Silicon Valley Moms Blog

Moms to Michelle Obama: Go Solar

2009-07-16T11:27:00-07:00

A bit of green delight crept up my spine when I read this week in the Mercury News that the proposed San Francisco 49ers stadium in the city of Santa Clara will be glistening with solar panels and a plant covered living roof, if all goes according to plan. This on top of news that Santa Clara, the county that covers Silicon Valley and beyond - also scored highest in a recent tally of domestic and business solar panel adoption in the Golden State. Our green mayor Chuck Reed must be proud.This green thing is really catching on! Fantastic - I say.

But I wonder why things are moving so slowly in DC? Having shared the nation's - and even the world's delight at Michelle Obama's organic harvest last month, I'm now wondering why she's stopping there? Are there perhaps plans afoot to reinstate Jimmy Carter's 70's style solar panels (torn down by Ronald Reagan) with some new state of the art, high efficiency thin film panels? Sadly I don't have Michelle on my speed dial, so can't confirm this wishful thinking. If I did though, I'd ask her: why wait?

Barack Obama, Timothy Geithner et al are busy dispensing the billions in stimulus money as quickly as they possibly can, but due diligence takes time. So why not include a relatively small outlay to make the White House roof as "green" as its garden? It could glisten with silicon. Just think what a great stimulus that would be for the solar power industry, and the economy? Think of all the green collar jobs for installers....

If Michelle Obama goes solar, just imagine all those moms around the world who follow every move she makes...every mid-air wardrobe change (!), every visit to the Pope, every romantic dinner out on the town? I'm a mother who thinks, but all this stuff is still somehow compelling. If she goes solar, I'd bet my Prius Hybrid that it will lead to a stampede to solar.

And won't that be a very good green thing for The First Mother, not to mention Mother Earth?

Go on Michelle: Go Solar!

This is an original post for Silicon Valley Moms. Alison is host of Fresh Dialogues,an online radio show featuring all things green. Recent interviews include legendary green venture capitalist Vinod Khosla and visionary award winner Judy Estrin. Alison was recently profiled in a column by Mike Cassidy on the front page of the San Jose Mercury News, Business Section.

One Garbage Bag Later: The Beauty Of A Little Tough Love

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

There are countless kind, child-friendly ways to get a little one to clean her room. But none of them are working, today.

It's time for some Tough Love action, kiddies.

The Bug is at the age where she can dress herself in something suitable for the occasion, even if it’s only marginally fashionable. This also means that she’s discovered she can change her clothes on a whim. This morning, she changes into her favorite, fancy dress as we’re about walk out the door for the grocery store. She emerges from her room in pink ruffles, rainbow tights, Wizard of Oz-style sparkly shoes, and a Cupie Doll smile. I think the smile is an attempt to convince me to let her wear the dress. Whatever--I'm cool with it. Our favorite Safeway checker will be charmed, I'm sure.

On my way to quick-change my shirt, I discover the real reason for the syrupy sweetness. (Gads, they learn so young!) Darling Bug has emptied every drawer in her dresser onto the floor, jumped in the colorful piles, and kicked them around the room like so many autumn leaves. We’re on a tight schedule and must pick up big sister and two friends from summer camp, soon. I don’t have time for this. She needs to clean it up, herself.

“I’m too tiiiiiired,” she moans, and flops atop the pile with a huff of faux exhaustion. I ask her in my Nice Mommy voice. I remind her of the “good behavior” chart. And after ten minutes of cajoling, pleading, shouting, threatening, and growling through gritted teeth, I give up and rush her out the door.

But I have one more trick up my sleeve. If she thinks she’s off the hook, she’s dead wrong.

After lunch, I remind her once more to clean her clothes off the floor. I even offer to help her, but she has to show some initiative and start the project. I come back five minutes later and nothing has moved. She’s flipping through a picture book as she sits amid the soft clutter. I warn The Bug one last time: if she doesn’t clean up, I’m going to do it—and she’s not going to like it. She lays on her back, arms dramatically outstretched. “I can’t do it. It’s just too much,” she sighs.

I turn on my heel and walk out of the room. And return with a trash bag.

When I was 15, I was your typical, obnoxious, messy teenager. Cleaning up meant time away from my artwork, writing in my journal, and crafting notes to boys that were sure to make them want me with testosteronic intensity (never mind that I had no clear idea what to do with that, yet). But I was born to Mr. Neatfreak. Keeping my door shut didn’t do it, for him—he had the audacity to suggest my room constituted a health hazard of ginormous proportions and vowed it would get clean, one way or another. Just make me, I thought smugly. Ha.

One afternoon, I came home from school and walked into my bedroom. Let me repeat that. I walked into my bedroom. The carpet was visible for the first time in six months and I didn’t have to step onto the bed to avoid the open box of art materials spilling across the floor. I did a happy-bounce on the mattress, dropped my back pack on the side table…then thought twice and put it in the space underneath. I slid into my chair and admiringly ran my hands across the dusted, empty desk. It actually felt good to have free space around me. I might even grow to like this enough to do it myself. He cleaned my room! I have the coolest Dad on the planet. All was forgiven.

And then I saw the note.

“Dear Squeeks. You’ll find your things in the new trash barrel on the side yard. Next time, do it yourself. Love, Dad.”

Even through the red, I saw the beauty of it. As pissed as I was, the godliness of cleanliness had lasted just long enough to make an impression. Now, I'll admit I’m far from being a Neatfreak, but to this day, it makes me physically ill to live with a mess for more than a few days. Clutter drives me up the wall. I often don't have the time to keep my house as clean as I'd like, but one day, I promise you...

Yes, dear parents, I am a perfect advertisement for Tough Love. I hated my father, that day, but I got over it. And now…dang me if I haven’t become the man’s greatest disciple. Don’t drop a wrapper on the street in my presence. I’ll chase after you and give it back.

And so I begin silently putting The Bug’s clothes, one by one, into the trash bag. Her eyes are saucers. “No!” she shrieks. “Don’t throw them away! Don’t throw them awaaaaaay!”

Her older sister comes in to see what all the shouting is about and sits down on the bed, horrified. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her mouth is literally hanging open.

I tell her it’s obvious to me that she doesn’t care at all about her clothes, or she’d take better care of them. I see no point in keeping things in the house that no one wants. “I want them, I want them, I want them!” She’s bawling, now. Will you put them away, then? I ask. A tearful affirmative. Show me, I tell her. She picks up a few dresses, despairingly plops them into the nearest empty drawer. I dump out the bag and help her sort the clothes into piles. And then I leave her to it.

When I come back ten minutes later, she’s not only put them into the drawers, but her big sister has helped her put the drawers back into place. A two-for-one lesson. Gotta love that.

Maybe she’ll end up hating me. More likely, she’ll consciously forget about it until the next time I ask her to clean up a mess and am forced to gently remind her of the day. I think it was John Bradshaw who said that when we don’t know what to do in a situation, we fall back on what’s familiar—and the word “familiar” has the same root as the word “family”. Who knows? Maybe The Bug will become the next Miss Neatfreak.

One way or the other, I pity her college roommates.

This is an original post to Silicon Valley Mom's Blog. When she's not bemoaning the messes her kids make, Angela O. also writes for A World Of Words and From Basic Training To Black Sash: A Mother's Wing Chun Journey. Click here to follow her on Twitter: @AngelOrr

The Manager is Watching so Behave!

2009-07-15T04:00:00-07:00

The manager is watching.

He is the guy over there with the walkie talkie, you just missed him.

She just looked your way from behind the cash register.

There! He's the well-dressed man wearing a tie.

Sometimes, they will ask me. "Is that the manager? Which one is the manager?"

That one, this one. You, my dear misbehaving children, are being watched. I asked you not to run around jump around touch anything to behave nicely and I suggest that you do so because, yes, my little dumplings, the manager is watching.

