the “TSA Took My Son” post. I’m not sure what the cool kids are calling it. TSAgate? I didn’t like how ugly things got, and in a spectacular show of stupidity, I stuck my neck out and got upset and contributed to the ugliness by calling a fellow blogger an ugly name on Twitter. I regret letting my emotions get the best of me so publicly.

After sitting on the situation for a week or so, and after reading the two posts that have been made since the original post, I am left with a lot of convoluted gross emotions.

I had a visceral response to the original post. I imagined my child being pulled out of my arms. I imagined the embarrassment and horror and fear I would have felt. I felt briefly enraged and thought to myself, my God, I would have ended up getting arrested or something. But at the time, I felt a nagging suspicion about the veracity of the entire encounter, so I didn't retweet it.

I don’t regret having those feelings, having a true and honest reaction. I never want to be numb to my friends' experiences.

I may give my trust easily, but if that trust is broken—I rarely give it back. In this case, while I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face, I’m not going to stop trusting the rest of my friends online. I'm not going to let one incident, however far-reaching, sully my opinion of ~~the mommyblogosphere~~ bloggers.

I plan on keeping my anger close to the chest until I'm able to let it go. And as has been encouraged, I’m “moving on.” I'm moving on and on and far and away.

Girl Talk Thursday - vices

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 16:24:00 +0000

A few weeks ago, Top Chef Las Vegas had the chefs create a Quickfire Challenge based on their vices. I thought about it at the time, so when this week’s Girl Talk Thursday topic rolled around, I’d been percolating my own vices for a while. I'm not sure any of them would make a delicious quickfire dish on Top Chef.

Shopping
I don’t indulge in this vice often, but I can with absolute certainty say that I love shopping for clothes. (Unless I’m shopping for a specific occasion or need, then everything looks ugly and doesn’t fit.) Now that I’m back to “my old self” it’s especially fun looking for sweaters and cute tops that aren’t maternity-sized. I consider shopping a vice because most of the time it’s a way to distract myself from stress—and I’m rarely looking for necessities. (Compulsive shopper tip: Fill your cart online, then close your browser and walk away. It’s like shopping for clothes. Sort of.)

Food, specifically Weird Snacky Food
I love snacking. Primarily at night. I love appetizers. I love munchie little foodie things like caviar and cheese and toast points with dip and smoked salmon and proscuitto ham. A friend once told me I have the food sensibilities of her 65-year-old father. I love sushi. And chocolate chip cookies. (Perhaps I am just hungry right now.) But seriously, this is a vice because I’ll go out of my way for something I’m craving instead of eating sensible food that’s A. cheap or B. already in my pantry.

Gossip
Yep. I love hearing gossip. My mom gives me all her People Magazines and I totally read them. In an alternate reality, I’d be one of those ladies in the parlor in a Laura Ingalls Wilder book making a call just to gossip over some crotchet. I eavesdrop at restaurants. I love knowing what’s going on. It’s terrible and shameful. At least I’ll fit the part when I’m old. Which leads us to:

Poor Impulse Control or Sticking My Nose Where it Doesn’t Belong
No, seriously. I’m super duper awesome at doing something I know will be a bad idea. Like reading a blog post I know will piss me off, or checking someone’s Twitter stream after I’ve unfollowed them specifically because they piss me off. Yeah. It’s pretty foolish. But at least I’m aware that I’m a spaz? Two points?

Fangirling
Yes, fangirling is a verb. When I’m overcome by squee over something, I obsess for days/months/years. I believe it’s genetic. My mom and grandma are both genetically inclined to throw their bras at musicians and/or hit the salon before attending a Bruce Springsteen concert to make sure their hair looks nice. See? I can’t help wanting Jason Mraz to be my boyfriend. It’s in my blood.

Runners Up:

Swearing (...maybe this should have been #1)
Twitter
Coffee
Making up Words
Accumulating Shit I Don't Need
Reality TV
Celebrity Baby Blogs
Booze
Napping

and, we're off

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 19:28:00 +0000

My baby turned 11-months-old on Sunday. He's been doing silly little steps every once in a while, but never more than four or five feet at a time. Today he was all, "woo hoo, check my shit out!"

