Catch Me If You Can

I just got home from a business trip. Focus groups in Rosemont, Illinois.

My plane was basically a flying Greyhound bus, allowing me to experience the full glory of moderate-to-severe turbulence, with the added bonus of a seatmate that spent the whole flight vigorously rearranging his man bits. To be fair, I ate a bean burrito before I got on the plane, so sitting next to me probably wasn’t any picnic either.

I hadn't traveled in a while, and before I left I was on this kick where I was trying to be a more hands-on mother, although I think I've succeeded mostly in annoying the Spawn, who made it clear that they would MUCH rather be watching the latest rerun of The Suite Life With Zack And Cody than play Chinese Checkers with me for the "twenty hundredth" time.

Because when I left for the trip, they did not appear to be devastated.

The Boy barely looked up from the Wii game he was playing, although Manager Dad said that two hours later, he put down the nunchuck and looked around, eyes glassy and bloodshot, and asked, “Where’s Mommy?”

The Girl walked me out to my car, claiming that she wanted to spend every last second with me before I left. But I’m pretty that she wanted to make sure that I was REALLY leaving, so that she could have Manager Dad all to herself.

As for me, of course, I missed the little buggers...but...

A hotel room.

With a king-sized bed and a high-speed internet connection and The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants Two on demand.

A restaurant where I got served a hunk of tuna so rare, they must have just waved it over the stove before they put it on the plate.

Mints on the pillow and little green leaf-shaped soaps.

*Sigh*

Oh yeah, I had to work and stuff, too. But I don’t really want to talk about that right now.

Not until after October 16th, anyway.

If you're tired of hearing about corporate fat cats that are living off the teat of the shareholders, why not take a moment to donate to Mrs. W's "Excited To Read" classroom project? All donations go directly to buying books for her special ed students.

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It's Good To Be Queen

Manager Mom is back in the house!

My 2008 "It's Business Time" West Coast Road Trip is over, ending on a climactic half-day strategic partnership event at the mad glamorous Denver Airport Marriott Doubletree.

I was gone a LONG time. I missed five mornings and was supposed to miss six bedtimes. But thanks to an unexpected travel karma niblet, I got home four hours early - just in time to catch The Boy in the middle of his bath and get myself a wet naked hug.

"Manager Mom," you are probably not thinking to yourself, "How could your coach class travel plans POSSIBLY have gotten you home EARY?"

American Airlines gets zero credit for my triumphant return. What happened was that meeting had a lot of high-falutin biggywigs there, and one of them canceled their travel plans at the last-minute, which meant an open seat on the corporate jet.

So being the selfless team player that I am, I stepped up and volunteered to be The One. And while I could pretend that I felt bad for the coworkers that didn't get on the plane, what I really want to say is, OH HELLS YEAH, bitches, THAT is how Manager Mom likes to ROLL!

I have unilaterally decided that I am NEVER AGAIN going to be subject to the cramped seating, anger-filled atmosphere, and virulent flatulence that are the hallmarks of today's air travel. From here on out, I'm all about sinking into the sweet leather seats of the Gulfstream G-Whatevermodel, Cristal in my pimp cup, posse at the ready.

There's just one TEENSY problem. I am WAY too low-level be able to ride the jet on demand. My lack of status was made abundantly clear when I tried to eat a Caesar salad that I found in the galley, only to have another passenger yank it from my hands so that she could give it to someone who was actually important.

I hope I'll never have to travel again, because coach travel will be pretty hard to take after this.

P.S. can somebody PLEASE teach me how to use photoshop?

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Whine And Sympathy

Day 4 of the 5-day bidness trip.

To date, I've been enduring repeated assaults by conference speakers who think that mumbling every single line on an 8-point type, chart-laden presentation is the path to corporate enlightment. I've been burning through Bullshit Bingo sheets at the rate of roughly 18 per session.

And I somehow managed to lose my bra - in my own hotel room. It was in the drawer when I went to bed but gone when I got up, apparently stolen by the same Underwear Gnome that lives behind our washing machine and eats The Boy's favorite cartoon-character underpants.

From a practical standpoint, the loss of the bra doesn't REALLY matter since it has been scientifically proven that I have the tiniest breasts in the world (and verified by the internet community - my #1 Google Search referral is from people entering "small breast mother"). However, I have to present to a large group of people tomorrow; from a confidence-building point of view, I'd prefer to holster the poached eggs instead of going commando.

