NYC Moms

Silicon Valley Moms Group Acquired By Technorati Media

2010-11-16T01:12:52-08:00

Reports of our demise, as the saying goes, were premature. The Silicon Valley Moms Group of sister sites is taking up residence in a new location. Look for that great timely, opinionated, poignant, and sometimes just plain funny parenting content you're used to seeing on this site over at The Women's Channel at Technorati. After 6 great years of blogging here, we've moved to a new home.

Fondly,

Jill Asher, Beth Blecherman & Tekla Nee

Co-Founders, Silicon Valley Moms Group

Pack, Pack, Pack!

2010-07-05T15:18:21-07:00

Packing. Ugh!

It's a big job, even if and maybe especially if one is not planning to take very much.

My husband, daughter and I are going to meet my family in Hawaii for a multi-family multi-generational vacation in honor of my parent's 50th Wedding Anniversary.

It should be easy for us to pack our tiny bathing suits, flip-flops and sun-dresses into rolling carry-on suitcases, except that we are taking a side trip to Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park and the website says we need sturdy soled-shoes and long pants. We might visit the snow covered mountain, Mauna Kea, and on the way home we will spend several days in Seattle, which is famous for rain. I think we need coats! How can we prepare for all that in carry-on luggage?

Another complication for us, since we are planning on carry-on luggage, and we're not allowed more than 3 oz of anything liquid-ish is this; how can I possibly get enough of our favorite brands of sunscreen to Hawaii. Do I buy it there? What if I can't find our favorite brands. We can't use just any sunscreen. I tried that once and My Kid had an allergic reaction that led her to the conclusion that she didn't like to swim in the ocean because the combination of sunscreen and salt water burned her skin.

We leave a week from today. My days from now until then will be all about packing. Ideally we will have a packing dress rehearsal this weekend and I will finesse the details and do the necessary laundry to finis the job after the weekend while my kid is at soccer day camp.

I've been to several other mom's apartments this week. The ones with multiple children and multiple-day packing projects. I've seen these projects. The twenty piles of pink and purple t-shirts and shorts. Two, three, even 4 or 5 piles for each kid; Packing for 3 kids to stay with relatives in Europe. Packing for 3 kids to live on a sailboat for the summer. Packing one kid for camp from a prescribed list and requiring a name tag attached to every single item of clothing. (Do they really mean a label on each and every sock?) Packing for 2 kids to visit multiple relatives on multiple continents with appropriate outfits for each child for both urban society and back-country hiking. Aghhhh!

During the last week of school one of the moms on the playground commented that she was wishing school wasn't over so soon (On June 28!) because she wasn't done packing.

This summer when she's not clowning, Kathie is packing in Brooklyn.

This is an original NYC Moms Blog post.

Kids and Knives

2010-06-29T11:54:29-07:00

Numerous parenting books recommend that the way to get children to expand their palate is to get them involved in cooking. The paradox is that the kids may be healthier, but they are also around dangerous sharp knives.

I have a bit of paranoia around sharp things. When I was a kid, my mother cut her finger very badly on our first Cuisinart food processor and I had to apply a tourniquet and call an ambulance when she slumped to the floor. There was a lot of blood.

In college, I was slicing a bagel, into my hand (I know, a big no-no) and the bread knife slipped. The next day, when it was still gushing blood, I went to health services, where the doctor casually mentioned that next time I see bone, I might want to hightail it to the emergency room. I still have a giant scar from the serrated edge on my middle finger.

So I tend to shudder when my kids pick up a knife, but I know that at some point, they will need to be able to cut with something sharper than safety scissors. I was particularly intrigued by the new Gourmet Spreader, a five inch knife with a serrated edge.

It is the perfect tool, in fact, for our house favorite sandwich, the peanut butter and cheese. Before you turn up your nose, consider the protein possibilities, and the fact that almost anything tastes better with either pb or cheese. Why not combine the two?

We use cheddar cheese, and the new knife is great because making the sandwich used to be a three knife operation; a butter knife to spread the peanut butter, a sharp knife to slice the cheese and the bread knife to cut the sandwich. The spreader handles all three jobs. And its small size fits nicely in a kid’s hand.

My next task is to teach them how to use the martini shaker.

This is an original post to NYC Mom's Blog. Read Judy’s blog for vegetarian suggestions.

Summer Vacation: The Magazine Version

2010-06-29T05:00:00-07:00

The public schools are still in session, for just a few more sweltering days, and then summer vacation is upon us. Like most of the families we know, we’ve sort of mapped out the summer: in July there is Oasis Central Park Day Camp, for Caleb; and Liam has a spot in the National Dance Institute summer program. (Getting him to agree to this program required one week of pricey soccer camp beforehand, but we're pretty sure he's going to love it. And if he doesn't? It's only a month!)

August is Camp Grandma and horning in on the summer rentals of various friends (we’re great guests: we bring liquor and food, clean up after ourselves, and never stay too long: we’re now accepting invitations through the end of August, so feel free to invite us to your house!) Then there’s more soccer at the end of August while Mommy tries to get ready for her new job, which starts just after Labor Day, and that’s that.

It’s not perhaps the most exciting summer plan we’ve ever had, but it’s been a long year and there are Big Changes brewing on the horizon for next year, so for this summer, we’re staying local. I’m one of those people who doesn’t do “spontaneous” very well and I like having all my ducks in a row (or rather, out of the house for most of the day, all week), plus we needed to buy tickets to Camp Grandma out there in flyover country.

But then the New York Magazine “Summer” issue arrived and it hit me: Our summer plans are the Most. Boring. Ever.

If the boys are in camp all week, that leaves only the weekends for Fun Stuff—but summer weekends bring summer crowds—the herds of tourists who think nothing of spreading across the entire sidewalk to read their maps. Don’t get me wrong: I’m totally willing to offer directions (and I don’t even point them in the wrong direction, most of the time) and I’m delighted they all want to come to NYC (and hope that they money they spend will find its way into the public school budget). But is there some rule somewhere that all tourists must move so slowly?

“Maybe I shouldn’t have booked day camps for the entire month,” I thought as I looked through the magazine. I had visions of us taking marvelous day trips to wonderful beaches, exploring the playgrounds, going to funky upstate sculpture parks, wandering through quaint little villages in the Hudson River Valley. In this glossy-magazine version of my life, the boys are always cheerful, always willing to try new things; they happily go on outings and never ever whine that they need a snaaaack, a drink of waaaater, a baaaathroooom.

In the real version of my life? Husband and I are each working on several pieces of writing and preparing for the courses we're teaching in the fall. And it is a proven scientific fact that one cannot write a book or create a syllabus while waiting in line with one’s kids for the roller coaster at Luna Park.

So it looks like day camp all week and then maybe, maybe, I will brave the crowds and Do Something Fun.

I don’t know about you, but summer vacation hasn’t even started yet and I’m already exhausted.

