Life Begins at 40

By: Holly VAnderhaar

I love being in my 40s. No, really. I do. It’s not all a bed of roses, of course. I don’t love all the gray hair (or the cost involved in hiding it), and I’m not crazy about the tendency of body parts to expand and/or move southward. I expected to be battling these things in my 40s, though. The physical deterioration comes as no surprise, and, anyway, I still look pretty good for my age. What is surprising is that, inside, I feel about 25. Better, actually. At 25, I was an emotional train wreck —or, at best, a partial derailment. Now I’m responsible, a reliable employee, a good parent (most of the time), and on an even emotional keel. But I don’t feel “mature” in the way that my younger self would have expected to feel at this age. I thought that when I was 45, I would feel 45, whatever that means. I don’t, not even close. I giggle with my girlfriends like we’re still in high school. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I’m more optimistic.

I think what’s made the difference is that I don’t care anymore what people think, and I don’t compare my life to others’ and find it wanting. My 25-year-old self, hearing a fortysomething express those feelings -that cliché that life begins at 40- would have thought, “How sad.” My 25-year-old self would have seen it as a massive rationalization, or self-consolation, or a kind of giving up. She would have thought, “That person is trying to make peace with the inevitability of getting old,” and she would have pitied that person, even while she was going out to a bar that she really didn’t feel like going to, or suffering through another blind date when she would rather have been at home in sweat pants, watching Northern Exposure with her cat and eating ice cream out of the carton.

When I was 25, I was constantly scrutinizing myself —my physical self, my relationships or lack thereof, my career or lack thereof— to see if I measured up. Inevitably, I didn’t. I was mired in the trap of trying to create a persona, to craft an identity, and it was all very plastic and crazy-making. At 25, I had to go out on Friday and Saturday nights, even though many times I would have preferred to stay home, because Monday morning at the office, someone would inevitably ask me what I did over the weekend. Not having plans would have been too humiliating for words. In contrast, the 45-year-old me is quite happy to put on her pajamas at 5:30 on Friday and doesn’t care who knows it.

Maybe some of this is the wisdom that comes with age, but most of it is due to motherhood. When I decided to become a single mom by choice, and had my daughters, I finally got what I’d always wanted. Much of my former unhappiness was caused by the fear that I wouldn’t find a husband, or wouldn’t find one in time to have kids, and since the one constant in my life has always been my desire for motherhood, all my future happiness depended on it. When I decided to stop waiting for it to happen to me, and started to act on my own behalf to make it happen, it opened up a whole new realm of possibilities. If I could make this dream a reality, maybe I had it in me to make some of my other dreams come true as well. I started to believe in myself. I stopped apologizing for my life and started living it. And if I had to become middle-aged to achieve this kind of peace, so be it. This gray hair is a battle flag, not a white flag…even if I do pay someone to cover it up every six weeks.

Interracial Marriage on the Rise

By: Amy Wise

A report just came out from the PEW Research Center on Interracial Marriage. Much of the media reported on the study. Our family was part of the story in USA Today and the L.A. Times.

After being together for 20 years and married for 19, we don’t think of each other as an interracial couple…we are a couple.

In the end, we are not made up of colors, we are just us.♥ I’m thankful and honored that our family is part of the story bringing about awareness and change. It is imperative to open minds so one day this will no longer need to be a story.

Check out some of the articles about the rise of interracial marriage with our family featured:

USA Today~
Our family picture representing the USA Today article about the PEW report. (2/16/2012)

L.A. Times~
Article in L.A. Times about the PEW report with a brief interview from me. (2/16/2012)

USA Today~
Our family featured in USA Today article about the rise of interracial marriage. (11/8/2011)

He’s in the Navy Now

By: Tanya Dodd-Hise

The other day, maybe two weeks ago at most, I get a phone call from the oldest boy (the 20-year-old).  When I answer the phone with my sing-songie “Hellooo-ooo-oooo,” he laughs and says, “Hey Mom!  I’ve got something to tell you!”

Freeze frame.

Picture it, if you will.  Me, standing at the kitchen counter, and my free hand immediately goes to the edge and grasps it.  Oh dear God, he’s got something to tell me.  They’re pregnant.  Oh God.  No, not that.  Too young.  But even more importantly, I am too young to be a grandma – a grandma with an almost four-month-old baby!  OK, breathe.

Unfreeze frame.

I say, with a big ole question mark in my voice, “Oh yeah?  What’s that?”  Stay calm Mom, stay calm.  He answers, “Um, my orders have changed, and I am shipping out for basic training on March 1^st instead of June 4^th.”  Oh no!  Oh wait.  Do what?  Tell me that again so that I am sure that you’re not saying that you’re pregnant.  But wait again.  You’re leaving for the Navy in, what, a few weeks rather than months?  Oh.  Oh wow.  Okay.  I think I’m okay with that.