But what really hurt was my last phone call home, when I found out that The Boy and I were no longer on speaking terms. He is angry with me for going away. And MD told me that The Girl has been taking my picture to bed with her because she can't remember exactly what I look like in person.

To make myself feel better, I went for a run, and spaced out listening to a playlist of self-pitying mopey emo songs. I came back to consciousness and realized that I had run six miles. All in one direction - east of frigging nowhere. Since it was getting dark, I had to run the six miles back and was feeling progressively crappier with every stride.

So when I finally made it back to the hotel, I vomited spectacularly all over the shiny marble floor. Right in front of a group of fellow conference attendees that were gathered for a cocktail reception. Those delicious fish tacos I'd had for dinner last night? Not nearly as charming during the encore presentation. And although the chunk-blowing was probably from overexertion, my hypochondria tells me otherwise. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to die from tomato-induced salmonella before I get the chance to atone to MD and Spawn for my absence.

I hope that doesn't happen. I'd like to leave Spawn with some heartwarming moments of actual togetherness, rather the fading impression of my voice on the other end of a cell phone. Although MD should make out pretty well, thanks to a hefty payout from my life insurance. I'm sure he'll find himself a new gold-digging slut on Match.com in no time.

Spawn WILL like me again someday. Won't they?

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Mobile Phone Mothering

Yesterday, I was on my way from the office to a business dinner with one of our vendors. As a general rule, I look forward to these about events as much as a drug-free root canal, but last night I was happy to be going because I got a night off from cooking and listening to everyone bitch about my meal selections, and the dinner was going to be at a really good Indian restaurant that I've been wanting to try, and the most exotic restaurant meal my offspring will tolerate is at California Pizza Kitchen so this was my best shot at ever getting to eat there.

So I was feeling guilty - not about missing an evening with the family, but about my lack of guilt about the missing of the the evening of the family, if that makes any sense whatsoever.

And then I spotted this:You're just going to have to trust me when I tell you it was the kickest-assingest rainbow I have EVER seen.

So I called home and told Manager Dad to hustle the kids outside so they could see it too. And they went outside and he put me on his cell phone speaker, and the kids were all noisy-excited sharing the pretty prettiness of the rainbow together, and the fact that I was only part of it through a staticky mobile phone connection instead of in person made me feel a little bit like this: But then I went and had a glass of wine or three and some tasty Saag Paneer with the nice vendor lady, courtesy of her company's expense account.

And I woke up The Girl this morning and she gave me a sleepy hug and showed me this:



And she said, "Mommy, I'm so glad that you called, or we would never have known to go outside and look at the rainbow. It was the most beautiful rainbow that I've ever seen."

So I guess I get to chalk this one up to the "good mom" column after all.

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This Random Act Of Motherhood Was Brought To You By The Streptococcus Bacteria

So, honey, how was your day?

Because I spent most of mine trapped in our house with the deranged Pod Preschooler who has taken possession of The Boy.

Some background: his day care has been under siege from an especially nasty strain of strep throat that has infected twelve out of twenty-two kids so far. Going anywhere near his classroom will net you a full body-cavity search followed by a Purell hosedown. As a parting gift, you’ll get some leaflets with photos of disgusting, pussy, inflamed tonsils.

The Boy seemed like he would survive the attack. No sore throats, no fevers. And then came Monday morning, where he was just completely getting his bitch on, the centerpiece of which was a grand mal, put-me-on-the-cover-of-Us Weekly tantrum evoking classic Britney Spears. Faced with his vein-popping rage, I had a moment where I feared that instead of a human child, I had actually birthed the second coming of Rosemary’s Baby. Only our trusty local Catholic priest (or a strep test) would reveal the truth.

Two throat swabs later, we got the results: The Boy was, in fact, a Hot Zone. Twenty-four hours of antibiotics were required before we'd be given the all clear to send him back to the kid kennel. Which left two schedule-crazed parents engaged in the latest round of our recurring career deathmatch, jockeying to see which one of us would have to bail out on work. I was forced to concede that most of my stuff could be handled over the phone, and left a late-night voicemail alerting The Boss that he would be deprived of the pleasure of my company in the office the following day.

The Boy had been mostly asymptomatic, so he wasn't in much discomfort from the infection. HIS misery was caused by a side effect of the treatment, a stomach ache that kept him up until almost midnignt. MY misery was caused by the fact that he still woke up at the same time he does every day, which is roughly a quarter of way too freaking early. This put him in an emotional state more volatile than a sleep-deprived reality show contestant who thinks he's about to get voted off the island.