They pause, and look around, slightly concerned. Is she kidding, or has the manager really got her eye on me?

Is mama crying wolf again?

I know the misbehavior is fueled by a sugar high coupled with fatigue. Sometimes, it's the opposite, a blood sugar low. Sometimes, the behavior that pushes limits and tries my patience is just beyond explanation. Clearly, the best place for us at times like these is to be home, away from society. Yet, it happens on occasion when we're say, lunching at restaurant (Is this a park? Well, then, let's stay seated, shall we?) or when we're, as happened recently, riding cable cars in San Francisco.

Slap!

"Oh, my gosh! What did you do? We don't hit each other - ever. Please be good, boys, we're almost at the front of the cable car line."

Slap! Shove! Push!

"Stop, please!" and then, exasperated, I invoke the manager-is-watching-you warning. "The man in the brown hat won't let you on board if you keep hitting each other, do you see him? When you hit your brother, he looked over here."

Again, a pause and this time the fighting stops. The manager is watching. Oh, how he's watching!

In reality, of course, most of the "managers" are oblivious to the role they're playing in my desperate effort to get my kids to behave. My friend Carla invokes the manager-is-watching approach as well when her girls aren't listening to her in a public place. "There's the manager, " she'll say, pointing at some random shopper. Sometimes the "manager" will shoot back a baffled look to which Carla will sweetly reply, "Yes, the Manager, " wink wink. In other words, play along, stranger guy, or else!

I try not to overuse the whole manager/park ranger/police officer/life guard/principal thing but sometimes, it just slips out. I know it's bad parenting, but there are times when I just need a manager, albeit for the briefest of moments! At the Ikea cafe the other day, my boys would not stay seated at the table. They were on the verge of being out-of-control. Spying a bus boy out of the corner of my eye, I made him the manager. Bus boys make great "managers" as do men in suits and generally people who look busy or like they mean business. He may be just a dude at Target looking for a new deodorant, but if he's wearing a red shirt, well then, he's your manager.

At Ikea, my friend Linsey leans over and calls me on my ghost manager disorder. "I heard you say the manager thing a few times, " she points out. I'm not sure if this impresses or distresses her (probably both, as it does to me) but a few minutes later I hear her try it out, "That's the manager, " she says discreetly, to her 3 kids.

He, he. I know I shouldn't gloat. As I said, it's not one of my finer parenting moments. There are better ways, I KNOW. It's not the only parenting technique up my sleeve but there are times - indeed, there are times! - when invoking the manager-is-watching approach gets me just the results I need.

But at 4.5-years-old, they're starting to call me on it, my smartie pants kids. "No Mom, that's not the manager, that's just someone walking down the street," they'll say. "No, no, that was the manager, " I assure them.

My kids stare after the man in disbelief, but they err on the side of caution and stop the offending behavior.

Okay kids, you're right that's not the manager, but I think I just saw Santa disappear into that building over there and believe me, he's watching you!

Original post to Silicon Valley Moms Blog. Akemi wants everyone to know that her boys aren't as naughty as she makes them out to be. She blogs about behavior, both good and bad, on her blog, Chalk and Cheese Chronicles and over at Mad About Multiples. She's @svtwinmom on Twitter.

Photo courtesy of babyjidesign.com

Pixorial Review and Giveaway Contest

2009-07-14T14:31:44-07:00

Pixorial is a fabulous new video site, allowing families an easy way to create new videos. Pixorial offers the chance to mail in your video or film from older formats and have them converted into editable use.

We are giving away a free subscription to Pixorial to one of our lucky readers! Details on the bottom of this post about what you need to do to enter!

Pixorial - User Friendly Video Editing
The big difference between Pixorial and other video sites is that Pixorial is EASY to use---which is a good thing for me, since I have the patience of a flea. I'm busy (and I know every mom is busy) and I lack patience---which is why I don't have a huge archive of family video.

Using the Pixorial website application is quick and painless. I've tried other video editing applications but I gave up in frustration. Pixorial is great for people who don’t have editing software on their computers or people who don't have the patience to learn about editing software (like me).

I can't wait to send in some of our old VHS videos of my oldest daughter, who was in some TV commercials when she was a baby! I've been dying to show these to her. Since my daughter is a teen, I can also threaten to show her baby commercials to her latest boyfriend if she gives me too much attitude.

To Win a Free Subscription to Pixorial
Leave us a comment about the video you'd like to share most on Pixorial.

Check out what some of my fellows moms in the Silicon Valley Moms Group had to say about Pixorial:

Chicago Moms Blog's Miss Lori (Musings from My Minivan)
Pixorial Makes Everything Old New Again

DC Moms Blog's J.J. (Caffeine and a Prayer)
Bring Your Old Home Movies Into the Digital Age

SV Moms Blog's Nicole Pelton (Not Just a Working Mom)
Pixorial Online Video Service Review

NYC Moms Blog's Nancy Rabinowitz Friedman (AgelessBody/TimelessMom)
Pixorial: Home Movies Finally Find a Home

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This is an original post to Silicon Valley Moms Blog and is sponsored by Pixorial

Cell Phone Courtesy Month: Have We Come a Long Way, Baby?

2009-07-14T05:00:00-07:00

Is it just that I'm not around rude yakkers much anymore, or have people gotten better at cell phone etiquette? It's Cell Phone Courtesy Month and I think we've made some progress but could definitely do better.

Back when I was a frequent train passenger and commuter, I heard some doozies from people talking on their phones in trains. A much-too-common-theme when I lived in England was listening to wannabe hipsters bragging to friends about their drunken exploits in London while I tried to block out the noise (this was pre-Ipod) and read my magazine in peace.

Fast forward to New Jersey a few years later. A teenager sitting next to me on the train actually told the person she was on the phone with that she couldn't discuss something because "it wasn't appropriate for the train". My eyebrows must have shot up in surprise as I tried to pretend I wasn't listening from behind my book.

July is apparently "Cell Phone Courtesy Month". Normally if you designate something as "National Anything Month" it happens by act of Congress. This one is slightly less official. It was dreamed up by Jacqueline Whitmore, an "etiquette expert" who runs the Protocol School of Palm Beach, Florida. She lists ten helpful rules of cell phone etiquette, to which I have added a few of my own:

1. Thou Shalt Not Kill -- Back in December 2008, I wrote about the new "no texting while driving" law in CA. Let's not use both hands to text when driving a vehicle that could kill someone if driven carelessly.

2. Thou Shalt Not be Inappropriate -- We could all take a lesson from that NJ teenager I overheard on the train and just draw the line at discussing personal things in public.

3. Thou Shalt Not be Loud -- As Miss Whitmore puts it "Avoid Cell Yell". No one needs their volume set at 11. A normal speaking voice works fine on the cell.

4. Thou Shalt Try to Help Out -- Whitmore reminds us to be Good Samaritans when we can. I called 911 the other day to report an elderly man walking on Highway 17 who was wobbling and weaving towards traffic. The dispatcher told me someone else had already called (another Good Samaritan) and police were on their way.

5. Thou Shalt Not Take Photos in Church -- Clearly, we need to set some rules for taking photos on our cell phones. Time magazine's recent article about the Obamas search for a church home in Washington mentioned presidential discomfort with the three-ring circus that happens when they attend church. On Easter, President Obama went to St. John's Episcopal Church in D.C. where worshippers snapped photos of him with their cell phones on their way up the aisle to receive communion. I'm an Episcopalian, and believe me, we should know better. Really. Snapping photos with your phone has no place in church. And making someone famous feel like they're on display while worshipping is just wrong.

Maybe cell phone etiquette boils down to two simple rules:

First, do no harm. And second, help others when you can.