I've been having cramps and achiness in my ladyregions so I got checked out today. (I haven't had periods yet thanks to the magical power of my boobs.) They did a pregnancy test, even though there was literally zero chance of me being pregnant. And even though that's the case, I was still kind of sad when she told me it was negative.

My baby's getting big.

Oh, time.

after a long, weird weekend

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 13:41:00 +0000

It's chilly outside. I saw on Twitter this morning that last night's temperature was a record low for the Tampa Bay area. Bizarre, since last week's highs were record highs. This morning I woke up and shivered around the house, my feet icy and numb. It felt like Christmas. I bundled the kids up (in Florida, that means socks and sweatshirts) and threw on the slouchy hoodie I've been waiting to wear since I got it on sale for $5 over the summer.

***

Last night I slept in my son's bed. I held his feet in my hands while I fell asleep. Later, he kicked me in the face. He's bony and skinny and warm. When I cover the bottom of his face with my hand, his eyes still look like the eyes of the baby who nursed in my arms a million heartbeats ago.

His stuffed animals and long eyelashes and thin fingers were the antithesis of drama and bad feelings and stomach aches.

***

I wrote about my grandmother over at Aiming Low. It feels good to have a real piece of writing live somewhere this morning after the absolute mess this weekend was. I want to get back to basics. I failed at following through with National Blog Post Writing Month, but I liked what I wrote when I managed to get posts up. I'm opinionated and mouthy and passionate about shit that pisses me off, but man oh man that's not what I'm here for. I'm here to write.

By the way, if you live in Boston or NYC, you should go hang out with the wonderful ladies throwing the Aiming Low parties. I'm indulging in those last few weeks (months?) of nursing and I was too scared to bring the baby with me on a plane, so I'll be here stalking all the tweets from the parties. Go and take pictures and send them to me?

***

This weekend my friend Andi got married on the beach. My husband filmed it. (He looks so hot all dressed up with his fancy camera and a new haircut. Just sayin'.)

The unnaturally chilly weather and overcast skies made the ceremony feel epic, like a wedding on the edge of the world. Waves crashing. Hair whipping around. Tiki torches listing.

Then, as they joined hands and placed rings on each other's fingers, the sun broke through the sky and the heavy gray clouds lit up and they glowed. Everything glowed.

Her husband joined hands with his son and she reached for their daughter and held her and they walked down the aisle as a beautiful family.

***

I'm glad we spent Saturday night at the wedding, because I spent most of the weekend consumed with gross feelings over the Drama That Must Not Be Named. My thoughts on this are too complicated to express here. I'm not ready to share my emotions, and I may never feel like doing it here, on my blog, on my little corner of the Internet.

I will say this: It will blow over. We will all move on. We must, eventually, move on. Something else will inevitably happen. In the end, all we can really do is keep blogging if that's what we're passionate about. We can't change how other people use their words. But we can own our words and our relationships and our mistakes and the lessons we learn.

I choose to be hopeful, and to have faith that the good things we write are what ultimately make the difference in each other's lives.

that'll do, pig. that'll do.

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 15:24:00 +0000

So it turns out my son’s epic three-day fever was:
A. actually 104+ because my shitty thermometer was broken and
B. due to the swine flu.

I took Chipmunk to the pediatrician on Monday morning to check up on his lingering fever and general sense of malaise and assholery. They swabbed his nose and left me in a room with him and the baby for HALF AN HOUR. The two of them attempted to lick every single non-porous and carpeted surface in the entire room. I kind of felt like I was being punked by the office staff and my children. Because seriously? Those little rooms echo and the baby is a parrot and enjoys SCREECHING whatever vowel sounds his brother is making. He also loves pretending to cough and sneeze so it just sounded like I was in there herding and/or yelling at flu-monkeys.

Right when I was yelling "NOT IN YOUR MOUTH AND NO TRASH CAN YUCKA NO NO," for the tenth time the doctor came in and said, “Yep, he has swine flu.” And I was like what-what-what? Cause he totally tested negative for it on Saturday. But apparently the screening for flu isn’t very accurate the first day of symptoms.