So we passed the morning in a haze of shared manic-depressiveness. One minute my diagram of the immune system (with Ms. Pac-man as a white blood cell, gobbling up dot-sized germs) had him cackling like a miniature Jack Nicholsen; the next he was weeping helplessly because I cut up his waffle for him when he wanted to do it himself. Between 10:00 and 10:37, we played a game that he made up which consisted of me spelling the word "pool" over and over and over and over and over. The game finally ended when my voice cracked from the strain, causing him to ask, "Mommy, are you crying?" (My answer: "Not yet.")

I made a few pointless attempts at trying to work. I'd put him in front of the TV and go off to make a phone call; on any regular workday, nobody answers their phones anymore, especially since they can see my name and extension in their caller ID. But we have caller ID blocker on the home phone, which tricked a lot people into actually answering, at which point The Boy's Spidey-sense would start tingling and he would run immediately into the office to loudly sing random songs from Alvin and The Chipmunks while I flapped my arms like some giant, mentally unhinged pelican, trying to get him to go back to the room with the TV.

After a few repeats of that routine, The Boy was on the verge of going nuclear, so I finally gave up. It had been raining all day, but there was a break in the bad weather, and I herded him outside with some vague idea that I’d tire him out by making him take a long bike ride.

The streets were quiet, and it felt like we had the whole neighborhood to ourselves. He was pedaling with as much strength as he could wring from his spindly little legs, and I was run-walking beside him, and both of us were shouting and laughing. And it sounds so corny but at one point he actually stopped and got off of his bike to pick me a flower. He ran back over to me, looking ridiculously adorable in his Minnesota Twins t-shirt, plaid shorts, mismatched socks, and shiny red satin cape (because only superheroes can fight the forces of germs) with his Optimus Prime helmet all cockeyed on his head, and he handed me the scraggly little dandelion and said, "You're the BEST mommy ever."

I’d like to leave us there, basking in that unexpectedly carefree moment, before I blow the mood by describing the spontaneous combustion that happened when we got back to the house and I had the audacity to MICROWAVE his leftover pizza instead of WARMING IT IN THE OVEN, and I was making The Boy have THE WORST DAY EVER, on PURPOSE, you MEAN MEAN MOMMY. And I certainly won’t go on to describe how he then whacked me in the temple with a toy car, leaving a Lightning McQueen-shaped welt that I had to explain to every single person in the office, who all felt compelled to ask, “Hey, what happened to your head?” at work the next day.

So I won’t do that. I’ll just end this painfully boring post with a silent salute to whichever kid sneezed in The Boy’s face and gave him the strep. Because my 24 hours of (intermittently) painful quantity time produced one of those rare moments of quality that never seems to happen when you try to force it through some planned family activity. I wound up today with one of those special kid memories to lock up in my vault, and it didn’t even require any airbrushing.

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Hidden Perils Of The Linen Closet

Yesterday morning, I was struggling with my still newish, un-MILFy haircut, trying to wrestle it down into something that didn't make me look like a decomposing Tilda Swinton. During the battle I cut my hand on my own hairdryer, causing me to bleed all over my Banana Republic career separates.

After working my way through all of my favorite expletives (The Boy – (“Mommy, what does (rhymes with rock pucker) mean?”) I grabbed a Band-Aid from the messy bin in the linen closet and doctored myself up.

After changing into a new blood-free outfit, I passed out hugs and lunches, wrote a preemptive note of apology to The Boy's teachers for when he repeated the new words I'd taught him, and headed off to Dunkin Donuts (the High Ridge location if you're keeping score) for 24-ounces of sweet caffeinated salvation.

With the double D in my car cupholder (because there ain't no D's in my other cupholders - The Evil Twins can barely muster up a 34A nowadays) and twenty minutes of driving ahead, I tried to put my mind through the mental gymnastics that help me get into work mode. I had a big presentation to give to our senior executive team, and I didn't want to LOOK like as big of a jackass as I was FEELING like on this particular day.

Flash ahead to noon. I had just finished delivering my shockingly brilliant presentation. It was jam-packed with every feature and function that Powerpoint has to offer: charts, graphs (of the pie, line, AND bar varieties), bullet-pointing, animations. I'd dazzled them with forecasts, projections, conclusions, educated guesses, visionary speculations. I used words like "paradigm shift"and "step change." I had props and prototypes. I had my admin order lunch. Serving food in a meeting is the corporate equivalent dropping an atom bomb. It never fails shock and awe the meeting participants.

But my magnificence was met with silence. Finally, one of the women spoke up. Six heads in various phases of graying and/or baldness swiveled toward the sound of her voice.