This is an original post to SVMoms. When not thinking about cell phone etiquette, Erica struggles to teach two toddlers to be courteous and blogs at wellthoughtoutspot.

A Recollection: Life as Mom of One Year Old Twins

2009-07-13T05:00:00-07:00

Now that my twins are seven, I found myself recollecting what it was like when they were one year old. I got a clear image of walking them in the stroller to a Twilight Concert in Palo Alto and it reminded me of how far we've come: how needy the twins used to be, and how comparatively easy they are now. So, stroll along with me in a trip down memory lane:

A sunny day, Spring, 2003. I leaned into my red SUV, the only jogging stroller big enough to carry my litter, my twins, “my great big buckets of moona-fish,” as my mom said when she saw them for the first time. My mom always said, with an unapologetic broad smile, that her eccentric nicknames “just sounded right.”

Pushing down the stroller bar, I set my cherubs into fits of glee as we did wheelies over the spiky death stars that dropped from the scalloped canopy onto the sidewalk. I hammed it up, swerving the stroller around real and imagined obstacles to make them laugh. A poke from the gargantuan woody burrs or a sharp rock could flat-tire us and we’d never roll to the outdoor concert. To the west, the last-to-rise foothills between Palo Alto and the Pacific tossed off their fuzzy fog blanket for the day, and prairie-dogged over the trees.

My wide load and I passed the HP garage, the “Birthplace of Silicon Valley.” The feel of the stroller’s foam grip always irritated me. Guy-Guy yammered the entire walk. He was bi-modal. He was either sleeping or talking, usually about a “frozen” (fire engine) or a “make-up truck” (pick up truck.) His sister Kitty Cat was slung next to him, naming neighborhood animals. For each one, she needed me to say some variation of “I saw it, too!"

After twenty minutes of pushing, we pierced through the hubbub of University Avenue. I was sweating. As the street noise died down and commercial buildings turned shingled California bungalows, we were in the brackish space between suburban traffic sounds and music billowing from the park. I couldn’t make out the melody yet, or decipher whether or not I knew the song, but I started to bounce my sandaled feet in time to the beat.

We crossed Everett Street, entering Johnson Park, where hundreds of people were already assembled in the dip in the grass bowl. Older people who didn’t have to haul a stroller and kids to the park sat in lawn chairs. Moms sat on blankets chatting, gesticulating over the loud music, and handing food to their kids. Clusters of kids ran, weaving through the chairs and crowd. Hippie women, those who pre-dated me and my high-tech boom brethren in Palo Alto, danced alone, as though at a Grateful Dead reunion tour.

This was the same park where a few months ago, I overheard some Spanish-speaking nannies talking about me and my kids. If they wanted to identify us, they could have whispered to each other, but they were loud. I thought they would have said something about the six-foot tall mom and her twins.

“Mira! La muy Blanca Blanca y el gordito,” they said.

I smiled to myself and shot them a look. I looked too white to understand Spanish. I was, indeed, pale at the time. And, yes, one-year-old Guy-Guy was snuggly fat – his perfectly fitted full-length pants were actually shorts made for five year olds. Kitty Cat escaped their commentary, but most said, with her brown hair and big smile, that she looked like my mom. I loved that, especially since my mom had passed away less than a year before.

We were a giant drill-bit boring into the crowd. I smiled apologetically and made warm eye contact to augment my thanks for yielding to my “pardon mes” and “excuse mes.” I parked near the sandy playground and unclipped the kids’ shoulder restraints, which I used more for child-control than for safety. Like a maitre d’ I swung open the playground gate, hoping my twins would be lured in by the circa 1970 cement slide or the wobbly wooden bridge on the play structure. No go. I suggested, in my enthusiastic sell-job mom tone, careful to emphasize the noun they would understand, that they “go play in the sand!” They knew I was trying to dismiss them. My twins saw me as their overgrown triplet playmate who would dig with them, yet I wanted to hear the music while they played at a slight distance from me.

They got frustrated.

“Mamamamama!” they implored.

“Just a minute,” I said, lilting, or maybe I mooshed up the phrase from saying it too much, like my mom used to. “’Saminute,” she’d say, exhaling heavily through her nose while writing letters in her proper blue fountain pen.

With my twins, I’d already abused the promised “one minute” too many times, not that they knew what a minute was. I always took too long to bring my attention back to them, as far as their one-year old brains were concerned. Soft little hands grabbed mine and pulled some more.

And, as much as I wanted to listen to the music, maybe move to it a bit, too, I was drawn back to mommydom - the role that demanded 100% of my attention, 100% of the time. I had to make sure they didn't eat sand, that they didn't climb up the play structure and fall off, and that they didn't fight with themselves or other kids. That was the reality that the music tempted me to ignore. I let the music fade into the background as I turned my attention where it belonged: back to my one year old twins, their diapers, their frustrations, their funny phrases, their love.

Alix is working on a book about wind energy. This is an original Silicon Valley Moms Blog post.

Lesson from my Grandmother

2009-07-13T03:30:00-07:00

I just returned from a week long trip visiting my Grandmother in Arkansas with my son and my dad. For every meal, there was four generations eating, drinking, and enjoying one's company. Every day I asked my Grandmother for a recipe for one of her famous desserts or prodded her to tell stories from when she was a child. Since I only make it out to visit her every four years I realized that this could very well be the last time I see her alive and I wanted to soak up all that she was willing to teach me.

My Grandmother, Louise, is an 89 year old woman. Raised on a working farm in rural Arkansas, she still rises before the sun. She's been growing tomatoes her whole life and can make a Blue Ribbon berry cobbler without having to follow a recipe. She's tough and sweet. She's buried two of her four children and her husband. She hates asking for help but generously gives it. She's survived the real Depression and has been known to hide money in a tin can in her closet.

I've always thought of my Grandmother as a picture-perfect 1950s housewife. She can rise at dawn to make biscuits and gravy from scratch, she still irons all of her clothes, and is the best baker in our family. My Grandmother stills keeps the same housecleaning schedule that she created for herself when she married my Grandfather at the tender age of 17. It's simple enough, every day has one major task plus light dusting and vacuuming. Her house always looks perfect. And she's never complained about how much work is involved in raising four children, keeping a tidy home, and cooking every meal without any help from anything in a box or can.

In my Grandmother's presence, I've always felt more than less-than-perfect. Sure, my full-time job is one in Corporate America and not one as the ultimate homemaker. I have a cleaning service; partly because I'm too busy to do it myself but mainly because I'm just too lazy to do it myself. I pride myself on making a healthy dinner nearly every night of the week, but have been known to refuse any request for breakfast that doesn't involve pouring milk over a bowl of cereal. The only time I'm baking is when I'm using a Betty Crocker cake mix for my son's birthday.

How did my Grandmother ever have time to do everything she did? More importantly, how was she ever able to find joy in what has always felt like agony to me?

One evening when she was showing me how to roll out dough for Fried Pies (a true Southern treat), I knocked over a cup of flour on the kitchen floor. Already feeling like a failure in the kitchen, my eyes started to well up with tears. I started to wipe up my mess as before the cloud of flour even had a chance to settle. I apologized and told her than I could never be as good of a baker as she.

My Grandmother bent over and started to help me wipe up the mess. And then she did something I never expected. She laughed. Looking at me straight in the eye she said "You can spend your whole life wiping up and you'd never even have a bowl of beans to show for it."

I couldn't believe my ears! My Grandmother was giving me permission to be messy. Or at least, creative license to define cleanliness. I realized that my Grandmother had spent the majority of her life taking care of other people and cleaning up after her children. She has clocked thousands (maybe even hundreds of thousands) of hours in the kitchen. But that still didn't stop her from growing old or save her daughter from Crone's disease or prevent a husband from dying before you had a chance to really grow old together.