I did what anyone would do and immediately called my mom, mother-and-law, sister-in-law and husband all “OMFG SWINE FLU!!!” Thanks, hype!

Then we went to pick up the Tamiflu which ended up being a super pain in the ass since every pharmacy in town is out of the children’s form. So they had to make a compound at Walgreens which ended up being $70 because my insurance wouldn’t cover a compound.

(I know, right?)

(By the way, today I found out that the Health Department has it for free. Yay, but less yay since I found out today and not three days ago.)

Once we started him on Tamiflu, his symptoms chilled out in less than six hours. It was either cosmic timing or the antiviral goodness, but either way I’m relieved. I wasn’t sure about giving it to him at all. (Yeah, I Googled and read articles about Japanese kids throwing themselves off of buildings.) But today my pediatrician said that the local children’s hospital is recommending it so I felt a little better about that.

Last night I learned that Twitter has wildly different opinions about Swine Flu, ranging from HIE THEE TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM and DUDE CHILL THE FUCK OUT. Once I got over the novelty of the diagnosis we’ve settled somewhere in the middle. He has no puke-related symptoms and I find that immensely comforting. But high fevers are scary.

(You should have seen the way that the nurses got all hushed-tones around the other parents at the doctor’s office though. You’d think he had bubonic moon zombie plague.)

Anyway now the baby is running a low temp, which is why were back at the ped’s office this morning. They said to check in if he started running a fever. But so far he seems okay and I’m hoping it just ends up being some kind of random cold. I felt stupid for rushing him in there when his symptoms were basically “100 degree fever and lots of waving and blowing kisses and cuddling.” But with babies I prefer erring on the side of caution even when that ends up costing me a $25 copay and a surprise additional $25 fee for a phone call to the doctor last month when we were out of town and he had a random high fever for one evening. Sigh.

At least now I don't have to agonize about whether or not I want to give them the swine flu vaccine! ...right? I better Google this.

confessions of an Internet nutbar

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 16:22:00 +0000

Five long years ago, I became friends with a woman my age over the Internet. Several months later, she moved out of her parents’ home to where I lived and got a job where I worked. It seemed like maximum awesome, right? Who doesn’t want to be closer to someone they’ve grown to know and love over the Internet?

It didn’t work out.

Our friendship took a serious nosedive once we started hanging out every day. And because we had a large group of mutual friends, it became a serious drama festival. Both of us were guilty of cultivating supporters and spazzing out in general. It was ugly. I acted like an idiot. It hurt. I’d never experienced a “break up” and I reacted and reacted and reacted in ways I am not proud of.

Specifically, and most notably:

One afternoon at work, I slipped into her office while she was at lunch. I knew she was talking about me with a mutual friend of ours. Her job involved very little typing but I could hear her typing loudly all day long. She’d left her instant messenger open, so I sat down and I read the messages about me. It was hateful stuff. Much of it was untrue, and a lot of it was about my family.

Oh, the injustice, right? Lies. Attacks on my family. Ugliness.

It hurt. It hurt in ways I can’t really describe. I remember sitting in the bathroom and shaking, cold and full of rage and anguish and angst. I wanted to throttle her for lying about me. I wanted to slap her in the face. I wanted to retaliate.

And I knew that I was in the wrong. Inarguably, 100% in the wrong. I had no ground to stand on.

I went looking for negative things I knew I’d find. I found them in a sneaky dishonest way, and then I freaked out. My friends were largely unsympathetic to my pain, and rightfully so.

I get judgy sometimes. But it doesn’t mean that I have no sympathy for those who are affected by shenanigans that occur over the Internet.

When someone is hurt by negative things they read online, I sympathize. Immensely. I freaked so hard—for months—that it nearly screwed up my relationship with my soon-to-be-husband. It affected my job. It affected my sleep. It affected my well-being on a daily basis.

And I acted like a tool. I responded with no grace. Negative grace.