“Hey,” Female Executive That I Used To Like Said Loudly. “Is that a Hello Kitty band-aid on your hand?”

Why yes. Of course it was. And eff you thank you for pointing it out. My head began to hurt from the noise coming from the spectacular explosion of my professional reputation.

Six heads whipped back to stare at my hand, watery eyes blinking behind glasses, waiting for my response. It was like a bunch of drunken frat guys watching Anna Kournikova and Maria Sharapova play Wimbledon naked.

“Um, yes," I replied. "They sell them at Target." If I didn't sound stupid enough, I added helpfully, “And they have My Little Pony ones too.”

“Good to know," said Female Senior Executive Who Unknowingly Spared Herself A Blog-Lashing. "I need to get some of those - my daughter injures herself all the time. Now, let’s talk about your recommendations. I think we should move on them right away….”

Life Lesson #1: Sometimes, the Power of Mom can be your saving grace.

Life Lesson #2: Always look before you Band-Aid.

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How About A Nice Divorce For Mother's Day?

For whatever reason, I started getting emails from Splash Car Wash when I got arm-twisted into signing up for a "frequent washer" card.

I don't know why I bothered. I hate that minivan so much, it's lucky that I let it stay in the garage and feed it as much of the hideously expensive engine juice as I do.

I get the thing washed approximately once a year, usually the day after this happens: I'm pulling into the parking lot at work, late (as usual) for a 9:30 meeting thanks to an ill-timed kid tantrum at morning dropoff.

Nattily attired in some summer white pants, I get out of the car and proceed to drop my lunch box, which breaks and scatters my food rather spectacularly across the parking lot. As I'm bending over to pick up all my crap I brush up against the filthy car door, which leaves a gigantic, black, oily, Texas-shaped Rorschach Test on my ass all day for the entire office to contemplate.

But I digress, as usual.

The above image on the left is the email that Splash sent out. And while I applaud their use of a timely theme and their marketing chutzpah, I could not help but say out loud, "I don't effing think so."

Manager Dad has been duly forewarned that if he also happens to be the mailing list, and this is the best idea he can wring from his overtired and overtaxed grey matter for a Mother's Day present, I will swiftly implement a unilateral year-long laundry embargo in retaliation.

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An Open Letter To The Open Office

To my coworkers:

It's been a tough earnings season, and I recognize that praise has been in short supply around the office nowadays.

But I'm a people person. I'm all about positive reinforcement, in case you can't tell from my Successories posters. And I think I’ve found something we can get all Oprah about, and that's the fact that we've survived the new and exciting "space management" theory, designed to stuff more people into less square footage and foster the holy trinity of business “ations” – Innovation, Collaboration, and Humiliation. No matter that the practical result has been to make us all feel like a pack of rabid gerbils.

When they started remodeling the floor, I mourned the loss of my office (and my door, speakerphone, and the nice view of the sculpture garden). I listened with while you twentysomething Manhattanites yapped on about how “fun” and “social” the new floor design would be, and how it would encourage the “sharing of ideas.”

I'm getting used to not having a door, or any sort of personal space or privacy. I've purged my computer of my favorite Keanu Reeves screensaver. I've removed all of my office flair so that I don't mess up the prescribed color scheme. I've done pretty much everything that I was told to do to mark my personal space, short of peeing in all of the corners of my cube.

But we can always do better. And by 'we' I mean you. So in the can-do spirit of “continuous optimization,” there are a few pieces of advice that I'd like to share, in the hope that it will make MY life a little less stressful:

1) If I go into one of the private rooms to make a call, do NOT automatically assume that I have a job interview/messy divorce/gynecological problem.

2) On the other hand, if YOU get a call about YOUR job interview/messy divorce/gynecological problem, get at private room, stat. I don’t need to hear the gory details. Let’s preserve the magic by keeping some secrets from each other.

3) Yes, I can hear it when you blast gas. And I’ll be smelling it in ten seconds.

4) The first day you eat a tuna sandwich at your desk, it’s inconsiderate. On day two, it’s cruel. By day three it is considered an act of aggression under NATO rules of engagement. Cease and desist immediately or face complete retaliation, possibly involving some sort of curry.

5) While I understand that the presence of estrogen in my body means that I’m supposed to be a Grey’s Anatomy fan, I’m not. I don’t give two craps about McDreamy and McTrampy or whoever those characters are, so please, save your detailed blow-by-blow recap for email.

6) Pay the points and lock down that interest rate-your credit score is appalling, and you should be damn grateful that you’re getting any sort of loan with the market the way it is today.

