Philly Moms

Silicon Valley Moms Group Acquired By Technorati Media

2010-11-16T01:11:19-08:00

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

Whose vacation is it, anyway?

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

Today was our last full day in Rome. And if I'd had my way, I would have spent it wandering the narrow medieval streets, popping into boutiques. Or taking the tram up to the new MAXXI contemporary art museum.

Instead, I was burped at by a brontosaurus and sneezed on by a mammoth. Oh, and I spent about $60 for the privilege. All over the city, the Time Elevator advertises itself. It's one of those simulated motion rides, all about the history of Rome. And for the last 4 1/2 weeks, my kids have wanted to do it.

They have enjoyed many of the other activities that we've done (activities chosen, by and large, by the grown ups). But they've also put up with countless visits to churches and shoe stores, lots and lots of walking, and numerous "picnics" involving yet another salami sandwich on a bench, because their parents didn't want to pay for another restaurant lunch. Oh, and they put up with a lot of time in the apartment, away from their friends and toys.

So the least I could do, on our last day, was let them pick the activity. My son had done this "ride" three years ago, and really wanted to go again. And my daughter wasn't tall enough three years ago, so she was excited. And we got there, and they talked us into adding the 15-minute "Ode to Life" show to our ticket. It's a 5D adventure! (Who knew there were five dimensions? Apparently mammoth spit is one...) Our seats moved. Little creatures hovered in front of our faces (if we kept our glasses on). It rained on us. "Rats" tickled our ankles during a bit about the plague.

The whole thing was pretty bad. Even by the standards for these rides; I've been on enough of them by now to know what to expect. But the kids were so happy. My son declared it was "even better than he remembered!!" And now they'll leave Rome with this one additional happy memory.

After all, it's their adventure, too.

This is an original post to Philly Moms Blog.

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.

Reality Bites

2010-06-22T05:00:00-07:00

We're in Rome, Italy -- three weeks into a five-week stay. Our three children are all experiencing it quite differently. Our oldest is soaking up the history and just being here, loving feeling like an "expert" on all things Roman. Our daughter is seven, and she's enjoying the shopping and gelato.

Our youngest is four, and is having the toughest time. Not that it's horrible, it's just that he's too young to really appreciate much of what the city has to offer, and frankly, he misses his toys. On the other hand, he's more interested in speaking Italian than the other kids; he even likes to order for himself in restaurants. And he is really enjoying learning stories of things that might have taken place here: gladiators and the Colosseum in particular.

So it's a shame that the cold hard truth keeps getting in the way of his experience here. During our visit to the Colosseum, we talked up gladiators and fighting. We happily pointed out where the wild animals were kept, and fantasized about what animals there were. So naturally, he turned to me -- in all seriousness -- and said "Mommy, can we come back here tomorrow and see the real gladiators fight the real wild animals?" I don't even want to think about the look on his face when reality rained on his parade, and he found out that he will never see real gladiators fighting real wild animals.

Like imagination, history is just so much more fun. (Though maybe not for the gladiators and wild animals.)

This kid has a wonderful, active imagination. It's a shame when reality gets in the way. He really really wants to be a superhero when he grows up. To be specific, he wants to be half of Superman, half of Batman, half of Flash and half of Spiderman. I want him -- for as long as possible -- to think he can be. His older brother and sister constantly try to set him straight (on the math, as much as anything else), and while it might not be the right thing to do (especially as far as the older children are concerned -- am I really asking them to lie?), I'm constantly shushing them, asking them to let him hold on a little longer.

But the little guy has started to ask some questions, and I can't lie directly to him. Not about everything. Yesterday, we were walking past a fancy building, the kind with figures carved all over the doorframes and over the windows. I pointed out some really cool tigers -- my son's favorite animal-- with particularly fierce-looking faces. When he saw them, he was quiet for a minute. And then he turned to me, with his big blue eyes so serious, and asked "Mommy, can we be animals when we grow up?" And I knew exactly what he'd been thinking during that quiet minute, and as hard as it was to let him down, I said "no." And it sort of broke my heart.