It reminded me of the famous John Lennon quote "life happens when you're busy making plans." Only, in my Grandmother's case, she was busy making pies.

I know that my Grandmother doesn't have any regrets about how she lived her life. She loved her family and loved taking care of them. I even found out that she's never felt accomplished as a baker. With every recipe we made, she would tell stories of how her mother could always do it better.

When the week was over, I regretted not booking a longer trip. I felt like my Grandmother had so much more to teach me. I felt guilty for never taking the time to really get to know her before. Every time she pulled out a recipe, I asked if I could help. I would ask question after question. Part of me wanted to be able to do like she can. But a bigger part of me just didn't want her to stop talking, stop telling stories, or stop teaching me.

I've been home for three days now. My luggage sits, half unpacked, on the living room floor. The dirty clothes are practically begging to be washed. My kitchen sink sits full of last night's dishes. I'm sure if my Grandmother saw my home, she'd be appalled out how I keep house. But thanks to her, I've never been more proud of my mess. My Grandmother taught me that it isn't about how I keep my home, but about how I love the people who are in it.

Life happens when you're busy making pies. And I don't want to miss one moment of it.

Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog. Robyn Roark is a full-time working mom. During the day, she bosses around men that are old enough to be her father. At home, she gets bossed around by a little boy who refuses to wear pants. She writes at Who's the Boss?

A Multi-Generation Vacation

2009-07-12T11:55:00-07:00

My two oldest children and I just got back from an amazing 12 day trip to Germany. The country is beautiful and offers so many things for all of the senses but what made this trip so special was that we were joined by my parents who are both originally from here.

Traveling with people ages nine to sixty eight may seem like a challenge but we had a fantastic time. The five of us were excellent traveling companions. We all fell into our own little roles.

My dad was our driver--he was the only one brave enough to tackle the Autobahn, streets that were more like sidewalks and aggressive European drivers. I was the co-pilot--inputting destinations into our much needed GPS system and repeating "her" directions to my dad "Turn. left. HERE!" My mom was the entertainer--keeping my kids distracted on our sometimes long car rides with "guess what this German word means in English" games (like "ausfahrt" which always prompted giggles and means exit). And my kids were our hotel critics--giving a thumbs up or down to each hotel we stayed in (the Hotel Schiffmeister with sinks in the room was their favorite). But the best part, for me, was seeing and experiencing this wonderful country through each generation's eyes.

My children were eager to go on adventures, learn bits and pieces of the language and try new foods. They were in awe of castles (at least the first 5) and loved the Marionette Museum and Salt Mine tours in Salzburg. My son who considers catsup a sauce, tried smoked trout, sauerkraut and braised calf cheeks (a supposed German delicacy). By the second day "danke," auf wiedersehen" and "bitte" were words that easily rolled off their tongues. Both my son and daughter came out of their usual quiet, shy shells and gladly joined their cousins for a walk to the park and the innkeeper's kids to see their new kittens.

For my parents, this trip brought back many childhood memories and their first language (which was rusty at first but soon became polished). We were able to hear their stories as well as see the settings. My dad told us of how he would walk from one village to the next to play with his friends as we drove into his village. He shared with us memories of going to church on Christmas Eve with his family as we sat in the very pews he once prayed in. While visiting the Bodensee, he told us how one of his most prized childhood memories was riding on the boat with his mother on a special trip she arranged just for him.

My mom had similar stories as we visited visited the Black Forest. She reminisced about walking in the woods during the winter with her sister and leaving hay behind to feed the deer. She told us how much she enjoyed hunting for wild mushrooms and collecting wild berries as we strolled through the dense woods near Triberg finding berries of our own.

For me, to relive some of my parent's childhood memories and create new ones along with my children was priceless. Throughout the trip I was filled with emotion. I was touched to see my dad take my son and daughter by the hand while walking through his childhood village. I was stirred to see my father and children admire the ornate details of his church alter. I was moved listening to my daughter practice German phrases with my mom as we drove through the snowcapped Alps. I could go on and on.....

This was a vacation that we will all remember for a very long time. One that was based on childhood experiences from the past and present. One that I will always cherish and one that I know my parents and children will treasure too.

This is an original post to SVMoms blog. When Sidney is not longing for another trip to Germany, she can be found blogging at Parent Grapevine or working on her new business Picture This! Fundraising.

The Parking Place

2009-07-12T03:31:00-07:00

We moved recently and in the weeks leading up to the big day, I made it a habit of driving by our new house. I was curious about my new neighbors and whether the street was a busy parking street. Parking is always an issue in Palo Alto. Little did I know how big an issue it would be for me.

I had noticed a car that was always parked in front of my new house and it never seemed to move. Always in the same place. The first day of the move, I put a nice note under the wipers asking if it could be moved so it would be easier to move in. The car didn't move. Upon closer inspection, I noticed it did move occasionally but always returned to the spot in front of my house. One day, when my son and I came home, my next door neighbor introduced herself and said it was her car. I said the usual pleasantries (after all, I DID want to start out on the right foot) and asked if she would mind not parking in front of our house as my husband needed the spot when he returned from work late in the day. She became hostile. Wow (I thought), the previous occupant must have really ticked her off because she didn't know me long enough to dislike me (yet).

She proceeded to tell me that she lived with her husband and college-aged daughter. They had three cars. Their garage was used for storage (and it was after all, ONLY a 1 1/2 car garage) and she hoped we could share six feet in front of my house. Technically no one owns the right to park in front of anyone's house - parking is public. But, it is the un-written neighborhood law that you are entitled to use the space in front of your house. There is a three foot swatch on her side of the fence that is hers. It is not big enough to park a car so she parks further into our parking. She said she had hoped we would "share". I replied that I was happy to share as long as I was not the only one " sharing". She stomped off while I was talking. I stared after her not believing her reaction. Not a good way to start a relationship.

My neighbor is a taker. When she bought a third car, do you think she thought about where she would park it? By the way, her driveway is big enough to hold two cars side by side but it would require a little technique getting in and out - obviously too much effort for her. Also, there is a recently vacant home directly across the street from her that would be a great place to put that third car - but she doesn't use that either. It probably is too far to walk. No, she wants convenience and she's taking some of my slice of street. And, she wants me to "share". Right.

I feel petty writing this but I thought about it and decided there must be plenty of people who have a neighbor who takes first and asks later. As I write this, the car is still parked right where she wants it. If it was me, I would feel badly. Not because of the parking but because of the selfishness and general lack of hospitality to a new neighbor. But, I'm a sap which means I'll probably never get that spot.

Myrna write about her life with teens at Tangerinetimes.com
This is an original Silicon Valley Moms Blog

Downtown Palo Alto, Why All The Vacant Stores?

2009-07-11T14:43:45-07:00

Today my husband and I were driving on University Avenue in downtown Palo Alto and for the very first, time, noticed ~~way too many~~ a large number of commercial properties, vacant. In the six years that we have lived here, this was not apparent. You see, life has gone on as usual in Palo Alto. We have heard about the economy and loss of jobs. We have heard about layoffs, foreclosures and businesses closing. But that was happening "somewhere else". Not here. Not in the heart of Silicon Valley. Not in Palo Alto.

Truth be told, most people appear to be doing alright. Yes, there have been loss of jobs. Yes, many are tightening the belts. But if you ask Palo Altans, most will say that they are hanging in there and able to get by.

You don't see foreclosure signs on every block. Heck, I have yet to see one foreclosure sign in the entire town!

But today, on this glorious afternoon, I became AWARE and scared. What is happening to our town? Is "it" finally catching up with us? Or I have just buried my head in the sand, hoping to avoid the inevitable... that every town, including Palo Alto, is suffering. That small mom and pop shops simply can't afford to run their businesses. That our bookstores, restaurants, clothing stores and banks simply can't stay afloat. And that in Palo Alto, we are just like everyone else. It just took a little longer to feel the wrath.