So I get off the phone and relay the info, what little I got, to Erikka.  I say that I would like for us to have dinner with him and his wife before he leaves, and maybe invite her mom, his dad, and our parents.  Shortly after that I get a phone call from his dad.  He says, “Did you get a phone call from our oldest son?”  I laugh and said, “Yeah, and he scared the crap out of me by the way he started out.”  Then HE laughed and said, “Oh he must have told you the same thing he told me – ‘Dad, I have something to tell you.’  My first thought was, ‘When is she due?’”  We had a good laugh over that, and were soon discussing plans for a dinner for them about a week or two before he was due to leave.

Somehow, over the course of a few days, the plan changed and morphed from a dinner with family, to a dinner with family and friends, to a Sunday afternoon luncheon at a rented space with family and lots of friends.  My wonderful and lovely wife, and his amazing bonus mom, is a party planner extraordinaire, and was able to throw together quite the soiree in about a week’s time.  We catered a fantastic Mexican food lunch, had a few people bring a few things, and then it was done!  Everyone was so helpful and cooperative, including my mom (wow!), Erikka’s parents, the boys’ dad and other stepmom, and my daughter-in-law’s mother.  When the time came for guests to start arriving, I sat back with a sleeping baby on my lap and watched as our friends, family, and their friends arrived with so much love, hugs, and support for my boy and his wife.  It brought tears to my eyes to see so many people taking time out of their Sunday to come and do this.  At one point, while everyone was eating, I got teary-eyed as I looked at the “kid table,” and wondered where all the time had gone.  At that table sat six young adults, ages 16-22 years old now, and as I looked at them, I remembered them sitting around a table at some church youth group event, only they were little and in elementary and middle school.  These “kids” have known each other since they were young, and now mine is married to one of these girls that I watched grow into a beautiful woman – now wife.  Another of the girls is also married and a Navy wife as well.  Another is in college and a live-in nanny.  Her brother is the youngest of the group here, and he is now a successful sports jock in high school – I remember when he was in kindergarten!  And still another is currently trying his hand with acting!  Where did the time go?

So if you think about it, for the next couple of months, please keep my oldest boy in your thoughts.  His wife will stay behind and live with her mom, and we will make sure that she doesn’t get lonely or sad.  And soon?  We’ll be planning our trip to Chicago for his graduation!

Tiger Mom vs. Mama Bear

By: Meika Rouda

I just finished the book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua. It is unlike any parenting book I have ever read. Chua is the daughter of Chinese immigrants and has three sisters; she and two of her sisters have multiple Harvard and Yale degrees and her youngest sister, who has Downs Syndrome, holds two international special olympic medals. You get the picture. She comes from a driven family, a family with a strong work ethic, a family that practiced “Chinese” parenting.

When Chua refers to herself as a Chinese mother, she is over generalizing but the main theme is the idea of the virtuous cycle. That through hard work you become competent at something and that instills self confidence and the desire to learn and do more. Competence and confidence go hand in hand. Her method does not nurture, respect individuality, or allow children to make any decisions themselves. It is a tyrannical form of parenting, one that produces virtuoso piano players (her eldest daughter preformed at Carnegie Hall at age 14) and straight A students who are accomplished violin players (her youngest, who ended up “rebelling” from her).

I admired a lot that Chua said. I know I am lenient as a parent; my son pushes boundaries all the time and I give in. He is isn’t even potty trained yet and he is four because he constantly says to me “I’m not ready.” Western parenting says not to force him, this will have a negative impact on him, let him decide when he is ready and one day it will happen. It is vital for him to be in control of his body, to do things on his own schedule, that is how to build confident, healthy children with self esteem. After two years of battling the potty with him I am beginning to wonder.

Chua admits she is not good at enjoying life. Her average day starts at 6AM where she runs her dog, drops her kids off at school, teaches a full course load at Yale, picks her kids up, has piano and violin practice with each child for two hours a day (that means four hours of practice), then she works on her book or papers and helps with homework. She obviously doesn’t sleep or eat. Maybe I need more Chinese mother in me as I never get anything done, but Chua manages to get everything done. She is a super human. I have a feeling I might not like her much if I met her in person.

But I do think she has a point. While I am quick to let my son decide not to continue swim class because he doesn’t want to, I realize this only hurts him. He can swim if he tries, he just doesn’t have the confidence because he is afraid of the big pool. I know if he tried he could swim. I have seen him do it before, yet I don’t force him. I let him dictate his swimming evolution. If I pushed him I know he would succeed and that success would lead him to try more new things like, maybe, the potty. That if he knew how much I believe in him he would have confidence to take risks and work hard to learn new skills. Perhaps he could get caught up in the virtuous circle.