7) He is totally cheating on you. Grow a pair and dump the jerk, already. Or at least drink a nice glass of shut the hell up instead of calling all your friends to whine about it.

8) Yes, so-and-so probably WILL get promoted before you do, if there is any justice in this world. She is smart and a hard worker. You are a blame-thrower with anger management issues and an obvious YouTube habit.

Thanks for letting me give my suggestions, and keep up the good work, Comrades of the Cubicle! Monday is fast approaching, and I’m looking forward to the 9:45 Coffee Area Weekend Drunken Hookup Report. Much more exciting than my weekends of soccer games and Costco trips.

Yours Truly,

Manager Mom

P.S. All situations depicted in this post are dramatic exaggerations. Except for the tuna fish eater - whoever you are, I am totally coming after you.

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My Mom Went To London, And All I Got Was This Lousy Post

I’m currently on an overseas business trip, and since I had a Friday meeting, I put in a requisition for a weekend layover with Manager Dad. It was promptly authorized because a) he’s a really, really good guy; and #2, he had been granted a similar waiver about a year and a half ago when he had to go to Paris on a weekend which happened to coincide with my 36th birthday.

So I've been here since Thursday afternoon. I’ve had some quality alone time, defined as "time not spent cooking, picking up family detritus, or laundering clothing."

But as delighted as I am to hang out with my own self, I miss everyone. The youngsters get angry with me when I travel and don’t want to participate in the perfunctory dinnertime phone calls home. So I try desperately to engage them in conversation as they breathe heavily into the receiver. (The Girl ended our conversation today with “I’ll talk to you when you get home, mommy…I’m giving the phone back to your husband.”)

And because I had the bright idea of taking a red-eye over in order to maximize my time here, the jetlag is starting to get the better of me. I am so exhausted that I'm having Jacob's Ladderesque hallucinations; physically, I’m starting to resemble Estelle Getty on a crack bender.

But I've been having a fantastic, rejuvenating trip. I've taken tons of photographs, frightened scores of shoe salesmen with my horrifyingly ugly, not-yet-pedicured, mangled runner's toes, and generally stopped at whatever places caught my eye. I'm an art fanatic so I made a point of hitting Tate Modern and a few other contemporary art museums featuring images that would be considered hard-core pornography were they not displayed in a building designed by a distinguished architect.

And since I cannot force my beloved spawn to eat at any restaurant that doesn’t include the word “pancake” somewhere in its name, I took the opportunity to try new cuisines- Indian food and Dim Sum in Chinatown. Now, I’ve eaten plenty of Chinese food in my day (after all, I am American) but never dim sum. I'll definitely repeat the Indian food but dim sum is a delicacy that I fully intend to deprive myself of in the future. I’m no linguist, but based on today's meal, I would guess that ‘dim sum’ is Cantonese for “fried dumpling filled with miscellaneous ground up kitchen leftovers.”

I am also preparing to break my strict 'no-bringing-home-presents-after-a-business trip' policy. I implemented this after witnessing the way a former boss was treated by his children when he forgot to bring them a gift after a day trip. But in this case, I have been gone for a long time, and the guilt machine is running on a double shift.

Plus, we have been working hard to brainwash The Boy into becoming a fan of English Premier league soccer, and I found a logoed wallet from Arsenal, which is his favorite team. (He doesn’t have any money but he has an extensive collection of my hotel room keycards that he likes to carry around.) So I had to preserve family Feng Shui by making a complimentary purchase for The Girl, and Harrod’s had some miniature British licensed character fuzzy animal set, so all should be well.

But hands down, the best part of the weekend: I was wandering through Sainsburys grocery store. (I am a horrible cook, but I love to grocery shop - must either be guilt remnants from my Catholic upbringing, or good old-fashioned masochism) when I decided to buy a single-serve bottle of wine to keep me company in my hotel room. And I got carded! With no apparent irony! By a female cashier, who was wearing a wedding ring!

Just think… if live in a world where THAT could happen, maybe we CAN reduce our reliance on fossil fuels and solve global warming. Maybe the Buffalo Bills WILL win the Super Bowl in the same year the Cubs win the World Series! Maybe we will see Obama & Clinton running on a joint ticket!

Or maybe, just maybe, I could bring home some dim sum, and get the family to take a bite from a deep-fried mystery dumpling.