It took years for me to grow up and own my actions. I poke fun at myself for it now, but there was nothing funny about what I did. It was stupid and wrong. Just because she also did stuff that was stupid and wrong didn’t mean that I had the right to act like an asstard.

I’ve been thinking about that whole thing for a few weeks.

Specifically, in relation to:

When I get riled up about the whole Monetizing the Hate issue and how I strongly, whole-heartedly disagree with how the situation is being handled, it isn’t out of lack of sympathy. And yes, yes yes I know it's ridiculous that the retaliation-copypasta al dente with a side of creepy-real-name-posting keeps irritating me. But I think readers could draw their own conclusions on the issue if they weren't being deliberately misled.

(But oh, the irony. It sure would annoy me less if I'd stop looking at it once in a while.)

Anyway, I’m sensitive. I get my feelings hurt easily. I react at the drop of a hat, with great! big! bold! passionate emotions. And I think I’d also spend a lot of time trolling the Internet for nasty comments just like I went looking for nasty IM conversations. I'd be that celebrity crying and throwing her ~~vagina~~ small dog at the paparazzi.

I used to spend a very embarrassing amount of time obsessing over Internet drama. But I had good friends and a partner who helped give me perspective, who pointed out, gently but firmly, that I needed to step away. I’m not immune now, either. Trust me. I’m still that guy. You know, the one who sees some random negative comment or tweet and immediately assumes it’s something personal.

(Before you make a therapy joke, why yes, I am working on this with my therapist! And it’s helping.)

I can’t begin to guess what Heather Armstrong’s actual real personal non-bloggy life is like, but I hope someone close to her nudges her off the Internet once in a while. And I really hope those close to her aren't encouraging engaging trolls and lambasting ~~haters~~ those who disagree. Because seriously? There are better ways to support your loved ones who also happen to be Internet Celebrities than cheering on a misguided Internet-war.

fear and ninjas

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 15:34:00 +0000

My son’s been fixating on “scary” stories for a week or so. At night, he usually gives me a small set of parameters for his bedtime story. Like, “How about Lightning McQueen’s very sunny day at the beach?” Or, “How about Mama’s very windy day at the playground?”

But this week he asked, “Tell me about a little boy who went to Target all by himself.” And then, “How about a scary fence talking to a boy while he’s sleeping.” I checked with George and he said he’s been getting requests for scary stories too.

I remember having a morbid fascination with horror stories as a child. My attraction to them bordered on sexual. I’d walk around Blockbuster Video turning over all the horror VHS boxes to scrutinize the pictures on the back. I made up weird, gory stories for my friends.

But I’m not ready for my three-year-old to think about scary things. But, as with everything, he’ll do what he wants without much say from me.

The last thing I want to be is a hovering helicopter parent. But I hate seeing his simple world evolve into a complicated place where “IF YOU PUSH THE TV OVER LIKE THAT YOU WILL GO TO THE HOSPITAL AND MAMA MIGHT NOT SEE YOU EVER AGAIN.” Oh, kiddo. I’m so sorry I throw my issues all over you sometimes. I’m sorry I teach you fear when I feel fear but lordy, I wish you’d think before doing things like running away from me at the store or dashing toward the parking lot at the playground.

Every day of parenthood is such a fascinating struggle now that he’s three. I love it. Even when it’s hard, it’s like a rollercoaster. He’s teaching me a lot about myself.

fever kid falls asleep on the couch

I’m dazed and exhausted today after another night sleeping in his bed on his crinkly-mattress with his eleven thousand toys and his angular little limbs. I can’t get his fever to drop at night so I stay with him just in case. I wake up groggy and cranky and he wakes up tepid and ready to get into yelling matches with me over me choosing to put my contacts in instead of putting a puzzle together.

Last night he told me that he had a bad dream about spiders. “Did they go away?” I asked him.

“Daddy chased them away.”

I smiled and nuzzled his too-hot nose. “Daddy’s very brave and strong. He’ll always keep you safe.”

“Does Daddy fight?” he asked.

I thought about it. I’ve never seen my husband fight. He sparred in karate once in a while, but even then it bothered me to watch. “I’m not sure,” I said. “But he knows karate, so I think he could if he needed to.”