Unrelated note:
As I mentioned at the beginning of the this post, our family has some Big Changes coming next summer, but there is also a big change happening this summer, for me and all of us in the SV Moms Community. SV Moms is closing up shop as of July 1. Being a part of this online blogging community has been a wonderful experience; I can’t say enough about the professionalism of the organization and the dedication of all the writers. Every day I read another great post from someone whose work I probably wouldn’t have otherwise encountered—moms from the West Coast, Chicago, Ohio—all over the country. Thank you, to the founders and organizers of the SV Moms for inviting me to join the group and I wish you all well in your future endeavors

This is an original post to the NYCMoms Blog. Deborah Quinn also writes about families and life in NYC at mannahattamamma.com

Stop Rushing

2010-06-28T05:00:00-07:00

"If you love life, why are you rushing through it?"

I strained to see, and then read aloud those words, appearing in the window of a new bike shop called, "Rolling Orange," that's just opened in our area of Brooklyn. The shop was drawing attention from myself, my husband and daughter, as well as a number of other patrons who sat across the street at an outdoor restaurant .

"Mama, we aren't rushing through life," my daughter said.

"Well some days, yes, we are," I responded. "For instance, in the mornings when I'm constantly trying to rush us out of the door to make sure you get to school on time," I added.

In my head, I tried not to remind myself that my daughter only had one day of kindergarten left to go, and that come September, I'd no longer be allowed to accompany her into her first grade class and spend an extra twenty minutes with her at school in the mornings. The year had flown by, and there was much rushing. Too much.

After dinner, we walked over to peer in the shop window. What we saw was a piece of the Netherlands that had made its way into "Breukelen".

Hanging from the ceilings were bikes. Along the showroom floor were more bikes. And these were not like bikes we'd seen before on the streets of New York. They were big, and colorful, with plenty of seat for my seat. Each one had some type of basket or clever attachment that would allow you to ride comfortably with anything from a bag of groceries to a gaggle of children. Why, if Miss Almira Gulch, the mean old lady that doesn't like Dorothy or her dog in "The Wizard of Oz," had one of these bikes and baskets, I'm fairly certain she would have found it impossible to be mean to Dorothy or Toto.

"How much do you think these things go for?" I asked my husband.

"I think they cost expensive!" my daughter responded immediately. We laughed along with another couple also looking in the window.

As these bikes were fairly large, and our apartment was fairly small, and I was fairly certain that we weren't willing to spend money on extra storage space for a bike like this, for now, we'll enjoy watching others riding them. Perhaps another weekend day, we'll all stop in and take a test drive.

When I got home, I checked out their website, where I was met with an introduction that said, "Hey, it's ok…meander…feel life," and their tag line of "3 Manufacturers, 16 Bikes, 1 Common Belief. Slower is Better." They won me over without even having to step into the shop. (Although I did go back to the shop the next day and was greeted by a lovely, friendly Dutch woman who happily allowed my daughter to try out any and all of the kid compartments on their bikes, and who took the time to answer my daughter's question to her about how exactly they'd gotten the bikes to hang from their second story ceiling.)

I asked for a brochure, but they told me in their efforts to stay green, everything was on their website. I asked them how business was, and they said it was doing quite well. That made me happy, because a place like this is the kind of place that you want to see open in your neighborhood. It gives off a sense of fun and family and a better economy ahead. Sure enough, later that day, I saw a bright green bike bought from the store parked around the corner from our apartment--adding a little whimsy to the plain black fence to which it was chained.

There's another place that has opened up that I pass every morning that's also worth a look. Flavor Paper, is a hand-screened wallpaper company that started in New Orleans and has now moved to Cobble Hill.

Walking by their studio, you can get a glimpse of their massive printing/screening tables and watch how these artists create bright, hip, wallpapers that fall somewhere between sixties and seventies fantasy wallpapers and something you'd find in Willy Wonka's house.

During an open studio tour that we took recently, we saw their factory, their mod showroom, their super-mod bathroom and they even showed us their "scratch and sniff" line of wallpapers. We tried the bananas on silver foil--although my daughter swore it smelled more like strawberry than banana.

I have to admit that in general I didn't have any great desire to put up wallpaper at home. But for some reason, it's easy to connect with the artisans at Flavor Paper, and the papers as well. Perhaps in my case, it's because some of their papers remind me of an old Peter Max poster that I had framed over my bed growing up. Perhaps it's because I am quite certain that some of these wallpapers can be found on the walls of rock stars and celebrities and this is potentially a cool way us common-folk could do something a bit uncommon. Or perhaps it's because they have a real sense of humor in many of their papers (check out the fishnets, or the one with multiple "blades and broken glass,") and I appreciate a great sense of humor.

I'm fairly certain most of their products are more costly than our apartment's paint job, but I still enjoy walking past their production window and seeing new wallpaper samples they have resting there. While I stop to peek inside, my daughter enjoys stepping onto a piece of glass they put into the outside sidewalk that houses a neon flower--a flower found in one of their popular wallpapers.

It's places like these, that I have the privilege of walking by day after day, that encourage me to slow down and stop rushing, for at least a moment.

This is an original NYC Moms Blog. When Eden isn't out looking for other cool spots in her Brooklyn neighborhood she is Executive Producer at CNN's New York Bureau.

Mommy, You Are So Disorganized

2010-06-27T02:04:00-07:00

When my daughter was an infant/toddler, I was your typical Type-A mom. I had multiple bags neatly filled with wipes, Kleenex, Neosporin and band-aids, just so I would not run out and be left hanging if some boo-boo popped up. And I used to fill in supplies every two weeks, that's how anal-retentive I was.

Now that my daughter is seven, my helicopter mom days are over and I have retired to the benches, reading my paper, checking emails and talking to the other moms, all those activities I used to look on with envy in the early years. Don't worry, I would look up every few minutes just to make sure my daughter was doing okay, but I certainly did not run after her the way I used to.

So when my helicopter mom days ended, I stopped carrying my first-aid bags around and winged it.

Recently, I went to the playground with my daughter, where all the usual running, jumping, laughing type of activities ensued, basically, a lazy afternoon. About 20 minutes into our lazy afternoon, my daughter ran up to me crying that she had fallen and scratched her knee. As we all know, it doesn't matter if it's the least little nick, kids act like they were in a major accident. Of course, I could barely see the scratch and only saw the smallest little speck of blood.

"Mommy, don't you have a band-aid?" she asked while crying. Knowing full well I did not have a band- aid, I feigned rummaging through my bag. "Sorry, I don't have one", giving her my best sad face (I missed my calling as a bad actress.)

"That's okay, I will go ask Sean's mom for one," and off she skedadled. Of course, Sean's mom had a band-aid. I chalked it up to a bad mommy moment and a forgot about it.

A few days later on a playdate with her BFF, my daughter again fell and asked again for a band-aid. I didn't even bother searching in my bag and gave her the sorry, I don't have one look and she announces loudly, "Mommy, you are so disorganized, you never have anything when I get hurt." The other mom sort of gives me the you don't have a band-aid look and pulls one out. I sheepishly mustered a thanks and again forgot about it.

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, little incidents kept happening, spilled ice cream, runny nose, insect bites and I, of course, was completely unprepared.

So bringing my head out of the sand, I acquiesced and started pulling together my first aid kits again because summer is here and it's a matter of time before a nick is not a nick and turns out to be gusher of scratch and I just can't be unprepared.