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A Not-So-Shocking Confession

I’m a big advocate of looking for fun wherever it is trying to hide. That’s why I put ‘squeezing pleasure from business’ in my blog header. I’m not afraid to admit that I like working, I’m good at what I do, and in case you haven't guessed from my right-leaning rantings about various financial topics, as a pleasant side effect I also happen to bring home some pretty decent bacon. (I can’t fry it up in a pan because cooking's a mere one on a long list of wifely tasks that I suck at. This is why the gods invented Boston Market.)

Which brings me to the not-so-shocking confession. I love to work. An only child by birth, I am WAY too selfish to stay home full time. I did the part time thing for a few years and I will always treasure those days. But the part time was hampering me from getting the assignments and advancement that I wanted, and it started to bother me more and more, so after a few years, I threw in the towel and went back full time.

Aside from the intellectual stimulation piece, on the superficial level (and I’m big into the shallow, or I wouldn't be on pins and needles every week waiting for my US Weekly) I like putting on nice clothes and going to a place where I can play with other grownups. For me, I’ve found that raising children is rewarding and fulfilling and all that, in the long term. But I also found that everyone who had so much helpful child rearing advice for me when I was pregnant neglected to tell me until I was knee-deep in the shizzy that it can also be mundane, stressful, and even maddening on a day-to-day basis.

If it wasn’t, the nannies working for all those Greenwich stay-at-home hedge-fund-manager-wife types wouldn’t be pulling down so much coin. If one’s primal urge isn’t to leave one's palatial mansion to partake in corporate gamesmanship, weekly facials is certainly a fair substitute. I’m not here to judge anybody.

But as much as I generally like my work, the fun has been in short supply lately because I’m not a huge fan of the job I’m in right now. It's an operations job that I'm learning a lot from, but I don't really like, unlike my previous brand management role where I was excited to go into the office every day. Luckily, my company rotates us to new positions every 2 years or so, so I only have about one year left on my sentence before I get released to a new job for good behavior.

Having said that, I am now in the midst of a business trip to London that has made these past few days ridiculously ripe for some fun-squeezins. Business class airline ticket paid for by company...7 1/2 hour flight...meeting all day Friday…is it not blazingly obviously that it begged for a weekend stayover?

Any mom, whether she works or stays at home, can definitely appreciate what a rare and precious gift the notion of having a whole 24 hours completely to yourself. And that, ladies and ladies (are there any guys besides Manager Dad who read my blog?) is what tomorrow is going to be all about.

So in the next post: musings on the UK.

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And "Mother Of The Year" Goes To...

Today, I faced one of those no-win dilemmas that only a working mother can appreciate: what do you do with a child that’s slightly off, but not really sick? Do you miss yet another day of work, or Motrin him up and send him to day care?

I had inklings of trouble last night when the boy refused to eat more dinner than he normally does. Usually he'll grudgingly consume about 3/4 of a meal, but last night, after a few bites of home-cooked (actually, Boston Market-purchased) chicken, he threw in the fork. Not even the usual bribes of cornbread or sliced apples on the couch could entice him to eat more.

Much later, I was awakened from a dead sleep at 4am with the same child looming over me in the dark.

"Mommy," he said, "I'm either hungry, or I'm going to throw up."

Ever optimistic, I went with "hungry." Gave the kid two slices of toast and stuffed him back into bed. Tried to nap between his subsequent intermittent wanderings back into our room. So when it was time to actually get up, I was tired and short-tempered. I knew the kid wasn't quite right, but I had a lot of work to get done. And he seemed OK - no fever or other outward signs of illness, and when he started asking for chocolate milk and Munchkins I chalked up his droopy demeanor up to being tired. So Manager Dad and I made the executive decision to soldier on and take him to day care.

I telecommute on Fridays, and as I conducted my morning business, I kept a nervous surveillance eye on my cell phone. My paranoia was not unfounded as I received The Call at approximately 10am. I was most displeased to hear the voice of Nice Day Care Lady #1, aka The One Who Usually Calls If Your Child Is Sick Or Injured.

'Hello,' said NDCL#1, 'I am just calling you to let you know The Boy is not quite himself today.' 'What's wrong with said boy?' I asked. 'Well, he's kind of mopey,' was the answer. 'He's not participating in activities.'

Now, she didn't directly ASK me to come pick him up, but the sentiment was clearly there. I could feel a warm cloud of expectation wafting through the wireless spectrum as I questioned the situation more closely. 'Does The Boy have a fever? Is there coughing, sneezing, or sniffling? Is he expelling bodily fluids from any orifice at a more alarming velocity than normal?'