“Is he a ninja, like in the comfy panda?”

“What?”

“Like in the comfy panda movie.”

“Kung Fu Panda?”

“Yeah, the comfy panda. The ninjas were fighting.”

“Yes,” I laughed. “Like that.”

heart-twisty grin

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 17:23:00 +0000

I've been madly in love with this kid all week. I don't want to put him down. I play with his lamb-soft curls and I let him chew on me with his hole-punch tooth. He blows me kisses and yells "Dada!!" when he hears the front door chime in the evenings.

He's ten and a half months old. His eyes aren't as dark as they look in pictures, but they're darker than mine and his brother's. He's willful and adventurous. He's going to be trouble. But look at that smile. He's totally going to get away with it.

so what do you really think?

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 14:14:00 +0000

FTC regulations for bloggers are supposed to be cut down on bias. (Among other issues.) I can understand that. Biased reviews are a real problem. When a blog post hangs out in search engine rankings, a consumer (who may or may not be aware of or part of the “mommy blogosphere”) searching for stroller reviews may stumble on Typical McEveryday Mom’s blog where she’s posted a detailed review about that stroller.

A detailed, glowing review.

If Typical McEveryday Mom got that stroller for free, we can assume she disclosed that information.

(Because really? If bloggers aren’t disclosing this information they should know better. It takes very little effort to mention, even in passing, that you didn’t shell out cash for the product you’re reviewing. And getting free stuff is okay. Do we assume that the CNet editors purchase every laptop and cell phone they review? Of course not. There’s nothing wrong with working with PR firms and companies to review products you didn’t pay for.)

However, review bloggers need to think long and hard about their ability to write an unbiased review. I say this as a review blogger. I oftentimes work with small companies who are trying to get the word out about new products. A few months ago I wasn’t thrilled with a cloth diaper I tested, and I posted a lukewarm review. I found it difficult to do!

Is Typical McEveryday Mom’s review positive because she truly loved every single piece of her stroller, or is it positive because she feels the need show her thanks for receiving a free big-ticket item? Is her review misleading?

The sense of obligation to post something nice “in exchange” for free stuff is very real. It’s understandable.

Most review bloggers in the “mommy blogosphere” aren’t cutting themselves a salary to run review blogs. Some manage to scrape together ad revenue. Some are perfectly happy just receiving toys and goods for their families. Some are honing writing skills in hopes of parlaying a review blog into a career opportunity. Others genuinely enjoy telling it like it is. I’m certain that every review blogger has his or her own reason for writing reviews.

It doesn’t take a ton of effort to write reviews once in a while on a blog that doesn’t otherwise focus on reviews. But maintaining a steady stream of reviews and decent content on a review blog takes time and effort. Don’t think that a free $14 diaper pays for the time spent taking photos, editing photos, writing a detailed review, posting it and promoting it.

But writing glowing, happy reviews to ensure that you continue to get a bunch of free stuff is inexcusable. It dilutes the voices of review bloggers who are genuinely trying to educate other consumers about products they found to be valuable (or sucky).

As the atmosphere shifts and changes around us, I hope that review bloggers and “regular” bloggers writing reviews take the time to think about bias and misplaced obligation.

I used to hate it when clients would say “well Amazon.com has this feature, so can’t my site have it?” So I know that me saying "CNet’s editors do blah blah blah, so we can do blah blah blah” is irritating. But we are just as experienced with the types of products we review as tech experts are with cell phones and other gadgets. I think we should and can focus on providing compelling and useful information when we write reviews, whether we’re reviewing diapers, laptops or lawn mowers.

Bias can’t really be regulated by outside forces. But I'm glad standards are being set. I hope we can meet and exceed them.