So yesterday, after he climbed over 300 steps to reach the top of St. Peter's Dome, my son looked down on a crowd of people below. And when he said to me "Mommy, look, it's the gladiators on parade," I just agreed with him. Just so he can hold onto his world a little longer.

This is an original post to Philly Moms Blog.

When I Write About My Children

2010-06-21T05:00:00-07:00

I've been asked over the years, by non-bloggers mostly, if I ever worry about how much I write about my children on the internet. Or even why I do it at all. There are certainly people that would not take this road, and I understand that.

Five years ago I started my personal blog, in part, as a way to record some of the funny things my older son said and did. It quickly turned into a way for me to document the fun and not so fun parts of parenting him, a child that we were discovering had special needs.

My older son knows that I am a blogger, although I won't even pretend that at seven he really understands what that is. He knows that I write and people read what I write. He knows that some of my words are in a book. I tell him when I write about him, and I show him the pictures that I post of him. Right now he thinks that is "cool" and he even asks sometimes when I'm sitting down at my computer, if I'm writing about him again. If I tell him no, he wants to know why not. Someday he may not think my writing about him is "cool." And if that time comes and he asks me to stop, I will. If he asks me to remove what I have written about him in the past from the public domain, I will seriously consider that as well.

I won't have secrets from either of my children. I don't like secrets. Secrets hurt people. While there are things I would never talk with my kids about now, when they are older and ready for it, and can understand, there will be no secrets. I have put considerable thought into it over the years, as to why I write about my personal life and my family, and what I might be risking. I assume that some day my children will read my blog. I hope I will be there with them when they do read it. I hope they will find no surprises. I hope that our relationship is such that they will know they can question anything that I have written. I also hope that as I've documented the good and the bad of our journey, especially the difficulties of parenting my older son, that when reading it they will never doubt how much their dad and I have tried, and will continue to try, to do for them. Or how much we love them both! Because in spite of everything, or perhaps because of everything, I love both of them beyond what mere words can express. In some ways, the difficult times just help us appreciate the easier times more.

I've often referred to my youngest son as my sunshine when talking with friends. He balances out our life so nicely. There are times when I think if it wasn't for him my husband and I really would fall off the deep end. But if my youngest is my sunshine, my eldest is most definitely my lightening. My power, my strength. Because of him I have learned things, become things, worked harder, than I ever thought possible. So someday, if they ever do read my words, they will know how much they gave me. And I hope they will see that while the journey was long, especially for my oldest son, as in his painting above, their Dad and I provided them the covered bridge to keep them safe along the way.

This is an original Philly Moms Blog post. Kristine also writes on her personal blog, Mommy Needs Therapy or a Bottle of Wine, where she chronicles the good, the bad, and the crazy of her life as a mother, wife and woman. You can also find her on Twitter as momneedstherapy.

Savor the Baby

2010-06-18T20:47:00-07:00

Every night around 6:45 PM, all heck breaks loose in our home. There's screaming and hollering, kicking and flailing, and tears, lots and lots of tears. That's because, every night, around 6:45 PM, I start to put my 13 month old daughter to bed. She's a really active toddler who never seems to get tired, and we haven't quite mastered her falling to sleep on her own yet. I have to tell you...bedtime is rough.

Tonight was different, though. Tonight, while my toddler was screaming at the top of her lungs, face red and wet with tears, I looked at her and remembered...she's just a baby. Each day that she wakes up, I never know what to expect from her. I don't know what new words she's going to surprise me with (a few days ago, she said "t.v." and handed me the remote control), or what new feat she will accomplish (she now discards trash in the trashcan on her own!). Because she grows and develops at the speed of light, and since I can barely remember life before her, it's easy to forget that she's only been here for a very short time, and not only is she Mommy's Baby, but she's a baby baby. Like, for real!

She doesn't crawl anymore, is not as interested in sitting in my lap as she used to be, has to be in the mood for kisses, has an opinion about what she likes and doesn't like, and says "bye-bye",picks up her things, and walks to the door when she's ready to leave. She's like an itty-bitty little boss! Bedtime is different, though. In the bathtub, she loves to splash, and reaches for me if water gets in her eyes. When I'm putting her pajamas on, she cracks up when I blow razzies on her belly, and loves to play peek-a-boo. As I nurse her before laying her down, she rubs my face and looks into my eyes as I stroke her cheeks and hair, and it's during this time that she lets me give her as many kisses as I want! When it's time to lay her down,the struggle begins. I realized tonight, though, that since I'm losing a little bit of my baby to the toddler every single day, I'd better savor what's left of these baby moments, every single one of them. Screaming, kicking, tears and all.