More importantly, I really don't want my daughter to grow up thinking her mother was disorganized and unprepared when she was a child. I liked her to hang on to the illusion that her mom was supermommy until the dreaded teen years where I transform into evil mommy.

This is an original nycmomsblog post.

Linda G. is a single mom (by choice) of a seven year old daughter. She is the founder/editor of www.nycsinglemom.com, which she started after being laid off from a Tarp bank in 2009.

She is working on a book about her adoption experience adopting as a single Japanese/African-American woman, while she seeks her next career.

A Manhattan Bedroom

2010-06-26T02:08:00-07:00

There are some things only parents understand and there are some things only New Yorkers understand. And occasionally there are times when those two levels of understanding collide. Such is the case recently with our Manhattan apartment and my 7-month old baby who does not sleep through the night.

At my son’s 4-month well visit the doctor laughed out loud when my husband asked when we could start putting him to sleep in the same room as his toddler brother. She went on to advise that we not even bother trying to sleep training our baby until he was 6-months old since he was so small (less than 3 percentile on the growth chart). At that point the twice weekly 6 or 8 hour nighttime stretches disappeared. My body experienced new levels of exhaustion as I longed for a simple 4 hour stretch each night. I consulted with friends. I read the chapters on sleep in our baby books again and again. I reviewed the sleep books on our shelf. But there are no chapters or plans for families living in a two bedroom apartment with a toddler in one room and the baby in the parents’ room. Not to mention the neighbors upstairs who don’t want be up in the middle of the night listening to a crying baby anymore than we do.

Needless to say I was desperate for advice from the doctor when it was time for the baby’s 6-month check up. We talked about the baby sleeping in our room. Her recommendation: Put the baby as far away from his big brother as possible in our apartment. If that’s our room, we need to sleep in the living room, she said. If it’s the living room than put him there. The key is the baby can’t be in the same room as us or he’ll never stop crying on his own. When he does cry, we don't want it to wake his older brother.

My husband's refusal to sleep on the sofa didn't help our quest for sleep. (You'd think since he loves to complain about our mattress, he would have jumped at the chance to sleep on our comfy new couch.) It was mind boggling, especially since he was the one pleading with me at 3:00am the he’d do whatever it will take to get the baby to sleep more at night. Of course he was singing a different tune a couple nights later when the baby cried and I didn't budge. Instead his tune changed to something along the lines of, "Not tonight. Just get him. I need to get some sleep." As you might imagine, he also wasn't willing to be the one to sooth our crying son in an effort to wean him from overnight feedings.

I had to come up with another plan. I knew pitching a tent in our outdoor space wasn't the solution I was looking for. Putting the baby in the living room wouldn't work either since it was practically like putting him outside his older brother's room. Should we get a screen or a curtain to give the baby a room within our room, sort of? We know others who have done this. Then it hit me. It was one of those “ah ha” moments. The answer had been right under my nose all along. Could it be as simple as closing a door? The clock was ticking. There was no telling if I had a minute or an hour to figure this out before the baby awoke from his nap, which by the way is done in the crib in his brother's room where he will hopefully spend his nights someday soon. I got to work collapsing the co-sleeper. (Which is essentially a pack-n-play with one side that can lower so you can attach it to your bed for ease of grabbing the baby to feed in the middle of the night – fortunately, we had graduated from this set-up and moved it away from the bed to the other side of the room a couple of months earlier.) Then I went into the half-bath in the corner of our bedroom. The one with the oh so convenient toilet for middle of the night bladder emptying countless times during pregnancy. I slid the cart of stuff in the corner over to the small space between the toilet and the sink. It fit like a piece of a puzzle. That was the easy part. Then came the moment of truth: Would the co-sleeper fit in the bathroom? Is this really something I should be wondering?

Sure enough, it fit. Thus my baby's new bedroom was in place. No night light because the only outlet was above the spot where my son would be sleeping. I dug out a hand me down mobile to hang from the ceiling to make him feel more comfortable and at home. I also contemplated hanging a couple of pictures on the wall. But that seemed pointless since there is no window and no light, unless the door that separates the bathroom, or baby's room rather, from our bedroom is open which defeats the purpose.

I had a flashback. I remember once looking at an apartment once that had a second bedroom that was really the hallway connecting the kitchen to the master bedroom. It was just wide enough for the crib to be on one side and the changing table to be across from it on the other side. So unless you're in your room when the baby falls asleep you risk waking him or her while passing through the baby's room. I couldn’t believe they were passing it off as a bedroom. But now that seems so reasonable to me.

Brokers have been showing our apartment this month and I can only imagine what the people looking at it must think when they see the pack-n-play in the bathroom wedged between the sink and the wall. I just hope no one reports us to DCFS.

This is an original NYCMoms Blog post. Debra's baby is sleeping a little better in the bathroom of their Upper West Side apartment where her husband and toddler live with them.

Girl in Translation by Jean Kwok: A SV Moms Group Book Club

2010-06-23T01:00:00-07:00

Transplanted from Hong Kong to New York City as a (very poor) young girl with her mother, Ah-Kim or Kimberley, struggled to make things better for her family, to learn English, to walk the line between traditional Chinese duties and the Americanized teenager she grew into. Join us today as we discuss the book Girl in Translation by Jean Kwok.

Here are what the SV Moms Group contributors ave to say today, all inspired by the book Girl in Translation:

Marinka from Motherhood in NYC tells her immigration story in America, Baby
Pamela from 2 Much Testosterone felt empowered
Emily from Mama Sick has hope for her son
Sharon from Channeling Ricky recognizes her own childhood embarrassment
Vanessa from Chefdruck Musings goes for a taste of America
April from It's All About Balance is a girl in gratitude
Emily Paster from West of the Loop examines secrets below the surface
Melanie from tales from the crib just wanted to fit in
Elena from Cara Mamma reflects on dreaming big
Lisa H. from Hannemaniacs has aunts just like Aunt Paula
Alma from Marketing Mommy had culture shock
Kristine from Mommy Needs Therapy or a Bottle of Wine was moved by the reality of immigrants who come to the U.S. for a "better" life
Rox from Rox and Roll has thoughts about honor
Julie from Just Precious opens her eyes in her own neighborhood
Jen B from Anybody Want A Peanut? tries to translate autism

Silicon Valley Moms Blog is hosting the book club discussion this month. Please leave a comment here to join in the discussion.

Past SV Moms Group Book Clubs have included:

I am Nujood, Aged 10 and Divorced by Nujood Ali
The Body Scoop for Girls by Dr. Jennifer Ashton
Just Let Me Lie Down by Kristin van Ogtrop, Editor of REAL SIMPLE magazine
National Geographic's Green Guide Families by Catherine Zandonella
Top 100 Finger Foods and Top 100 Baby Purees by Annabel Karmel
The Possibility of Everything by Hope Edelman
The Mominatrix's Guide to Sex by Kristen Chase
Coco Chanel & Igr Stravinsky by Chris Greenhalgh
See Mom Run by Beth Feldman
Close Encounters of the Third-Grade Kind by Phillip Done
This is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Topper
Do One Nice Thing by Debbie Tenzer
Birth Day by Mark Sloan, M.D.
What Happened to the Girl I Married? by Michael Miller
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

Click here to read all about the SV Moms Group Book Club.