My ~~assvice~~ Suggestions:

Bloggers: When writing a review, list pros and cons. Don’t stress about balancing these two lists. But if you force yourself to focus on negatives and positives, you may be more inclined to write a well-rounded review.
Bloggers: Remember, you don’t owe the companies you’re working with anything. Only work with terms you’re comfortable with. You’re a media outlet—a regulated one at that! Your time is valuable, and your voice is valuable.
Bloggers: Don’t copy and paste press releases or web content into your review. If you do mention some key talking points, keep them to a minimum. If your “reviews” are a series of butt-kissing advertorials, you’re not a review blogger. And you suck.
Bloggers: If you encounter a rep a trying to bully you into saying something positive, share your experience with others.
Bloggers: Many review blogs focus on great finds, so it would be totally out of character to include a negative review. If you hate a product and you don’t want to post a super negative review, don’t post anything at all. Let your rep know it just didn’t work out, and why.
PR Reps/Companies: If you have requirements or requests, such as asking for a certain link back to your site or a certain image to be used, make those requests up front. But keep in mind that you’re not purchasing an ad. Bloggers don’t need to adhere to your guidelines. Don’t be surprised if they walk away.
PR Reps/Companies: Don’t pressure bloggers to be positive. The FTC will be focusing on “advertisers,” and it’s your responsibility to encourage the bloggers you work with to be unbiased and comfortable with honest reviews.
PR Reps/Companies: Try being appreciative and polite—not entitled and bossy. Keep communications open within your organizations and avoid over saturation. (And cut down on huge paper media kits—they’re wasteful!)

I began writing this before my appointment last Thursday.

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 16:47:00 +0000

Every night I do a quick sweep of my house before I take my contacts out and go to bed. I turn off lights, check the front door, and make sure that the alarm is set. Then I find my cell phone, which is usually in the kitchen or in my purse.

Every night, I find my cell phone and stick it on the tiny nightstand next to my bed and I think about Grandpa.

Every night in March, I kept the phone by my bed and waited for my mom to call in the early morning to tell me how the night had gone. Now, every night, I remember that he’s gone and my stomach twists.

I fear the phone buzzing beside me. I expect bad news.

If I get a call before 9 am, I answer the phone, “what’s wrong?” or “what happened?”

When I turn on my little fan for white noise and I slip under the covers, I try to breathe the day away and I try not to think about what could be, might be, will be some day.

***
My therapist draws on a white board. (When I say “my therapist” I try not to feel like a cliché.) It reminds me of being in school. I fidget with my pen and take my own notes and we talk about coping skills. I enjoy learning.

I’ve been saying things like “I’m a nervous person” and “I’m too sensitive” for so long. We talk about my fear of death, of losing the people I love.

She challenges me a little, pushes me, and I begin to cry. She reminds me, gently, again and again, that I need to let go. That I need to stop personalizing everything. That I need to let go, let go, let go. For a while, I can't stop crying. She comes and sits with me and hands me more tissues.

I’ve been operating from fear, she tells me. Not love. At any given moment we are always operating from fear or love.

Later, she asked me what the most significant moment of my life was. I laughed uncomfortably. I’ve tried to think of that many times. In conversation, for some silly quiz on Livejournal, for a blog post. I asked her if the event needed to be a happy event or an unhappy event and she said she’d narrow it down to a happy event.

I closed my eyes.

I closed my eyes some more. I tried not to think of what was expected of me. What the right answer was.

Then I remembered, abruptly, clinging to George and giggling as we trekked from my dorm room to his at the end of a first date that had lasted for two days. Buzzed and full of the electricity of early romance, we collapsed onto a sidewalk and looked up at the stars together.

“Our first date,” I said quietly. “I know that sounds dumb because I’ve had kids since then and the wedding and all that—”

She cut me off, as she often does when I begin apologizing. She asked me to write down the things I felt.

Happy.
Excited
Silly.
Nervous.
Aroused.

“Those things,” she told me, after I read them out loud. “Those feelings are what you are, at the core of your being.”

Not unhappy. Not scared. Not anxious.

Happy.
Excited
Silly.
Nervous.
Aroused.

Driving down the Interstate with the windows down and the radio blasting. Squirming happily at an unexpected show of affection from my husband. Floating on a raft in the pool. Dancing. Tickling my children. Laughing. Throwing on tight jeans and black shoes. Being comfortable in my own skin. Being happy. Being happy. Being happy.