'No, he's just very quiet today,' she said. (Perceived subtext: ‘I can’t believe she’s not already on her way here.’)

Upon this confirmation, Mother of the Year (that's me, if you hadn't guessed) quickly said, 'OK then, call me back if any of those things happen.' And I unceremoniously hung up.

I am VERY protective of my telecommuting arrangement and don’t want to lose the privilege. I don't ever want people to think I'm not pulling my weight on my days from home. I am many things on my days from the home office (poorly groomed, a Peapodder, folder of laundry on conference calls, silent hostess of various repairpersons or cleaning ladies), but I am NOT a slacker.

So while on occasion I'll make quick stop at the horrible Grade A on Newfield (motto: We're Not Afraid To Sell You Rotten Produce") after kid dropoffs, my main indulgence is my hourlong lunchtime workout. For one glorious hour, I turn off the cell phone and squeeze in a good, hard run. I come back re-energized and smelly, and proceed to work furiously in a pool of my own sweat for the rest of the day. (I pray to the Cubicle Gods that cheap videoconferencing remains an elusive invention.)

If it's a nice day, I run outside - no problem. If it's a rainy or cold day, I have to go to the track at my gym. And my gym is where The Boy goes to day care. And I have to walk right by his classroom to get to the track.

Problem.

So I get dressed for my run and make the 2-minute drive over to the gym. I walk slowly into the building, willing myself to be invisible. I peer cautiously down the hallway - looks clear. I walk quickly through the Hot Zone - that bare stretch of hallway where there are no doorways or large plants under which to take cover.

I was just about home free, standing at the doorway to the gym, when I heard the cheery voice of Nice Day Care Lady #2, aka The One Who Usually Calls About Unpaid Bills and Unfilled-Out-Forms.

'Mother of The Boy!' she chirped.

Daaaaaaammmmmmmn.

I lifted my hand off the doorknob and took a deep breath. 'How is the boy in question?' I asked.

'Oh, he is really miserable. He's been lying on the couch all morning. I'm glad you came to get him.'

Guilt began to breech the Great Wall between my unconscious and conscious minds, because, well, I really hadn’t come for that particular reason. But as Mother of the Year, I gave it my best college try. 'Oh, yes, of course!' I said. ‘That is exactly why I’m here! Ahem, by the way, has he actually thrown up or gotten a fever yet?'

Puzzled, NDCL#2 said, 'No...but he's just really not himself.'

As an only child of divorced parents, I can be nothing if not self-centered. So I quickly came back with- 'OK – I’ll just do a quick workout, and I'll take him with me on the way home.'

Looking me straight in the eye, NDCL#2 said, (and honestly, it was without malice) 'Ok, I'll tell The Boy that you're in the building but won't be picking him up for another hour or so.'

Checkmate. Well played, NDCL.

And so, sufficiently infused with guilt, I begrudgingly slunk into the classroom to get The Boy. Who, by the way was napping peacefully.

So I woke him up, brought him home, and parked him on the couch, draping an array of towels in his immediate projectile area. (I have found this to be a primitive, yet effective, barf defense mechanism.) He then proceeded to watch two full-length movies (Ice Age and The Empire Strikes Back, if you are keeping score) consume one bagel, eight ounces of Fruit Punch Gatorade, and two bananas.

Nary a chunk was blown.

I, on the other hand, wound up tired, guilt-laden, unexercised, unshowered, with laundry unfolded, and I didn’t get any work done until the kids went to bed, so of course, I had to stay up late and will feel even worse tomorrow.

Of course, I don't want The Boy to REALLY be sick, but the fact that I brought him home when he was fine to stay at day care just makes me feel like a complete, 360-degree failure. Because I knew he wasn’t running at 100% and I made him go to day care anyway. And after all that, I STILL short-changed my work, and despite the fact that there was no malice in my interactions with the NDCLs today, I still feel like a complete dink.

Oh well. I might not be Mother of the Year, but luckily, The Boy has no other frame of reference. I’m the only mother that he has. And if nothing else, I got some Grade A snuggles and kisses. And I’m all caught up on on my Spongebob episodes.

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To Freeze An Egg

A few weeks ago, I was invited to speak on a marketing innovation panel at the Harvard Business School's annual "Dynamic Women In Business" conference. (I was invited after most of the other more interesting and important women in my company had to decline.) Nonetheless, the prospect of a free trip to Boston was too good to pass up.

So I prepared my remarks and Q&A, booked my hotel, and piled the family in the minivan. (The kids love to travel- something about movies on Pay-Per-View and hotel room service mac-and-cheese makes them really, really happy).