The New and Improved Tooth Fairy

2010-06-18T23:14:00-07:00

My daughter lost her first tooth today. This was particularly momentous for her because she was, as she put it, "the very, very last person in my whole class and the whole first grade to lose a tooth!"

This afternoon, as the tooth hung tenuously on, she explained to me what would happen tonight when the Tooth Fairy arrived. For those of you who last knew the Tooth Fairy in the 1970s and '80s, let me tell you she has changed a lot since those simpler times.

For instance, did you know that the Tooth Fairy is no longer an individual practitioner? That's right, the Tooth Fairy of today is a member of the Tooth Fairy Collective, and you never know which Tooth Fairy will visit you. For one tooth, you might get a quarter. For another, a book. And sometimes, you get the Tooth Fairy who leaves a piece of gum or candy, even though that doesn't really make sense since you'd think the Tooth Fairy would be all about dental health, working in the industry as she does.

In addition, the Tooth Fairy Collective works very closely with the Sandman Union (Local 286), a member of which precedes the Tooth Fairy to make sure the child is completely and entirely asleep before the Tooth Fairy makes the exchange. I don't know about you, but in my day the Tooth Fairy worked alone. Since when does she need a male helper to be her advance man?

There are other changes as well. My daughter informed me you can leave the Tooth Fairy a note with a specific request. When I asked if she had written one of those notes she responded, "Of, course!"

When I mentioned she'd better make sure to put it under her pillow for when the Tooth Fairy comes tonight, she informs me, "Oh no, you don't need to do that. She can find the note wherever you leave it, anywhere in the house. That's nothing for her. If the Tooth Fairy can find a lost tooth on the playground, she can find a note in the house."

Wow. This new and improved Tooth Fairy really is something else!

And last, my daughter provided me with this final fact about the Tooth Fairy, who clearly has a lot more on her mind then her predecessor did thirty years ago: "Sometimes the tooth fairy gets really busy, and doesn't come even if you leave a tooth under your pillow. But don't worry if that happens, she always finds time to come the next night. Or at the very latest, the night after that."

This is an original NYC Moms Blog post. When not learning about the ins and outs of the Tooth Fairy Collective, Anna blogs about all things mom at http://randomhandprints.blogspot.com.

New York City Moms Blog - Brand/Blogger Symposium Event at Tribeca Cinemas

2010-06-18T01:00:00-07:00

On Sunday, May 16, 2010, SV Moms Group and BitDefender brought together 50 local New York City Moms Blog, New Jersey Moms Blog and Philadelphia Moms Blog bloggers and 20 sponsoring companies to our fourth Brand-Blogger Meet-up at the hip and cozy Tribeca Cinemas (yes, where the renowned Tribeca Cinemas Film Festival takes place each year). 20 sponsoring companies joined us for the day. The intent of our meet-ups is to connect brands targeted to women with influential mom bloggers and to build community.

A huge thank you to our fantastic Co-Host sponsor, BitDefender who coordinated relaxing massages for our bloggers! And also to our Platinum sponsors Panasonic and Lifetime/AETN.

Also attending as sponsors were: eBay Classifieds, WICKED the Musical, PopCap, Daymon Worldwide, Stonyfield, Mabels Lables, Cinnabon, iGo, Mobi Stories, Army of Women, Cirque du Soleil, Lawry's, Powerade Play, Taga, Busy Body Books, 23andMe, Yoplait Kids, JDub Records, and Easy Print Design. Thank you so much for participating and making this event possible.

Check out photos from the event at the Flickr stream.

The day started with an open and honest two-hour discussion in the theater, led by SV Moms Group partners Jill Asher and Linsey Krolik and New York City Moms Blog blogger Beth Feldman, about how brands and bloggers are working together. We discussed the power of hyper-local blogging, social media tools and trends, and much more.

Following the two hour round-table discussion, the brands and bloggers moved into the restaurant/bar area of Tribeca Cinemas for drinks, food, and one-on-one networking. Here is what a few of our attendees had to share about their experiences meeting with brands, networking and catching up (IN REAL LIFE) with fellow SV Mom Group Bloggers in New York City.

Torie Black from Manhattan: For Better or Worse takes a bite of the Big Apple
Jennifer Zimmerman from Dirty Little Secret: Jerseygirl Takes Manhattan, Part 1 and Jerseygirl Takes Manhattan, Part Deux
Nancy Friedman from From Hip to Housewife asks: if They Pay You/Freebie You/Comp You, Can you Still be a Good Blogger?

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Check out the recaps from the Silicon Valley, Los Angeles/Orange County and the Chicago Moms Blog Brand-Blogger Meet-ups too.

A Real Life, Like on TV

2010-06-17T05:00:00-07:00

My eleven-year old son has started to realize that we aren't living the kind of 'normal' life he sees on TV.

"Why don't we have a real life, like on TV?" he'll say when I'm asking him what he wants for breakfast. And yes, he probably is aware of the irony of that question, but still, it's his belief that there's a right way for this family life to go, and his own family isn't doing it.

"What's for breakfast!" he asks, with enthusiasm, every morning as he comes downstairs. As if the answer is going to be different from one day to the next.

"Cereal or waffles?" we answer.

"Why don't we have a real life, like on TV, how they just make a big breakfast and call us when it's ready and we don't have to choose what it is, we just sit and eat it?" is his response.

He's starting to ask this kind of question all the time. "Why don't we have a real house, like on TV?" "Why don't we have a basketball hoop in our backyard, like on TV?"

This floors me. I know I should feel mad at television for creating these little perfect family scenarios--and let's face it, even when the family is far from perfect, there is often some kind of 'real house' and 'real meal' going on in it. But instead it plays on my insecurities. I know there should be good meals on the table, and we should just make the meal decisions for them instead of doing everything to order. Still, so often it's easier just to have some different breakfast things on hand and take orders as the kids walk in. We just kind of 'wing it' all the time.

Our house doesn't look like the houses on TV, either. And it never will (unless they bring back the Cosby show and halve the size of their brownstone, and take away all the available babysitting grandparents and older teen daughters who seem to always be around helping out, and make it so that neither parent is home before 6pm and put the kids on multiple sports teams that mean they can't start their homework until 8:30 at night).

I grew up with a TV-perfect life, the balanced meal on the table every night at 6, and I loved every second of it, but I didn't really absorb the how-to-make-it-happen part. Because it was all happening so seamlessly, I got hooked on other pursuits, and never learned to love to focus on that part of home-life.

But the thing that cracks me up about it, and almost makes it all feel okay, is that I have a child old enough to start to make astute comments about his own childhood. I know that my husband and I are still in charge, but it feels kind of like bringing in another partner, a consultant, of sorts. And honestly, except for the occasional grumpy-kid comment, he tends to be spot on in his observations.