That is who I’m learning to be again. That is who I am.

Girl Talk Thursday - scents

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 15:30:00 +0000

I open a bottle of sunscreen. The medicinal-smelling kind. Thick and white and greasy.

And I’m catching my balance, bare feet against wet plywood painted white to reflect the midday sun. I squint and cover my eyes and scan the rippling surface of the bay while you stand at attention at the stern, ready to cast your mirror lure toward the shadows I find.

I smell the bottle of Anaya perfume I bought at The Body Shop in 1992.

And I’m in the twenty-third row of the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center. Candles rise from the stage. I cross my arms and twist my cardigan tight in my fingers. The music swells and my stomach tightens. I’ve been waiting to see the Phantom of the Opera since I was six-years-old.

I crawl underneath a Christmas tree to help tighten the base around the trunk.

And I’m giddy from winter break and presents and sunshine on cold grass. I creep across tile in my bare feet and crouch to examine every present with my name on it. My dad plays our piano. He only plays at Christmas. It’s out of tune but he knows the carols by heart.

I smell a gardenia.

And I'm standing in front of the breakfast bar at Nana's, where she's piled a bunch of fresh cut gardenia's in a bowl of water. It's almost sickeningly strong. I love it. At my wedding shower, they pile the tables with fresh gardenias and it's almost like she's there, hovering like the heavy floral aroma.

I smell the bottle of Polo in the cabinet under our bathroom sink.

And I am dressed in a vintage pink dress and pink patent leather flats. We’ve been dating a month and I’m still shy about tucking my face under his ear where his cologne smells the strongest. I can tell he isn’t sure about my outfit and I don’t care. We swing dance awkwardly together. His arms are strong. He can pick me up. It makes my breath catch.

I smell a hot dog.

And I’m getting ready for karate class. I down two hot dogs with mustard and shift my weight like that will help me catch my breath because I’m nervous. I know I have to hurry out the door to find a parking spot because I’m never on time enough to make the walk and if you ask my boyfriend, I’m just too lazy to walk to the gym.

I smell cigarettes and whiskey and cranberry juice and girly shampoo.

And I’m dancing with my girlfriends. She grins a red lipstick leer and we slide through smoky beams of light. She wiggles and bends and I catch her by the small of her back, laughing because she’ll just flop over if I don’t catch her. We know when to reach and pull and catch each other.

thinking outside the hashtag

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 22:12:00 +0000

I fully support what Annie at PHD in Parenting had to say about this #NestleFamily shitstorm on Twitter. The issue isn't about Twitter drama. The issue isn't about Mommy Bloggers. The issue is global.

I found this quote from the World Health Organization (PDF) that Annie shared particularly compelling.

"The protection, promotion and support of breastfeeding rank among the most effective interventions to improve child survival. It is estimated that high coverage of optimal breastfeeding practices could avert 13% of the 10.6 million deaths of children under five years occurring globally every year."

If everyone had to put up with a bunch of snark, misplaced breast vs. bottle debates and nasty behavior, at least many were exposed to something outside of our wanky social sphere.

Here's how I feel:

I believe that breast is best for my children.
I believe that breastfeeding is a personal choice.
I believe that many women begin formula feeding without being given the educated choice to try breastfeeding. And I believe that formula companies sometimes contribute to that chain of events. Other times, it's a social thing.
I believe that those who cannot breastfeed are not given proper support either.
I believe that formula is sickeningly expensive.
I don't believe in attacking bloggers for attending an event. Bloggers aren't the problem.
I believe bloggers should retain their voices and do their homework when working with corporations.
I don't trust a massive corporation to reach out to those who are suffering.
I don't think that an individual's boycott is going to hurt anyone. I think it's rude and silly to criticize someone for choosing not to purchase a corporations products for whatever reason. Blood diamonds, chocolate, animal rights issues. It's okay to stick to your beliefs.
Yes, we can and should approach companies we don't agree with. But dude. Do you expect honest responses from multi-billion-dollar corporations every time you disagree or sense injustice?
I don't think that today's discussions were critical of formula feeding in general.
I believe everyone who spoke up criticizing Nestle (not the bloggers) had every right to and I'm not trying to downplay that.
I look forward to seeing how Nestle handles all of this on Twitter.