It is so much easier to live in ignorance, than face the truth. But now the truth is glaring right back at us. Here, in Palo Alto.

This is an original post to Silicon Valley Moms Blog. Jill Asher is the co-founder of Silicon Valley Moms Group and drove around Palo Alto today, taking these pictures on her iphone.

Central Air Conditioning: The Debate Heats Up

2009-07-11T11:35:00-07:00

What do married couples argue about? Most people would say money, sex, and housework without even thinking twice. If the couple has kids, they might say the kids, or how to parent them. For my husband and I, add a fifth issue: air conditioning.

We renovated our bungalow and added a second floor to it five years ago. By the time we got around to replacing the central heating system, there wasn't much money left. We didn't want to tap any further into our home equity loan, so we decided to forgo the central air conditioning, even though we knew it would cost less if we had it done along with all the other work. We knew that second floors get hotter than ground floors, but our ground floor is always so cool (it's raised and always has cool air circulating underneath the hardwood floors), so how bad could it be?

Bad, apparently. Very bad. At least according to Alfie. The ground floor is as cool as ever, but the heat rising from the ground floor now goes to the second floor, instead of out the roof. And even though we have a couple of nice, shady white birch trees out front, the afternoon sun shines straight into our bedroom and the kids' bedrooms. Certainly it was a lot hotter upstairs than I had expected, but I figured we could cope with it since there aren't that many days when the weather is that bad. He wanted to put central air conditioning in. I didn't. Too hot, he said. Too expensive, I said. And the fight was on. Every summer for the past five years, we've argued about whether we ought to get central air conditioning installed.

Things really came to a head last year when he started working out in the bedroom in the evenings when he came home. We bought a portable air conditioning unit, and my sister gave us a window unit that she wasn't using, but he wanted to leave both units on the whole day, even if no-one was there. Waste of money!, I cried. Exactly -- central air would be so much cheaper to run, he pointed out. But it would cost so much to install, and why pay all that money when we'd only use it for a couple of weeks per year?, I asked. Speak for yourself, he retorted. Back and forth, thrust and parry, with no end in sight.

The problem is that we come from such different backgrounds. I come from the Philippines, where almost every day is like a hot summer day in Palo Alto. Even though I haven't lived in tropical weather for fifteen years, my body has years of practice in coping with heat. Just give me a glass of iced Diet Coke and an electric fan pointed straight at me, and I can cope. Alfie, on the other hand, grew up in the gray skies of England, where practically every day is like a wet winter day in Palo Alto. Like many Englishmen, he rejoiced in the sunny weather when he first came here, but after fifteen years of living in California weather, he says he's done with extreme heat, so he's more willing to spend on the air conditioning than I am.

This year we bought a solar-powered attic fan and installed it on our roof. It has worked like a charm, drawing the rising heat up and out and away from our house. The difference in temperature between our first and second floor has gone from 8 to 10 degrees on a hot day, to less than 5. Temperatures have definitely cooled, Alfie's and mine included. He wants to turn the air conditioning on less often, and I never argue when he does. He's stopped trying to convince me that we need central air conditioning -- and perversely, I've started thinking that if he wants it that bad, we could probably afford it at this point. Those units are pretty noisy and ugly, and they are less efficient. Hmmm... so maybe it is a fight about money, after all.

Original SV Moms post. Bonggamom writes mostly mushy stuff about her beloved Alfie on her personal blog, Finding Bonggamom. She saves her Men Are Pigs rants for twitter, girls' nights out and now, the SV Moms Blog.

When You Don't Speak the Same Language as Your In-Laws

2009-07-11T03:50:00-07:00

The first time I met my future mother in-law, she poured coffee into my cereal.

It was a simple misunderstanding. My French boyfriend (a.k.a. future husband) and I had just arrived in Paris the night before. And that morning in his mother's kitchen, (boyfriend/translator was at a customer meeting), she mistook my frantic gesturing and my pathetic attempt at speaking the language to mean I take coffee IN my cereal.

Obviously the last minute crash course I took in French did me little good. And the sheer terror I felt over meeting his parents for the first time, combined with culture shock--never been to France before, much less outside the US--and suffering from coma-induced jet lag, apparently had further deteriorated my already shaky language skills.

I may as well have well been mute.

I spoke very little during my first visit to France.

Lucky for me, my boyfriend’s mother knew a few words of English. And contrary to the coffee-in-cereal mishap, we got along great. She immediately took pity on me and later that day took me on the metro to visit the Notre Dame de Paris.

After my boyfriend and I married, I vowed to improve my French. I took a few more courses. I thought my husband would be a big help. But I was dead wrong. After coming home from working 10 to 12 hour days as an engineer in the Silicon Valley, he found it extremely difficult to switch gears and revert back to his native language, especially since he’s still trying to master English.

Our half-French kids, sad to say, are also far from fluent. So far their French language immersion (other than the few times our daughter visited France, when she was too young to remember) consists of their father randomly reading to them, at a speed reading pace, from one of the thousands of French children’s books sent from his mother. And exposing them to an unhealthy barrage of French cuss words while their father is driving.

I'm hoping that one day our children will be extremely motivated to learn the language in school. Once they wake up and realize that not only is French NOT lame; it’s pretty cool.

But I have noticed they have picked up a little bit of the language. Even if they don’t care to admit it.

I’ve come a long way too. After 12 years the language thing has gotten a lot easier. We see my husband’s parents at least once a year, which helps.

Somehow, me and my in-laws muddle along with the language barrier. We can now do small talk. My mother-in law refers to the melding together of our two languages as Franglish. (Although her English is much better than my horrific French). Now, I couldn’t string together a coherent sentence in French for the life of me (other than, Je suis fatigué), but for some reason I can pick up a lot of what my husband and his folks are saying.

I knew the Franglish thing was working for me when one day, while standing in line at Nordstrom Rack, my mother in-law and I struck up a conversation with the woman next to us. We were busy chatting away when the lady suddenly turns to me and says:

Your mother in-law is speaking to you in French. And you are answering her back in English. How cute.

Nevertheless, just once I would love to speak more than a few, simple broken sentences in French.

Get beyond the small talk.

When I complain to my husband the other day, he laughs (his parents have been staying with us since mid June). Well, maybe that's why you get along SO well, he says.

He does have a point. I have heard horror stories about family arguments. And politics. Have you ever heard a French person rant about politics? Believe me, it ain’t a pretty sight. (Thank GOODNESS the Bush era is over).

But still, one day I hope to become more conversant in the language. Enjoy a lively debate. To pick my mother in-law’s brain about her years spent growing up in the Jewish district in Paris.

In the meantime, it's good to know I have the Franglish as a fall back.

Photo courtesy of Al Lanni via Flickr Creative Commons. Original Post to Silicon Valley Moms. Lisa can also be found on blog on the wall where she muses about life, her French husband and kids and living in the Silicon Valley.

PBS Super Why: Behind the Scenes

2009-07-10T13:00:00-07:00

The Silicon Valley Moms Group was thrilled to have the opportunity to attend events across the country to get a behind the scenes look at PBS's show called "Super Why". First we had an event in New York City and then in DC Metro. Then the events moved to the West Coast in Los Angeles and Silicon Valley.

At the Los Angeles and Silicon Valley (pictured left) events we had a behind-the-scenes look at SUPER WHY! with its Creator and Executive Producer, Angela C. Santomero, and Lesli Rotenberg, PBS' Senior Vice President of Children's Media.