He's made comments about our parenting of his youngest sister: 'you're turning her into a monster by giving her what she wants when she cries, she's going to turn out just like ______ [insert name of classmate he hates]," he's contributed to the advice that we give his other sister 'you're making yourself a victim with your friends, you have to learn to stick up for yourself,' and so on and so forth. And, of course, I make him jot down meal ideas every now and then. It helps me to have his input, even though most meals, of course, revert back to the 'what do you want to eat?' variety, and the offerings are usually cold and pre-prepared.

So he doesn't get a 'real life, like on TV,' but he's turning into the most thoughtful and observant young man. And I'm as proud of him as Marion Cunningham ever was of Richie, or as Mrs. Partridge ever was of Danny, or any of those other perfect TV moms.

An original essay for nycmomsblog.com. This mom's favorite things can be found at parentalapproval.tumblr.com.

The Late Pass

2010-06-16T05:00:00-07:00

I'm notoriously late in my personal life. Not on purpose, of course. Things just have a way of popping up that leave me running to whatever's next. I've been late for so long, that even when I'm on time or early, some people still blame me for being late. I'd actually meant to write this blog entry a number of months ago, but once again, I'm late. And in the case of the story I'm about to tell, I'm totally in the wrong as well.

My daughter is in kindergarten, and required to be at school by 8:35am. I work hard to try not to instill my bad habits in her, and so most of her first year at public school, we've gotten her up early, and made sure she made it to school on time. But one morning, finally, we were late.

If you do come late to school, there's a table that's set up that you must pass by. And there's a woman that sits at the table who yells at anyone who passes after that time, "Late pass! Parents--come get your child a late pass before they go onto class! Kids may not go to class without a pass!" (This woman is also assigned to yell in similar fashion during the lunch hour to help keep the kids moving through like large herds of cattle.) I've referred to her as the "late pass lady." She looks tough. She sounds tough. She takes no prisoners.

On this particular morning, the reason we were actually late, was because we were delayed while helping a friend in the school lobby, whose son was having a mild asthma attack. We were probably less than 50 feet away from the late-pass table as we helped watch him so his mother could find the school nurse to help out.

At 8:48, our friend took her son home, and we ventured forward towards the classroom.

"You need to get a late pass," the woman at the table said to me.

"My daughter is in kindergarten," I replied.

"She needs a late pass. Sign her name and class, sign the pass, and drop it off with the teacher."

Not an ounce of sympathy. Had she not seen what was going on just down the hall? I had the sense it would be much worse to make a scene in front of my daughter, so I took the pass.

My cheeks grew red. My face was flushed. What good was it going to do to give my kindergarten-aged daughter a late pass? As she handed me a small blue slip of paper, I felt my blood pressure rising, and was hoping this wouldn't traumatize my kid…as much as it was evidently traumatizing me.

"Mama, what is this?" My daughter asked. I explained, trying to keep calm.

As I handed the pass to her teacher, I was filled with shame. I began to worry what would happen if we got more of them. I was fearful of asking what kind of punishment came with any sort of late pass collection. For heavens sakes-this is kindergarten! If the kids are late, I'd venture to say that there's likely a good reason for it most of the time. (Kids having meltdowns, needing more sleep, parents having meltdowns-needing more sleep…)

I was determined to find a way to make sure we'd get no more late passes (in the event we were late again). I was going to have to figure out how to soften up the late-pass-lady. Of course I know this was wrong. But I couldn't take the anxiety of not knowing when we'd next be recipients.

A few days later, as we walked into school, early, I stopped at the late pass table, and mentioned to the late-pass-lady how healthy her hair always looked. What was her secret, I asked? It DID look healthy, and compared to my frizzy mess, she looked like a regular Breck girl.

"Why thank you!" she said. "My secret? I'm a hairdresser on the side. I'm happy to give you a consultation." She had a heavy Brooklyn accent.

"Uh, wow!" I said. "I had no idea. Well yes, I'm certainly in need of some hairdo help."

"I'm Francine,*" she said. "I'll give you my number, and you feel free to come see me. I work out of a chair close by on the weekends."

Me and my big mouth. I pass by Francine every single weekday. I now felt obligated to put my money where my mouth was. After all, there was no telling how many late passes I'd end up with if I acted as the conversation had never happened. Sure, my imagination may have been working on overtime, but when you've got a track record like mine, I couldn't stop myself.

Another day passed. "So--just let me know when you want to make an appointment," Francine said.

"Do you do kids cuts?" I asked.

"Sure!" she responded.

I figured I'd ask for a trim for my daughter. Give it a test run. Yes, use her as the guinea pig. Wrong. I know. Trust me, I know.

I took Jade to her salon. Francine gave her a great cut. She couldn't have been nicer. We had a lovely conversation. I heard about how Francine was a full-time stylist, but then when she became a mother, she decided to get a job at the school so she could spend more time with her kids. But now, her kids are grown up, and out of school, and she works as a hair stylist on the weekend, but she stays at our daughter's school because she loves kids. I couldn't have felt more ridiculous. This woman was lovely. Not a mean bone in her body.

I got my haircut by her two weeks later. My husband, who used to go the local barber, now also gets his hair cut by her. She's our official family hair stylist.

There have been a few days since, when we've arrived late to school. Francine told us to head on into class--not to worry about the late pass.

But, I've smiled at her and taken the passes, and I've re-learned a lesson that I originally learned back in kindergarten--don't judge a book by it's cover.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

This is an original NYC Moms blog. Eden's still working to try and be on-time as much as possible.

My Kids Are Leaving Me: Sleepaway, Far Away

2010-06-15T05:00:00-07:00

In less than two weeks my kids are leaving for sleepaway camp. They aren't nervous at all. They are thrilled, excited, anxious to begin. I, on the other hand, am an emotional mess.

Suddenly, everything they do is for "the last time for a long time." Like, the last time they'll take the bus to school, or order in Chinese for dinner, or whine about how there's no good Chinese food on the Upper West Side anymore. It all makes me misty eyed, or worse. Yesterday, I burst into tears when someone asked me what the kids were doing this summer. And this morning, I woke up at 5am and went into the living room to look at their baby pictures.

I'm pathetic.

I went to sleepaway camp when I was their age - and loved it. I went back year after year for ages. I still have camp friends that I treasure and adore. I know that my children will love camp as much as I did. They are going to make lifelong friends, enjoy the mountains, and a lake, and the camaraderie that's practically exclusive to being at camp. They'll make macrame bracelets, and pottery, and learn to waterski. They'll get ravaged by mosquitoes and filthy beyond belief. They'll eat awful food. They'll love it.

But while much of my life is about them -- the baking (which I hate), the Pokemon games (which I'll never understand), the endless discussions about sports ('nough said) this isn't. This is about me. Sure, they'll be having a great time. They'll be great. It's me I'm worried about. While they're off making memories that last a lifetime I'll be the one left bereft on the Upper West Side without a decent Chinese restaurant in sight

I suppose I should be looking forward to having some time alone with my husband. To enjoying evenings out without worrying about a babysitter. To getting to read the paper on the actual day it comes out. (Most of my news comes to me in the back seat of a cab!) To not having to say "brush your teeth, have you had a shower lately" or "how did a cream cheese sandwich end up under your bed?"

And I am...sort of. But mostly I'm just bursting into tears every five minutes.

I don't want them to leave me.