This is an original Philly Moms Blog post.

Working to Pay

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

As a non-profit professional who makes a fair wage, I know that I am fortunate to have a job in this economy that I like. And as mom who works outside of the home, I know that I am even more fortunate to have a daycare on-site at my job where I can visit my daughter anytime I want. Really, it's just a great situation overall. Well, except for one little thing. Okay, one big thing. Paying for daycare is putting me in the poorhouse.

I didn't realize how much daycare really cost until right before my daughter was born. There was never a question about where she would attend because I knew I wanted her with me, so I didn't inquire about prices until right before I left for maternity leave. When I was given a price sheet, and I thought the weekly rates were monthly rates, I thought about giving notice to my job right then! I knew there was no way that I would be able to pay what they were asking. Fortunately, my job began offering a 30% discount in the daycare as part of our employee benefits while I was on maternity leave, so I was able to afford the expense. Barely. Even with the discount, it still takes about a third of my salary to cover the cost.

I could use some help, and although help is out there, it doesn't apply to me. The Child Care Information Services of Philadelphia (CCIS) offers subsidies to help working parents pay for childcare. Their income eligibility guidelines are more reasonable than most other state or federally funded programs, but, like most other state or federally funded programs, they don't take anything except for gross income into consideration. They don't look at the fact that I'm paying health insurance for my daughter and myself, or the cost of housing, electric, or food. They don't even take the amount of taxes that get deducted from my check into consideration. Oh, and even if I did qualify, there is a 7 or 8 month wait for new families to receive funding. Except of course if you receive public assistance and you find a job (at least 20 hours a week) or start school, then you're bumped to the top of the list. When the Counselor at CCIS explained all of this to me, I said to her, "I wonder if I should just quit because I don't know if I can afford to work." She replied, "You wouldn't be the first."

It's already tough enough to leave my baby and to give up at least 8 hours a day with her, but it's like salt in a wound to work and give most of my money towards daycare. So, what are my options? I could go part-time at my job, I could find another job that pays more, or I could start my own business... I'm still trying to figure it all out. I just know that working to pay does not work for me, and it's going to be up to me to find something that does.

Original post to Philly Moms Blog.

Let’s dance

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

So, my car was in the shop for a month while the mechanic replaced a fuel pump and assorted parts that seem unusually hard to secure given that the car is foreign. And old. I got it back about a week ago, and yesterday I noticed some fluid leaking from the undercarriage. After contorting himself to try and figure out what it was and where it was coming from, my husband declared it oil, leaking from some age-pitted connector tube (I’m sure he called it something else but I’m not going to bother trying to dredge my memory banks for the actual term – see third paragraph for why). The car was born in 1998, by the way.

Last weekend, our computer’s hard drive went down. Irreparably. We carried it into our not-so-local Apple store. “Oh,” said another customer as we walked by the iPad table where he and scads of other people were fiddling around on the testers, “I remember that model.” During our appointment at the Genius Bar, the tech (nice guy, very sympathetic) weathered giving me the information that the drive was done and that there was no way to retrieve any data (i.e., my two completed novels, a manuscript-worth of short stories and poems – most of them not backed up since the last ice age, if ever). “But, you’ll get a fresh new drive under your extended warranty,” he said brightly. “With that – and I’d suggest you bump the memory to help it run faster – you should be able to get another two or three years of good use out of it.” The computer was born in 2008.

Age-pitted. Slow. Creaky foreign-born parts and irretrievable data. Story of my life. No, really. I was born in 1960, and this week I turn that age my mother taught me to dread. In case I was in danger of forgetting, I got my AARP card in the mail not so very long ago.