PBS KIDS takes a 360-degree approach to a child's world, far beyond television, finding ways to offer a child learning opportunities throughout their day - including Web, hand-helds, books and toys, community events. Super Why was created on research-based literacy curriculum and uses an engaging approach with lovable superhero characters (Alpha Pig, Princess Presto, Wonder Red, and Super Why) that kids can relate to in order to build the fundamental skills that kids need for the "power to read".

At the event, Lesli Rotenberg (pictured right) gaves us a overview on the research and development of PBS KIDS shows and Angela C. Santomero (pictured left) showed clips from a SUPER WHY episode, walking attendees through all the elements that are needed to make shows educational and fun for kids.

After the Event, attendees received a "PBS KIDS media toolkit" to help them navigate some media choices with their kids, including SUPER WHY! content, activities and media tools to get plugged in - or unplugged! - for the week.

The Children and Media section of the PBS website has at-home curriculum and many additional resources for Super Why and children’s media in general. PBS is also on social media such as Twitter (PBS Parents , Jeannine Harvey, Kevin Dando, Stephanie Aaronson, Angela Santomero) and Super Why on Facebook.

Listed below are blog posts written by the attendees:

Learning With Media PBS Kids from Jane Maynard of Silicon Valley Moms Blog and This Week For Dinner.com TypePad - Edit Post

The right to choose...what your kids watch on TV from Stefania Pomponi Butler of CityMama

Super Why gets kids down to the letter by Laura Clark of LA Moms Blog and Los Angeles Story

Super Why Post from PBS and Super Why Camp Activities by Nicole Pelton of Silicon Valley Moms Blog and Not Just A Working Mom

Television, Yes or No by Lorraine Akemann of Keep Me Smiling

Review: Super Why Reading Camp by Elisa from Mother Talkers

The Why of Super Why by Alexandra Beverly Hills

Super Why... why not? by Lexi of LA Moms Blog and thirtyfingersandthirtytoes.com

Super Why is wonderful by Stacy Libby of Laptop TV Mom

Change the Story by Emily Rosenbaum of LA Moms Blog and Wheels on the bus

The Magic Behind PBS Super Why by Beth Blecherman of Silicon Valley Moms Blog and TechMamas

My kids heart PBS Super Why and I do too: by Linsey Krolik of Silicon Valley Moms Blog and Me Too You.

Super Why Super Wow by Kim Postlewaite of Silicon Valley Moms Blog and Tippy Toes and Tantrums

Super Why is Super Cool by Jessica Rosenberg of Silicon Valley Moms Blog and It's My Life

Learning with PBS Kids and Super Why by Ana Picazo of Silicon Valley Moms Blog and Bonggamom. She also chronicled each day's Super Why activities:

Day 1: Super Why super reader summer camp day_22

Day 2: Super Why super reader-summer camp-day. 23

Day 3: Super Why super reader summer camp day_24

Day 4: Super Why super reader summer camp day_25

Day 5: Super Why super reader summer camp day_26

Coffee, Tea ... or First Class?

2009-07-10T12:10:00-07:00

Let me pose a question to you moms out there (and dads). At what age would you feel comfortable abandoning your children? Wait, hold on and let me rephrase that. At what age would you feel comfortable allowing your children to self-manage themselves on a plane ride so you and your spouse can enjoy the benefits and luxury of First Class on the last leg of your plane ride home (after 10-days of 24x7 vacation with the kids)?

Well, I quickly discovered my answer to that question. In the wee hours of the morning my family and I embarked on our return flight from our east coast vacation. Visions of my Tempur-Pedic bed floated through my mind as I tried to get some shut-eye on the plastic airport bench between flight segments at O'Hare Airport in Chicago.

Meanwhile, while I was trying to get some shut-eye, my husband decided to check our seat assignments because he was sitting in a different part of the plane for the last leg of the trip home. He was informed by the ticket agent that two First Class seats were available for us, but it would mean being separated from the children. He called out to me and asked what I wanted to do. Without a split nanosecond of hesitation, and shamelessly in front of my three children, I answered "Go for it!" I think I may have actually exclaimed it at the top of my lungs so that the whole terminal at Chicago Ohare could be clear on my choice.

So, in answer to my own question, at a shameless 51 years old for me, and 11, 14 and 17 years for the kids, I definitely felt comfortable abandoning my children (ok, allowing them the independence to self-manage themselves) on the last part of our trip home. I probably would have done it if the kids were younger and at least potty trained. I just couldn't take another leg of the trip sitting on top of a quarter-inch thick piece of foam for five hours. Crying babies and ill-mannered children who kick the back of your plane seat just didn't rest well with me. I'd had enough of that. So when my husband announced our chance to upgrade (free I might add, because of his frequent flier status), there was no question that I would leave my children in the poor section of the plane so I could immerse myself in the upper class section.

Just like the episode of Seinfeld where Jerry gets upgraded to first class and Elaine is relegated to coach, there are two distinct worlds on an airplane. And I quickly discovered how easy it was to become part of that Business and First Class world. I mean I could actually lie in a prone position in my First Class Lazy-Boy-Like seat while the flight attendant fluffed my pillow and offered Bloody Mary's.

Prior to boarding our flight, I told the kids we'd let them take turns sitting with one of us so they could benefit from our seats. But I forgot the FAA regulation prohibits changing seats enroute for safety reasons. The FAA person who wrote that regulation was probably a mom who'd traveled a lot with her family too! Thank goodness!

So for the next few hours my husband and I dined with silverware and table linens, watched whatever we wanted to on our own individual TVs, took a restful nap in our lazy-boy thrones and got such individualized attention on the flight it was insane! While the ratio of flight attendant-to-passenger in economy is about 100 to 1, in First Class it is about 10 to 1. And we were loving every minute of it. I realized how easy it would be to get used to this First Class lifestyle. My husband and I took a moment to go downstairs (yes, we were aboard a 747 where the First Class seats were located) to check on our kids. It was as if we left Beverly Hills for East LA. The kids were all huddled up in tight quarters, begging for a bite of our hot chocolate chip cookie, asking what other food did they serve "over there". But the curtain was drawn separating First Class from the rest of the plane. We had to leave them quickly so we could go back and savor every minute of First Class while we could. Because once we deplaned, we knew we'd have to go back to our humble home where we didn't have people serving us and fluffing our pillows and asking what beverage we'd like.

Now that we are back home, I can always go back to that little piece of First Class in my memory bank. It was nice while it lasted!

When Tina is not in First Class, she is taking photos or blogging about life in Saratoga with her business partner Kristina. Check out www.parentgrapevine.blogspot.com and www.picturethisfundraising.com.

Feeding Our Kids: Affordability versus Health

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

It seems like every time I turn on the radio or reading headlines on my Google page, I am finding something related to the food industry. With the recent release of the documentary, Food Inc., and Michael Pollan's book In Defense of Food, coming out in paperback, the topic of what we eat is almost as prevalent as the Michael Jackson memorial and the recession. I haven't seen Food Inc, because after listening to interviews, I think he is pretty much preaching to the choir. We already eat "whole foods", locally grown, not processed, etc. And in fact, I know that we are like many others in Silicon Valley who shop at their farmers' markets and tweet about the latest organic soy orange frozen yogurt they ate for lunch. We are teaching our kids to eat whole foods as well, and my 4 year old still prefers a bowl of strawberries or watermelon to pretty much any other food and last night asked for broccoli and pasta, no cheese please, Mommy.

So, yeah! Yeah for us. But what strikes me most about the food talk is that we are lucky we can afford this healthy food for our kids. It's easy to teach kids about eating healthy when you have weekly access to a variety of food at the Farmer's market and live in California where great produce is available all year round. I remember my graduate school days living in Boston when in the winter I thought I would throw up if I saw yet another apple or orange and craved good, fresh fruit.