But our arguments on Twitter today? Will change nothing.

Action can change something.

I don't know where to start, so I'm starting somewhere simple. A few months ago I bought one of these bracelets for my son and that got me thinking today. I encourage people who are upset to research ways they can help, whether it's through positive activism and awareness, donating time, or donating money.

Because people are so touchy and defensive about the formula part of this issue, I'm choosing to focus on water. Though I'd love to find some ways to help support breastfeeding education for new moms who don't have any medical contraindications to breastfeeding. Please share them if you know of any.

These are just a few resources I found. Please feel free to share others you are aware of. I encourage people to research the organizations they support to ensure that those organization's' agendas align to their beliefs.

I've found some great information at the World Health Organization.

Charities you can look into:

The Water Project

Millions from One

Charity: Water

A Child's Right

Do you have others you recommend or support?

a mile a minute

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 03:19:00 +0000

Oh, we're in the thick of it now. Rapid fire milestones. That high speed slide from infant to toddler.

My Moose claps and gives kisses and says "yay!" and "Dada" and inexplicably calls his brother "Didah" and gives high fives and refuses to say Mama.

Oh and he walks like four feet at a time. And today he started pushing a push toy around. As evidenced by this goofy video which really fails to illustrate the hilarious pinball-style push toy adventure he had as soon as he figured out how to push the firetruck around.

(His big brother's firetruck. Because time has flown by and my first baby is now a little boy who sings me improvisational rap songs at bed time. Songs about how super heroes are awesome and cool and have capes.)

Holy shit. Holy shit.

Wasn't I just pregnant?

Girl Talk Thursday - fantasy romance shenanigans

mommymelee@gmail.com (Mommy Melee) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 16:05:00 +0000

I never really got super into the whole romance novel thing. Unless you count the Outlander series. (Does that count as romance? Probably.) I’ve gravitated toward fantasy and historical fantasy because they usually have action along with the bodice-ripping.

The sex? Never all that interesting. The action? Super awesome.

Also, I’m pretty sure there’s something wrong with my brain because I get all climbing-up-the-ropes-in-gym-class squirmy over dude characters in physical peril. You know? Like the whole Han Solo in carbonite vulnerable threatened and/or bleeding guy thing. Like James Spader being inexplicably hot in Stargate, which I've definitely never seen a bunch of times.

Right?

Right…?

ANYWAY.

My romance novel wouldn’t be about sexual escapades. I’d be this ~~scrappy gay boy~~ tomboy chick hanging out with a ragtag band of thieves/revolutionaries/pirates/etc. We’d be fighting against some sort of oppressive nebulous bad guy. Like a secret organization or a wizard or robots. I’d have a jaunty hat. And sensible pants. But lots of scarf-type accessories too. And supple leather shoes. My occupation would be “nerdy yet resourceful intellectual type” or “folk healer.”

Sword fighting would definitely be involved. Maybe some fantasy elements. Cause who doesn’t love a psychic? (Heroes and that new movie Push totally ripped off everything I wrote in eighth grade.) No one would ride horses, because horses scare me.

(When I read or watch movies, I usually identify or enjoy the male characters more than the female characters. This is probably why most of the fiction I’ve written centers around male characters. My dude characters are probably not true to the experience of being an actual dude with an actual penis and an actual dude-brain but I have more fun writing them. I bet a shrink would have a field day figuring all that out.)

My romance novel character would have some sort of short, interesting name. But nothing with extra vowels or weird spelling. I like gender neutral names and Old Testament names.

Sidenote: Have you been to nymbler? Cause it's the best place ever for naming your kids, dogs or fictional characters.

Lately, I haven’t felt as imaginative as I used to feel. I’m happy with the amount of writing I’m doing, but I haven’t written fiction in well over a year. Maybe it’s time to try to tap back into that, even if it’s silly stuff. I miss playing pretend.

What would your romance novel be?