Around that same time as that plastic reminder of incipient decline arrived, I was doing research for a poem framed by Greek mythology (alas, a poem that now lives only in my imperfect memory) when I happened across a description of the Delphic oracle. Who, though she sounds like a place, was a woman. In the Wikipedia entry I stumbled upon this (emphasis mine): "Echecrates the Thessalian, having arrived at the shrine and beheld the virgin who uttered the oracle, became enamoured of her because of her beauty, carried her away and violated her; and that the Delphians because of this deplorable occurrence passed a law that in the future a virgin should no longer prophesy but that an elderly woman of fifty would declare the Oracles and that she would be dressed in the costume of a virgin, as a sort of reminder of the prophetess of olden times." I think I might have howled a little. I know I dashed off at least one despairing email to a friend.

An elderly woman of 50? Elderly?! Ay, ay, ay.

I know. The enlightened thing is to not get hung-up on a number. Small comfort when your 15-year-old daughter looks at you critically one day and says – casual as you please – “Mom, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think your butt is starting to sag.” Or, when you’re watching a movie together and your daughter grimaces when the characters (Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson) kiss. “It’s just not right,” my daughter explains. “Old people doing that stuff is just gross.”

Emotion knows nothing of enlightenment.

The problem as I see it, is that I’m entering an in-between place. Twilight or dawn, the border between countries, neither here nor there. A liminal fairytale space without characters to represent me: too young to be wise wizard or gleefully wicked witch; too old to be the questing knight or the princess with ever-dancing shoes. Or, if you prefer a non-fantastical analogy, I’m neither Archbishop Desmond Tutu endearingly shaking his septuagenarian bones on the sidelines when his South African Bafana Bafana team scored a goal at their first World Cup match, nor Shakira enticingly shaking her thirtyish ones on stage during her performance at the World Cup’s opening concert.

Thing is, nobody – even in the grand mythic cycles and fairy tales - knows a safe way to traverse those threshold, liminal spaces. They are always fraught with danger. Mirrors speak hard truths there. The land of the body can become sere when the right questions can’t – or won’t – be asked. Parents see their children setting off on perilous journeys for which they can provide neither safeguard nor road map. And we witness the young (seemingly unwounded and unsullied in ways we can hardly remember) catch a glimpse of the Grail we’ve long sought.

It’s worse for women. At least, that’s what my mother used to say. According to her, women disappear at fifty. Even extraordinarily beautiful women – the princesses turned queens. And if I think of the last time I saw Michelle Pfeiffer or Rene Russo or Sela Ward in a movie, I’m tempted to agree with her. Or when I hear stories about dating-after-fifty from some of my single friends.

Still, there’s got to be something in between enticing and endearing, right? I’m trying to find the right adjective – one I can embrace with heart, spirit and body – but maybe I won’t hit upon it until I get a few days, or months, or years, past the 5-0 marker.

Meantime, I’m figuring the trick is to keep dancing anyway. Maybe not on the forefront, maybe not on the sidelines, but somewhere in between. I seem to remember I had a pair of those ever-dancing slippers somewhere, back when I was a princess young and rash enough to go dancing all night, every night. If only I could remember where I put them….

Original post to Philadelphia Moms Blog.

When she’s not watching World Cup matches and busting moves to vintage David Bowie songs, Sabrina is managing editor at Philadelphia’s Catholic weekly newspaper, a writer of short speculative fiction and poetry, and mom to a teenage daughter. You can read her blog about faith, family, food and immigration at Following the Lede.

Photo credit: Samantha Fein.

Is Inner Drive on your kids map to Success?

2010-06-14T05:00:00-07:00

I've been mulling over the story of Abby Sunderland since first hearing she was lost at sea earlier this week. As a mother I am especially relieved to hear she has been rescued and is safe. As a mother I can also imagine the confusing combination of feelings her parents have experienced, not only the last few days, but for the past several months since Abby first set sail. I have no interest in judging the parents. I know that has been done, and will continue to be done. But as I've written before if you don't know the entire story, if you haven't walked that specific journey, perhaps you should withhold judgment. I don't know the entire story and I don't have teenage children. And, while I had a certain level of ambition when I myself was 16, heading off on my own on a journey around the world would never have crossed my mind.