But the access to the good food isn't the biggest issue. The bigger issue is that when processed food, you know all that food in the center of the super market or at [fill in the name of your favorite fast food joint] are so cheap, it is hard to teach those healthy choices to the kids. In Food Inc. a family is in the supermarket and the kids want a pear, which would cost about a $1. The family can't afford it. Instead they can go to Burger King and buy a full meal for a family of four for $11. I would argue that I can feed a family of 4 for less than $11 cooking at home, but that still isn't the point. This family chose fast food not just for the convenience and that it is genetically engineered to taste good but also the subsidies make it ridiculously cheap. We spend 5% of our income on food when we used to spend about 18%. But we spend 18% on healthcare and we used to spend about 9%. Our bad eating habits are costly in the long run and of course, our children will feel the biggest burden.

I worry that we don't do enough to fight this and feel like while I can afford to teach my kids' healthy living, it shouldn't be an economic choice. It should be a lifestyle choice. Everyone should be able to afford to buy their kids a pear. The farm lobby is powerful, so the best choice I can make is to not support all the products they produce. Continue doing what I do, and I guess that's what those of us who can afford to do can do so that those who cannot can benefit. And maybe write a letter or a hundred to our representatives to make the right choices for our kids.

Felicity waxes on political and kid issues when not running her own company, volunteering, running or playing outside. She writes and tweets regularly on flexible work and work-life balance at Cubes&Crayons and Outside the Cube.

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

2009-07-10T02:00:00-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Past Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Clubs have included:

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

Duran Duran and Me

2009-07-09T17:21:11-07:00

Sigh. Double Sigh. Deep breath in SIGH. Exhale SIGH.

I just realized that I missed my one opportunity this summer to see the Duran Duran concert in Silicon Valley. I had no idea that my (let's say this together!) all-time-favorite-band-in-the-entire-world-and-don't-even-try-to-dispute-that-they-are-utterly-awesome-and-the-best-band-ever though-Bono-and-U2-is-a-close-second, Duran Duran was in the bay area and played at the Mountain Winery on July 8th. Yup, I totally missed it.... And if I knew that they were here, I certainly would have moved mountains, playdates, camp drop off, camp pickup and even (ahem) work, to make it to the concert on time. I would have even gone alone and sat in the back row, singing along with Simon, John and Andy. Ok, I would have arrived ten hours early, just to be there to greet them and let them know that I am their biggest fan of all time!

Did I ever tell you Duran Duran stories from my teenage years? No? Really... I haven't? Well... sit back and read on.....

The year was 1984 or 1985. Duran Duran was touring the NY/NJ area and they were ALL THE RAGE (as they should have been!). A group of friends from my high school decided that it would be fun to skip school, take the bus in to New York City and try to find the band mates. I (of course) jumped right on the let's-ditch-school bandwagon and headed out to the Big Apple.

I have no idea what we were thinking. The teenage brain still baffles me..... Ummm.. Let's get on a bus, ask random folks what hotel Duran Duran was staying at, somehow try and maneuver our way up to that hotel, and then do what? We were just silly and star stuck teens that wanted an adventure and it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time!

(Yes, I know that some day I am going to have to explain to my kids that I ditched school... along with my pot smoking days, which came years later. I pray that they will forgive my misgivings. And if they dare skip school or smoke pot, I am going to go ballistic on them)

So there we were, on a bus to New York City and putting our plan in to place. Our first goal was to find out what hotel they were staying at. Playing detective, we opened up a the New York Times and every teen-bopper magazine to find clues about where they were staying. We knew that they were playing at the Meadowlands, but somehow my friends knew that they always stayed at a NYC hotel when on tour. It did not take long for us to conclude that The Plaza Hotel was our destination, thanks to these magazines!

After getting off the bus, we cabbed on over to the hotel. Of course, there were thousands of other girls standing outside the hotel, just hoping to get a glimpse of our idols. Screaming on their top of their lungs, "Simon, come out! Andy, I love you! John, will you marry me?", we joined the riot.

Then, one of my friends decided that standing in this mass of girls was going to get us nowhere. Bold and incredibly brave, she put on an "english accent" and marched right up to the front desk, pretending to be Simon Le Bon's girlfriend. Confidently, she asked for the key to SImon's room. I kid you not..... they looked at her as if she was off her rocker, and told her (us) to leave the lobby.

Utterly humiliated and tales between our legs, we left.

We then created plan number two. Somehow, we were going to get on to the elevator and search every floor. We thought that if we landed on the right floor, there would be people partying and hanging out. Then we could introduce ourselves and hang with the band. (LIKE THEY WOULD REALLY WANT TO HANG OUT WITH A GROUP OF PIMPLY FACED TEENAGERS????)

We NEVER made it anywhere close to the elevator. Security was tight and they knew that thousands of teenagers were trying to do the same thing.

To make a really long day short, we never got passed the font door. We tried. We really tried. But in the end, we never saw the band mates arrive or leave the hotel. For all I know, they weren't even there while we were scamming to get near their hotel room.

I have always wondered - what if we actually saw them? What if we had a few minutes of time with them? Alone? The reality.... I was an awkward teenager. I would have probably frozen and run away and hid. I wasn't the knockout beauty queen that a rock star would want. Heck, at that age, I barely kissed a boy!

But the journey itself still sticks with me to this day. The journey of trying to find your "idol". I loved their music. I loved their wild hair cuts and the rubber black bracelets that went up their arms (thank you Madonna!). I would play their record over, and over and OVER again. I would imagine having John Taylor as a boyfriend (yes, I found him incredibly sexy!). I hung their pictures all over my bedroom and dreamed that they were hanging out in my room, playing music and singing TO ME.... and to this day, I have the Duran Duran record case (Arena) hanging over my computer.

Did I ever make it to a Duran Duran concert as a teenager? No. There was never the right opportunity or my parents said, "No." I can't really remember why I never made it... and then came college, other bands, my career, my family... and time has moved on and the years have gone by. But the love in my heart for this band and the memories it brings back, make me smile. And feel good.....

Duran Duran, if you come back to the bay area, please let me know. Seriously, I will be there, reliving my teenage memories and singing along with you. (even at the ripe old age of forty!) Fondly as an adoring fan, who is no longer obsessed with stalking you, but simply in love with your music.

Come on! Let's sing RIO together! Years later..... (you have to admit that they are still smoking hot!)

This is an original post to SV Moms. Jill Asher is the Co-Founder of Silicon Valley Moms Blog. And just if you are wonderfing, she never got busted for ditching high school that day.

A Tale of Two Bluies

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

We patted ourselves on the back when we bought two identical lovies for our second child. No more frantic searches of the house and the car at bedtime while a crying child refuses to go to bed alone. Being overcautious, I probably would have bought a third lovey, but I had to fight an aggressive mom at the store when I bought the two blue dogs that would become a central part of my son's life.

The aggressive woman was from France and this was back when our economy was headed downward, but Europe was still going strong. Pottery Barn Kids was this woman's discount store, as she filled her basket indiscriminately while using her stroller to block any other competing shoppers. She ignored my polite "excuse me's," as she slowly lifted her elbows outward like an NBA guard blocking the lane. Undeterred, I lunged in for two of the blue dogs, but was stopped from picking up a third when the woman jammed her stroller into my shins. Two dogs were really all we needed anyway, I reasoned, especially because my plan was to never let my son know more than one existed.

That plan - as they tend to do when children are involved - went laughably astray.

My son took to Bluey quickly as a baby, especially when he transitioned into a crib. Yet we managed to exclusively use one Bluey, keeping the backup Bluey hidden away in our closet until a friend warned that both lovies need to have about the same wear and smell or else the child would never accept the decoy lovey. My friend had made the mistake of not rotating lovies with her daughter and when the main lovey was lost, her daughter was quickly able to spot the differences between the original and the replacement and continued to cry enough for the replacement that my friend's husband scoured their town until he found their daughter's lovey - trapped on the street under a car tire. After waiting an hour for the car's owner to return, the lovey was saved.