Though I never thought about it this way before, parenthood is about preparing your kids to leave you. Kind of like dating. A friend of mine once said that (Sex in the City aside), dating was something you did until you didn't have to do it anymore. The end goal of dating is to meet someone...and stop dating for good.

Parenting is the same. We teach our children manners and morals.We guide them through their young lives. First by holding their hands as they cross the street. Then by having them walk beside us to cross. Then we teach them to cross the street alone, then to cross the world - without us. And that's exactly what they'll do one day.

For me, sleepaway camp is a foreshadowing of the inevitable. Of the day when they will leave. Not just for a summer, but for a new life. Sure I'll be allowed to visit - but it will be their lives, not their lives with me and my husband.

They're growing up. They're moving on. They're letting go of my hand and crossing the street into the wide world without me. Which is exactly what I hoped for. And exactly what makes me so sad.

This is an original post to NYC Moms Blog.

Nancy Friedman is a freelance copywriter who also writes on her own blog: From Hip to Housewife.

Wardrobe malfunction

2010-06-14T02:00:00-07:00

My daughter went to school embarrassed today and it's all because I did laundry.

I'm one of those lucky NYC people who actually has a washer and dryer in my house (hell, I'm lucky to have an actual house and not a cramped apartment). You'd think that would be enough to ensure that we never have much dirty laundry lying around. I mean, I've lived with every laundry situation from no machines to machines in the basement to lugging it to the laundromat to using a delivery wash-and-fold service. I thought that once I had my own set-up I would be a laundry viking. But instead, it's a crutch. I find myself letting the laundry pile up, and then late at night I go through the piles and pull out only what everyone needs for the next day: underwear, shirts, pants, socks, maybe a Tae Kwon Do uniform. All in one load.

But with family coming into town, I promised my husband I would get the laundry under control (actually there may have been threats involved but I've blocked it out). I spent an entire day doing nothing but laundry (great way to catch up on all those DVRd shows!), about a dozen loads washed and dried and put away. I rediscovered the laundry room floor. I found clothes I'd been missing for months. I got rid of clothes that the kids didn't need anymore, since all of the clean laundry wouldn't fit in the drawers and closets.

And I slacked off on doing my nightly laundry check. I mean, with all that laundry clean, there was no reason to worry, right? Everyone had what they needed.

But then Friday came, and as we were racing around getting ready, I remembered that Fiona had a field trip to the New York Aquarium in Coney Island. Field trips mean school shirts, so the kids are all easy to identify. Somehow, amazingly, and against all odds, she didn't have a school shirt clean. Crap. The only option was to put her in her brother's school shirt.

Fiona is the most self-conscious six-year-old I've ever seen when it comes to appearance. She refuses hats on the coldest of days because she doesn't want to mess up her hair. She primps in front of the mirror like a teenager. I don't know where she gets it from. Most days I leave the house in sweats and wet hair (actually, maybe that IS where she gets it from!). Wearing a shirt a couple sizes too big for her brought her very close to tears. She tried to talk her way out of it. I tried to make it better. I tied it at her waist, but she didn't like that. I offered to crop it at the waist, she said no. We were out of time and out of options and we had to go.

I noticed that the whole way to school, she held her shirt gathered at her waist with one hand. As she put her backpack away at school, she still held her shirt. I got a one-handed hug goodbye as she clutched that shirt. And when I picked her up six hours later? Yup, still holding the shirt.

I asked her if she had held it all day, and she said yes. I asked her if that had ruined the trip for her. She shrugged her shoulders and said no. She demonstrated how whenever she needed both hands, she let go of the shirt and then grabbed it up again before anybody noticed. I'm quite sure that she really did hold it all day.

Sigh. I'm glad she found a solution that worked for her. I hope I find one.

This is an original post to NYC Moms Blog. Amy also blogs at SelfishMom.com and FilmingInBrooklyn.com.

A Sail Around the World

2010-06-13T13:02:47-07:00

Seconds after my daughter was born I held her in my arms and made promises to her. I would always love her, and protect her and look out for her and foster her dreams so that she could have a full life, guided by her passions. It may have been the anesthesia talking. I know that I will encourage her dreams, foster her spirit and support her aspirations only if they do not include solo trips around the world in a boat. Because the hours last Thursday that Abby Sunderland was missing, the time that the news media was reporting that she was not in contact with anyone and presumed in trouble, I came close to developing an ulcer.

Even though up until that moment I had never heard of Abby Sunderland, nor her quest at the world record to be the youngest person, at 16, to sail around the world. And at the moment of hearing that a sixteen year old was lost, alone at sea (although being lost with companions admittedly is not better) I felt queasy. Simply and judgmentally put, I did not understand how her parents could allow this to happen.

Fortunately, Abby has been found and she is well. She should be reaching land in approximately a week. I, on the other hand, am still recovering.

I've been thinking about what it takes for parents to permit a child to undertake such an adventure, such a challenge, such a dangerous pursuit and I'm coming up empty. At my most generous, I can assume that Abby's parents love her enough to overcome their worries. But as a parent, I simply cannot fathom it. Because if my daughter's dreams and ambitions involved this degree of danger, I would have no second thoughts about quashing them.

My dream-crushing comes with a price of its own, of course. Hopefully not a headline-making one.

I'll take it. And I hope that the other promises I made to my daughter are good enough.

This is an original NYC Moms post.

Marinka lives in NYC with her family. Her personal blog is Motherhood in NYC.

Sexual Harassment in Schools

2010-06-13T02:00:00-07:00

My 13-year-old daughter recently shared with me some of the things the kids at school -- boys and girls -- have said to her about her body. She inherited the "boob gene" from both sides of the family. She has a gorgeous figure, but the attention can be a bit much.

Some of the comments included:

"Did your mom let you get a boob job?"

"Were you ever really, really fat? Because the only girls our age I've ever seen with boobs as big as yours were really, really fat."

"You have a perfect body for porn." (this from a girl)

She also described how boys, and girls, frequently want to hug her, so they can feel her breasts and decide whether or not they're real.

I remember being her age. I remember the comments and lewd behavior of boys. Like my daughter, I developed early, and back then, boys would not just make comments, but touch as well. For most of 5th grade, I walked home from school clutching my bookbag in front of me, so that boys couldn't grab my breasts. One kid would even grab between my legs whenever he got the chance. I avoided him like the plague.

Back then, the term "sexual harassment" wasn't used, and this behavior wasn't addressed at all by teachers or administrators, even when they saw it happening in front of them.

Fortunately, times have changed. Student-to-student sexual harassment in New York City schools is governed by Chancellor's Regulation A-831. The regulation defines student-to-student sexual harassment as:

"conduct and/or communication by a student directed against another student. It consists of unwelcome and uninvited sexual advances, requests for sexual favors, sexually motivated physical conduct and other verbal, nonverbal or physical conduct or communication of a sexual nature which is sufficiently severe, pervasive or persistent to: (1) substantially interfere with a student’s ability to participate in or benefit from an educational program, school-sponsored activity, or any other aspect of a student’s education; or (2) create a hostile, offensive, or intimidating school environment; or (3) otherwise adversely affect a student’s educational opportunities. Such behavior can constitute sexual harassment regardless of the gender, sexual orientation, or gender identity of any of the students involved."