So what is it that motivates a sixteen year old to attempt a solo journey around the world? I can speculate that in Abby's case it was a combination of a passion for sailing, a need for recognition, perhaps a need to best her brother, or maybe just the desire to be the best at what she loves. Abby clearly has an "inner drive" to accomplish something amazing. And that has had me thinking, what drives some children to do the amazing? Why do some children push themselves harder to achieve than others?

I myself was one of those children that early on set goals and wanted to "be the best." My drive was in academics and somewhat less so in music. I distinctly remember in eighth grade deciding that I was going to graduate from high school with a 4.0 grade point and give the valedictory speech at commencement. And I did. While I haven't reached every goal I have set since then, I have always set them for myself, often without even realizing that was what I was doing. Over the years I've come to understand that my inner drive is as much about personal satisfaction as it is my need for recognition.

I was never pressured by my parents to succeed in any of my endeavors. If anything, they tried so hard not to push me that I worked even harder to be the best to try and gain their attention and make them proud of me. So while I have a fairly good understanding of my own drive to excel, why did I have that drive at all when other kids seemed quite content just enjoying their youth.

There is a seven year old in my son's karate class that already shows this "inner drive." He was born prematurely and still has coordination issues and problems with his fine motor skills. Yet every time I see him in class he is focused and powerful and pushing to do his best. You can see the determination on his face. This is a child that even at the young age of seven I know is going to accomplish great things.

So I wonder about "inner drive." Is it something you can teach a child? Personally, I don't think so. I think you can be a role model for them. You can encourage them to succeed. And you can teach them skills. But I think that "drive," that extra inner push to excel, to be the absolute best, is either there or it isn't. And while I hope my own children don't decide they want to sail around the world alone, I do hope they find something they are equally as passionate about and that within themselves they find their own "inner drive" to do their best at something they love.

This is an original Philly Moms Blog post. Kristine also writes on her personal blog, Mommy Needs Therapy or a Bottle of Wine, where, when she isn't hoping her son will find the "inner drive" to wipe his own butt, she chronicles the good, the bad, and the crazy of her life as a mother, wife and woman. You can also find her on Twitter as momneedstherapy.

Virtually addicted -- are you and your children at risk?

2010-06-11T02:00:00-07:00

"Mom, I'm going to rot my brain" my son says to me, as he settles down at the computer to play a game of Virtual Villagers or takes his Ipod out to watch a video or text a school buddy.

Sometimes he'll put a new strategy up on the chess website he's created -- but more often he's enchanted by the endless moving pictures, choices and sounds of the online world.

Actually, my son is a little old for some the games he plays online. Many of his tween peers are already playing virtual shootfests of mutually assured destruction. He still knows the difference between pixels and reality.

But it's my 15-year-old daughter I'm more concerned about. She has Attention Deficit Disorder, and when she returns from school it is a constant struggle to keep her from talking on the phone while watching television, or messaging a friend while I think she's writing a school paper.

I knew instinctively that this constant flood of stimulation wasn't a good idea. So I was upset, but not surprised to learn what I suppose I already knew: too much online multitasking scrambles your brain.

Did you know that researchers are finding that when you are juggling multiple online tasks you actually become less efficient instead of cleverer? That this kind of stimulation may affect your ability to focus when you want or need to focus?

Scariest of all -- those who are studying the relatively new phenomenon don't know whether this effect is permanent or not.

The implications for parents, and for their kids are huge. We can't hold back the waves of "progress" -- but we can control, to some extent, how much media we allow our kids to expose themselves to while they are living under our roof.

Figuring out how strongly we have to battle our text and phone and laptop addiction before breaking free to take a walk or read a book is a great place to begin.

This flood of new technologies threatens to complicate our lives as much as they promise to make them easier.

Remember the old television anti-drug ads that used to try to impel us into safety? This is your brain. This is your brain on drugs.

This is your brain when it's viewing art or solving a problem or planting a rosebush.

This is your brain veering from Blackberry to laptop to pager.

Apparently, the two look different -- and that difference, whether we like it or not, will help to shape the future.

This post is original to Philly Moms Blog.

Thanks to Wikimedia Commons for the David Shankbone picture.

When Elizabeth's not chained to her computer or trying to get her children to take a hike, she's working as a pastor and blogging at www.nocheapshots.blogspot.com.