The conference was great. Kick ass women speakers who delivered just the right mix of business savvy and personal anecdotes with wit and warmth. My panel went well - we got lots of questions from the audience, and the panel moderator invited me to speak again next year. On the family front, the kids and my husband spent the day at the New England aquarium and children's museum. So all good, right?

So what happened that is causing this rant? Well, nothing MAJOR. But I was given a gift bag after my panel. It contained various "women's interest" items such as a Tiffany silver pen (nice!) a new women's business magazine called Pink (good) some smelly hand lotion (meh) and a small mesh bag with an egg shaped piece of soap from "Extend Fertility" with a flyer inviting me to freeze my eggs for future reproductive usage (huh?)

I appreciate that this company thinks they've got the right target market...but how fracking PRESUMPTIOUS and in a way, condescending can you get? I'm also highly irritated that the conference organizers would allow those in there - it sends a work/life message completely opposite of what many of the speakers were trying to illustrate. Is it STILL expected that a 'dynamic woman in business' has to sacrifice a meaningful relationship or having children (or both) in order to get ahead?

I bet the gift bag at the "Macho Men Hedge Fund Managers Convention" has stuff like a Maxim, golf balls, some Cialis, Slim Jims, and a GPS watch or something like that. I guess in a world where Tony Randall can father kids at the ripe age of one hundred and twelve or however old he was, there's not much money to be made by guilting male CEOs into freezing their little swimmers.

By the way, Harvard Conference Organizers, if you happen to be reading this, I really want to be invited back next year. So I am TOTALLY JOKING. You know that, right?

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Musings from Sundance

So I went to the Sundance film festival for a work event thing (Tava launch). Did a little snowboarding at the Canyons, but did not actually attend any screenings as I did not possess the requisite clout or connections get a ticket to anything that any non-movie industry human would actually want to watch.

I was offered a ticket to the “Trash: Earth in Crisis” documentary (which, ironically, the organizers promoted by handing out flyers and plastic buttons on street corners). I chose to skip it – I hate vegetable movies (you know, the kind that you feel obligated to watch because they’re “good for you” and you’ll “learn something”. I went shopping instead. I bought this tan strappy trapeze-style shirt that seemed very cute and trendy and flattering when the salesperson in the ultra-exclusive boutique was egging me on. I have since come to realize that it makes me look about six months pregnant and utterly stupid to boot. I’m sure it will fetch top dollar at the Salvation Army shop, so all is not lost.

Nonetheless, I enjoyed peeping the celebs on the streets of Park City. My first sighting was MashleyKate Olsen (I think it was the Mary Kate version but I’m not entirely sure). I got all excited because I saw her in a café and I thought for a minute that I might actually see her eat something. It was kind of like the feeling an anthropologist must have when they find out a bird they thought was extinct was building a nest in their chimney. But my hopes were dashed when she ordered a soy latte, lit up a smoke, and tottered off through the snowbanks in her ridiculously exaggerated skyh-high thick black platforms, looking like some sort of deranged blonde European garden gnome.

I also saw Matthew Perry, Jack Black, Perez Hilton (the ugly blogger guy) Matthew Broderick, Danny Glover, Mischa Barton, John Stamos, and Ian Ziering (the elders among us will remember him from 90210, the youngsters (and those with poor taste in reaity shows) from one of the myriad versions of Dancing with the quote unquote stars. I was also just a few people away from getting into the Fifty Cent party when the Park City fire marshall shut the place down. I hope Fiddy was still able to enjoy his evening without me.

We had some cool concert stuff – we hosted a Sara Barielles (of one-hit ‘Love Song’ fame) show, and another concert with One Repulic (your typical emo/alternative/rocky sort of deal) and Keri Hilson (whose biggest claim to fame to date was writing ‘gimmie more’ for Britney). The shows were good, I liked Sara quite a bit but since we already have a Fiona Apple, a Tori Amos, an Alicia Keys, and about a hundred other indie-folky-piano playing songstresses running amok, I’m not sure about her longevity potential past this one hit song that she currently has.

Keri Hilson – wow. She just looked like a fierce Amazon. Just huge, aggressive breasts (that appeared to be real), and legs like bam stuffed into some sort of latex black catsuit getup. I can’t recall a note of what she actually sang because I was so busy being fascinated/repulsed by her appearance. The men in my group agreed she was hot in a scary kind of “find me attractive or I’ll f&%$ you up” kind of way. Again, the singing, don’t remember so much, so good luck with that, Keri Hilson!

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