The Regulation's definition is open-ended by design, but includes examples, such as "patting, pinching, grabbing, brushing up against another person in a sexual way" and "

According to Chancellor's Regulation A-831, then, these comments would constitute sexual harassment, but only IF they affected my daughter's education or school environment in the manner described in the regulation. So far, there's no evidence that my daughter finds these comments anything more than annoying.

I know her school has had sexual harassment workshops. My daughter told me a kid was suspended recently for violating the school's and DOE's sexual harassment policies. I'm glad we now have more awareness and that administrators are taking action.

But there's a practical limit to how effective any of these policies can be. Chancellor's Regulation A-831 basically requires kids to report each other to school authorities. And as irritated as my daughter is by some of the stuff she hears, I know she doesn't want to be responsible for having someone suspended or expelled from school.

It also puts the burden of proof on the complaining student to show that the behavior has had an adverse impact on his/her education or school environment. A high-performing student like my daughter, who is able to remain high-performing even in the face of this kind of activity, probably couldn't meet the test, no matter what other lasting damage may be occurring to her self-esteem and psyche. But a student whose grades and friendships suffered would be in a better position to accuse a fellow student of sexual harassment.

Requiring students to prove that there's been an adverse educational impact means asking affected students to disclose all sorts of embarrassing facts that most young people would rather not disclose, such as psychotherapy visits. This seems to me to discourage, rather than encourage, students to step forward and report this behavior when it occurs.

Another result is that only the most egregious behavior gets labeled "sexual harassment," and the rest is just normal kid stuff, part of the process of growing up. Except there's nothing normal about being touched or groped against your will. Nothing normal about having your body under constant scrutiny and being told that "you should do porn."

My daughter, from what she tells me, seems to handle it well enough. She says she declines the hug attempts and tells people "that's stupid" when they make those comments. Knowing her, I believe she does.

Still, I think schools could do more to talk about this sort of behavior and to sensitize boys and girls to the invasiveness of these comments, without concern for the label. It's more important to me that children learn early to respect each other's personal and physical boundaries. While education about sexual harassment is necessary, it seems more work needs to be done to teach boys and girls, young men and young women, about respect.

I also think the current version of Chancellor's Regulation A-831 needs a major overhaul. If the DOE really wants students to step forward and talk about sexual harassment when it occurs, it needs to develop a code that doesn't punish the victim for coming forward. Instead of making adverse educational impact part of the test to determine whether or not sexual harassment has occurred, the presence or lack of an adverse educational impact on the affected student could be used as a factor in determining the appropriate disciplinary action to take against the offender.

This is an original NYC Moms Blog Post.

The Ice Cream Truck Wars

2010-06-11T12:00:00-07:00

Ah, the ice-cream truck…brings back memories of my suburban childhood, when once a day the Good Humor truck came through the neighborhood, sending us all scurrying into our houses to beg quarters and dimes from our moms (ancient times: seventy-five cents got you a Toasted Almond bar that I think was even made with real almonds. That’s how long ago it was: nut allergies didn’t exist).

Now, however, ice cream trucks are everywhere. Don’t get me wrong—I’m a big fan of soft-serve chocolate-vanilla swirl, and don’t even get me started on the treats offered by the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck, or the yellow Van Leeuwen truck o’joy (a scoop of ginger ice cream on a warm evening? Heaven in a dish). No, it’s not the caloric temptation of these trucks that gets me down. It’s the fact that the ice cream truck has become the battlefield where my 4th grader (who now, in mid-June, thinks of himself as a 5th grader) tries to prove that he’s the boss.

A recent example:
Yes, you can have an ice cream cone.
Can I get whipped cream?
No, just an ice cream cone.
Just ask if they have whipped cream.
No need for that, you’re just getting an ice cream cone.
Fine. If you’re not even going to ask then I want sprinkles and chocolate dip.
No, just an ice cream cone.
Sprinkles or a chocolate dip?
No, just an ice cream cone.
Just a dip? Daddy always lets me get a chocolate dip.
Am I your father? Just an ice cream cone.

You are SO MEAN.

All this in front of the people standing in line on a very hot Saturday afternoon. It was only the threat of witnesses that kept me from whomping my darling son on the head and dragging him home by the scruff of the neck. (We’ll ignore the “Daddy always…” bit. That’s a post for another day.)

Needless to say, no ice cream was purchased for this charming child the following day (or the next) and there were

some conversations about Expectations and Gratitude and Privileges (all of which probably went in one ear and out the other). Liam probably doesn’t even remember this quarrel, but our battle has stayed in my mind.

They say (whoever “they” are) that you should choose your battles, so perhaps it was a little ridiculous to dig in my heels on “just” an ice cream cone. Maybe I should’ve let him have a swirl of brown slime on top of his artificially flavored frozen goo. But then again, I’d spelled out the parameters: I’d said X and Liam wanted X + 1, 2, 3…

For the moment, at least, it seems as if Liam has decided that the best way to prove himself to be a Big Kid is through constant boundary-pushing. Almost everything he gets asked to do at home (take out the recycling, put away his laundry, pick up his legos), he wants to turn into a negotiation and it’s exhausting. If only we could send him to law school early—like next year. Law school not being an option, unfortunately, I guess we’re just going to have to use the truck as practice for all those Big Battles that lurk ahead in teenage-land: I’ll have to realize that sometimes a chocolate dip is just a chocolate dip, and Liam will have to realize the lesson about the proverbial gift horse: don’t look at its teeth and don’t ask for sprinkles on it, either.

This is an original post for the NYC Moms Blog . When she’s not avoiding the ice cream truck, Deborah Quinn also blogs at http://www.mannahattamamma.com

Parenting Lessons from Matt Lauer and the MLB

2010-06-11T05:00:00-07:00

I had the Today Show on last week as I started on breakfast and was half listening when Matt Lauer mentioned that "blah, blah, blah was a valuable parenting lesson". I turned my gaze to the TV because as a parent who blogs about parenting, he had my attention. The parenting lesson he was referring to was to be gleaned from the "almost perfect" baseball game this week between the Detroit Tigers and the Cleveland Indians where the Detroit pitcher, Armando Galaragga was on course to pitch a perfect game, but was foiled by a bad call in the 9th inning by the umpire Jim Joyce.

I was lucky enough to be watching this live with my son and my husband, and it was exciting watching this young pitcher about to make history, and accomplish something that only 20 pitchers have done before him. We watched with excitement as the Indians had two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning. The batter Jason Donald hit the ball between first and second and while first baseman Miguel Cabrera fielded it, Galaragga covered first base. Donald was clearly out at first, but was errantly called safe by the umpire. Galaragga's perfect game was ruined by a bad call in a sport without instant replay. Oh well.

I think the parenting lesson Matt Lauer was referring to was that the the umpire reviewed the tape and realized and admitted that he made a horrible mistake and apologized to Galaragga. Galaragga graciously accepted his apology and shook hands and made up. A great, heartfelt human story of a mistake and forgiveness--beautiful and a great lesson for our kids for sure.