Another friend's daughter lost her only lovey at the county fair, prompting the girl's grandmother to spend a day searching the fairgrounds for it, only to find the blanket lovey in the hands of a farmer, using it as a chamois to dry his pig.

Lovey pitfalls are more plentiful than I had imagined. Almost every family has a story about the beloved bear left behind in a hotel room or late nights searching eBay for an identical replacement.

We successfully managed to rotate the second, much cleaner Bluey into use. Between the rough treatment administered by my son and multiple washings, soon both Bluies now look equally battered. And despite many trips through the laundry, both continue to smell like a hobo.

Things worked perfectly for some time. If main Bluey was ever left behind in the car, we'd quietly pull out the replacement to save a late night trip out to our unattached garage. It was no problem when I once went out at bedtime with main Bluey in my car because backup Bluey was hidden away at home. And it shouldn't have been a problem one day when I threw main Bluey into the washing machine while taking the alternate out of the house with us.

Except, I forgot that our cleaning lady - who didn't know about the dual Bluies - would be stopping by while we were out. When we returned later that afternoon, my son went into his room and gasped. As I walked in, he gleefully exclaimed, "I have two Bluies!" He was holding one in his hand and the other one, fresh from the dryer, was sweetly resting on his pillow. "Hooray!" he said as he scooped both of them into his arms. My response was much less optimistic.

Now we take both Bluies everywhere, which adds complexity to even a short trip to the market. We now have a rule that the Bluies must stay in the car if we take them out with us, which has helped a little, but it's mostly a logistical headache. Not only do I need to watch out for my two children, I have to keep a constant eye on the Bluies. One is almost always getting dropped or stepped on, but I need to keep them close because they are invaluable at bedtime when they make my son feel safe enough to drift off to sleep easily. Not much is worse than having a child in bed with the lights out, inches away from what I consider my finish line for the night - when the kids are asleep and I have sole control over my time - but the sacred lovey is nowhere to be found.

Because they mean so much to my kids, the two Bluies and my daughter's bear Snowy have found their way into my heart. I wouldn't be surprised if as my kids grow up and away, I'm the one who ends up clinging to their old lovies for comfort.

Originally posted to the Silicon Valley Moms Blog. When not counting lovies, Kimberly also posts at Tippy Toes and Tantrums.

Colleges to parents: Grow up please.

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

We just returned from college orientation for our youngest son. He leaves at the end of summer, and our eldest takes off for an overseas 3 year college experience. Lots of departures, lots of emotions. However, having two years of college under his belt, I am somewhat "broken in" by "A." We have lived through the bout with pneumonia, periods of no money and too many teen bodies living in an apartment.

Its interesting, though, that the colleges both essentially said the same things at their respective orientations. That our generation-us-the parents of today-are the most over protective and hovering that they have seen in quite awhile. Mind you, the admissions people are very nice, they have to be as they are fully aware that it is us whose checks ensure their livelihood. In gossamer language, they have built an entire day for parents to talk about "the separation process"-uh-for us adults mainly. We were regaled with one story in which an admissions officer received a phone call from a parent asking if it was ok to tape their son on the first day of classes. Tape their son. On a college campus. Hon, this ain't kindergarten. I don't think sonny boy would be waving nicely at the camera.

In another instance, we were politely reminded that professors do not take kindly to being called over their students grades. WTF? Parents do that? There is such a thing as privacy laws once little Johnny reaches college-which means that they have to sign off on the things they will allow you to view. (Funny how it is always "ok" to see the financial page.) The colleges really do their darnedest to try not to be rude but get the point across that your kid is in college now, so back-off-but-we-are-here-when-you-need-us. This letting go thing happens in increments, starting waaaay before college. I now see how important it is to keep the lines of communication open, even if what you are hearing makes your insides turn electric blue. After all of this, I can really take in the fact that this "helicopter parent" phenomenon "thing" is really a...."thing." Colleges invest a good portion of their admissions process to talking to and "gently reminding" us parents that yes, this has been an issue and please don't call your children's teachers.

My friends tell me that I have come a long way from my hiding in the bushes as I watched them walk to school (I didn't want them to see me-the worried mom..) My friends would drive by and see me in my pajama pants in the neighbors juniper bush, and we'd laugh about it. But hey-I did what I had to do for my frayed nerves. Whatever gets you through the night-or, in my case, the morning. I guess I have come a long way. You really have to, or risk having your offspring resent you (even more than they do-and I promise, they will resent you at some point) Its a baby steps thing. In my case a size 10 steps thing, so I guess my leaps have had to have been bigger. Ask me in the fall.

Original post to Silicon Valley Moms Blog.

He Can Still Make Me Smile - Michael Jackson

2009-07-07T18:02:08-07:00

Michael Jackson. He can still make me smile. He can still make the tears fall down my face. Through his music. It was and always will be his music.

Many people have blogged about Michael Jackson and what he meant to them. I refrained from doing so myself probably because of that. But after watching his touching memorial service today, I was moved to write.

There have been many famous faces and personalities that have passed on. I remember when John Lennon passed away while I was at Stanford. Several students grieved. I didn’t understand it. I mean, they couldn’t have known the guy personally, how could it affect them so? I remember when Princess Diana died in a car accident. It was sad, I know. I was moved by the grief everyone showed not her actual passing. How could I? I never knew her, nor would I ever have met her.

But Michael Jackson is now gone. I never knew him. I only knew his music. I knew of his life through the media and as we all know, cannot trust everything said or written about him. I ignored the stories and him over the last many years. But not his music. If I ever needed a pick-me-up, I’d throw the Jackson 5 on my CD player (now iPod) or play Beat It or Dancing Machine or well, you name it (so many to choose from).

I watched the Michael Jackson Memorial Service and it was beautifully done. This program was a wonderful tribute - it covered the music he either sang, created or collaborated on throughout his life. I was happy to know that I knew them all…and wanted to hear more. I learned some things, too. I didn’t know he was in the Guinness Book of Records for the most monies given to charities by a pop star. I’d heard about his trips to Africa and around the world but didn’t remember the details. The memorial ended with “Heal the World,” a song that never fails to bring a smile to my face. It gratified me to know there were so many people that held a special place in their hearts for Michael Jackson regardless of the ridiculous amount of gossip that has come about over the years. It hurt my heart to watch his daughter emotionally declare her love for her dad and break down in tears at the end.

But why did his passing affect me like this? I think that like many other people of my generation, I felt as if I “grew up” with him. His music was always in the periphery, a tangential part of many phases of my life. My husband doesn’t really get this. Perhaps for him, it would be another musician. But for me, though I didn’t know Michael Jackson, his life and his passing were very personal. Perhaps it’s appropriate that I watched the memorial alone, free to remember how much Michael Jackson’s music touched me, free to let the tears fall without feeling embarrassed about it.

I sometimes wonder if my own daughters will ever identify so closely with another musician’s work as they grow older. These past few days, my daughters have been asking me to tell them stories from when I was a kid. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to come up with something interesting. But now, I think I remember a few.

I will always remember a little 6-year-old me in a quiet deserted family room carefully lifting a Jackson 5 LP onto the turntable, setting the needle down and waiting. The first notes play, a smile crosses my face and I begin to move. It was joy. Pure. Simple. Joy. Thank you, Michael Jackson. God bless and keep you.

Original Silicon Valley Moms Blog post.

While MommyTwinGirls recounts her Michael Jackson memories to her girls, you can find her at It's Never Easy But It's Always Fun, recounting the unique challenges and joys of raising her twins at Mad About Multiples and posting samples of her work from her latest photo shoots at Solheim Photography.

Photo credit: From an album in Mommytwingirls' collection.