Maybe I'm feeling cynical, or just overwhelmed by the end of year obligations, but the lesson I took away from the botched call is that "Sometimes Life Isn't Fair". If life gives you lemons, you can't always make lemonade, sometimes the lemons are just too sour. On any other day, at any other time, this routine call would have gone the way of the pitcher, and Galaragga would go down in history as the 21st pitcher to pitch a perfect game. But on this night, at this time, the wrong call was made--end of story.

Life wasn't fair a lot when I was growing up. My dad told us that all the time. It wasn't "fair" that we couldn't get a new car when we turned 16, we couldn't go on a summer vacation because we had to work, and that I couldn't get the Frye boots I wanted because I already had a perfectly good pair from last year.

My kids have missed that lesson mostly because they don't hear "NO" very often, and even things that aren't "fair" often work out in their favor after pleading and cajoling. "Unfair" things do happen though, such as not making the team or not getting that part in the school play and these are the "lessons" that truly make us stronger and do build character. It will be interesting to watch Armando Galarraga and Jim Joyce post-the almost perfect game. The lesson for our kids is even though life isn't always fair, it does go on.

This is an original post to www.nycmomsblog.com

Pamela W. is the co-author of the parenting resource guide City Baby. She is also the co-founder of Mind Your Own Business Moms (www.MYOBmoms.com): a business dedicated to helping women return to the workplace.

Chicken fingers or bust

2010-06-10T12:00:00-07:00

I can understand the appeal of a children’s menu. Parents get to eat what they want, and kids get a low priced choice of things they want – mac & cheese, plain pasta, chicken fingers. Everyone is happy.
Except not. A new restaurant in my neighborhood dared to open without a separate children’s menu, parents complained, and a children’s menu was added. But maybe it’s not such a good thing.

In fact, Nicola Marzovilla, owner of I Trulli, calls children’s menus ‘the death of civilization.’ Perhaps an exaggeration, but consider: if you take your kids to Europe, or Asia, they are unlikely to encounter a chidlren’s menu. Yet kids there grown, and thrive, and eat happily in restaurants.

Many restaurants will gladly make a half order of pasta, or put the sauce on the side, and while the lower prices of a children’s menu are certainly appealing, you can actually take home leftover food from a regular priced entrée and get a second meal out of it. Sides and appetizers usually also work to feed a kid – at a Mexican restaurant, a side of rice and beans was my kids’ default choice.

I think we should focus more on what really makes a restaurant child friendly – a clean high chair, sippy cups or plastic cups with lids so liquid doesn’t go flying, organic low-fat milk instead of soda or sugary juice. Maybe some crayons and a coloring book when they’re younger, and quick service when the kids are hungry or restless.

One of my favorite non-children’s menu incidents occurred in Amsterdam, when my middle daughter, Sela, was five. She had ordered plain pasta, and when the waiter asked, “sauce?’ “cheese?” she clearly said no. Her pasta came, covered with chopped tomatoes, grated cheese, parsley and black pepper. Sela looked at it and said, “you call this plain pasta?” and I said, “yes, in Amsterdam, this is plain pasta.” And she ate it.

Restaurants, in fact, are great places to have kids try a wide variety of food. Often, so much butter and cheese is used on vegetables that even eggplant can taste good. One of my kids developed a taste for spinach because an Italian restaurant nearby served a very garlicky version that she loved. She got herself used to the idea that she liked spinach, and still eats it.

It surprises me that parents couldn’t find food for their kids at Fornino, the new Park Slope restaurant. It serves pizza and pasta – the entire menu is a children’s menu. Parents declared the menu “not so great for the breeder.” To the owner’s credit, he added a children’s menu, and though the end of the earth may be near, at least the kids can have a cheap meal before the end.

This is an original post to NYC Mom’s Blog. Read about veggie eating at Veggie Mom.

Fakebook

2010-06-10T09:00:00-07:00

My eleven year old son is mad at me. He's the only one of his peers who isn't allowed to have a Facebook account. I can handle him being annoyed with me about this, it's simple to me. I won't let him lie about his age and claim to be thirteen. That just seems wrong.

It's very clear-cut. In fact it's just about the ONLY clear-cut thing to me these days. When he's thirteen I'll sign him up myself. I have an account. I have nothing against it, and can see how it could even be a useful, if not insanely hovering, way to keep track of him, see what he and his pals are talking about, and so on and so forth.

A few months ago I sat with him to help him sign up for Facebook and it kept refusing him. Eventually I realized it was because he was too young. We tried to sign him up again, and I just kept looking at the birth-years it was offering. Having him claim to be born in 1996 was just so wrong to me.

I'm not always this clear on things. I don't have a firm stance on teeth-brushing (once a day is fine? skip it? no problem), movie ratings (I took him to see R-rated Kick-ass a few weeks ago and we both loved it), and we have very few limits on television--even just let him watch this (particularly brutal) season of 24. And in many ways I'm more permissive than many of these other moms. He's been riding the subway independently since he was ten, and did I mention I took him to see Kick-ass?

I've always enjoyed letting him be as up on what's current as he wants to be; I'm happy to send him out into the world able to keep up with water-cooler conversation. His love of Yu-gi-oh, and his ability to hold his own in a conversation about it, is what firmed up a bunch of his friendships on the first day of kindergarten, when he went off--painfully shy--to a brand new school. In theory I'd love him to have a Facebook account so he could communicate with every other boy in his class who has one. His email box is always full of new invitations to join. He can't believe I won't let him.

And I can't believe I'm the only hold-out. I'm universally undecided about things, and easily swayed.

I have a friend who feels like tattoos are the devil (I don't) and would much rather have her daughter pierce her belly button than ever ever get a tattoo. This baffles me, and reinforces for me how wishy-washy I tend to be about certain things. In my mind the piercing is so much more drastic. But tattoos or piercings? I don't know how I feel about them. And in reality, I'd probably be fine with either one.

But lying to join Facebook? I'm clear on this. I've let him order things online where he's had to check a box saying he was 18--because it was a one-time purchase and he was just the one at the keyboard handling the transaction. But claiming to be two years older to enter into this whole Facebook thing just seems drastic. He'll probably be on Facebook for the rest of his life. It's a longtime relationship, not a one-off like a movie or a pair of sneakers. I had a shtick at one point about how he'd be aging himself by two years, and that that would just be a crazy thing to do since those extra two years would just follow you online--forever (college applications, job interviews). It does occur to me though that you can probably change your age as often as you change your profile picture or your status. Maybe that's what all his friends will do (will the people at Facebook notice that some kids stay thirteen for two or three years?) Still. It just seems wrong.

And all of his friends are doing it? What are all of these parents thinking? Some of the most hyper-worried overly protective moms I know are allowing their eleven year olds to claim to be thirteen? Seriously, I'd love to know why. And not because I'm freaky-prudish about things because I am not freaky-prudish about anything. I'd just love to know how they justify it. I'm very curious to know how I--of all people--am the single unflinching parent out here. I am never THAT parent.

In order to join Facebook you have to be at least thirteen. Sorry kid. You're not.

This is an original essay for nycmomsblog. This mom's favorite things can be found at parentalapproval.tumblr.com