I come from parents who never pushed me to do anything. They sat back and let me make most of my young adult decisions, sometimes to disastrous ends. I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like to have a parent who really believed in me like Chua does her daughters. Who doesn’t let me quit because I don’t feel like practicing the piano that day. Who forced me to get straight A’s and be great at everything I do instead of mediocre and uninspired. I consider myself a bit of a late bloomer because of this. I just started writing with some dedication a few years ago although I have long loved to write. I plan on taking an intensive Spanish class to become fluent in another language, another longtime goal. But I also feel there is something to be said for making mistakes and being an independent child. Maybe I am not fluent at Spanish or haven’t written a book yet but it is just taking me longer than the Chua girls. And I can say that I had a lot of fun figuring out life on my own even if it meant experiencing heartache and navigating social situations with horrendous teenage girls who were out to get me. There is something formidable about me because I know who I am. I know who I am because I was able to make choices to become who I am.
I don’t know the Chua girls. Perhaps they are well-adjusted teenagers who are also amazing overachievers, but there is something to the saying “let kids be kids.” We have our whole lives to work hard and achieve greatness, do we really need to start as toddlers?

So how can a Tiger Mom mesh with a Mama Bear like me? I don’t have the answer and neither does Amy Chua but I am going to do a little more pushing with my son. I don’t expect him to be a concert pianist as a teenager but I do expect him to be potty trained by four and half. ROAR.

Pretty in Pink

By: Shannon Ralph

May I rant for a moment? As you may or may not know, my twins are in kindergarten. Kindergarten, as a general rule, is a fun place to be. One of the fun things they are doing this year is having two weeks of “color days.” Each day is assigned a color and the kids spend that day talking about that color, reading books about that color, exploring things that are that color, etc., etc. You get the point. Of course, in addition to color activities, the kids are asked to wear that color to school on the assigned day. We’ve done red and green and blue and purple and orange. We did black and white. All have gone well…until this week. Well, that’s not entirely true.

Nicholas missed purple day. When I went to set out his clothes the night before purple day I realized, to my great chagrin, that he did not own anything purple. I looked through all of his drawers and his closet. I looked through his summer clothes from August that were boxed up and put away. I looked through Lucas’s old clothes that might be big, but acceptable, on Nicholas. Nothing. I did not find a single article of clothing that contained any hint of purple at all. Since it was already bedtime the night before purple day, we decided that Nicholas simply would not participate in the clothing portion of purple day. He was not at all affected by this news. When I sadly told him of his fate, he responded with a smile and a quick, “OK.” I, however, was devastated. My darling little boy was missing out on purple day. What kind of mother was I? We survived. However, I was not happy.

This week, we ran headfirst into pink day. PINK day. I am a firm believer that little boys can wear pink. I am a firm believer that grown men can, and should, wear pink. Nicholas even received a pink vacuum cleaner from Santa one year —his very favorite present that Christmas. So imagine my disgust when I —a self-avowed progressive, modern mama—discovered that my son did not own a single pink article of clothing. We had survived purple day, but it was a hellish experience. Granted, it was only hellish for me, but I certainly had no intention of reliving the horror. So I did what any good mother would do.

I went to Target.

As anyone who reads this blog knows, Target is my Nirvana. My Garden of Eden. My Happy Place. Generally speaking, I love Target with a devotion that is both weird and probably unhealthy. But this week, the love of my life disappointed me. I looked through every article of clothing in the toddler boys’ section. I looked through every article of clothing in the big boys’ section. I even looked through every article of clothing in the men’s section (which is really ridiculous considering that Nicholas weighs 30 pounds soaking wet). I did not find a single piece of clothing —not one shirt, pair of pants, hat, scarf, or sock— that included any shade of pink anywhere on it. In my defense, I was not even being a purist. I was not dead-set on carnation pink. I would have settled for rose. Or salmon. Or mauve. Or fuscia. Hell, I would have been happy with light red. But I found nothing. Nothing even remotely pink.

I briefly tried looking in the little girls’ section of the store for a simple t-shirt in a hue of pink that could be considered even moderately masculine. Unfortunately, that was a dead end. Everything in the little girls’ section was adorned with sequins and hearts and roses and kittens and ruffles. There were no simple t-shirts. There was nothing a self-respecting five-year-old boy (or a 39-year-old lesbian, for that matter) would ever consider wearing.

So I went home angry. Irritated that Target —my Target— would not sell pink clothes for little boys. Why is pink such a taboo color for boys? Is it because boys who wear pink are gay? Queer? Homos? It amazes me that a little boy who is a mere five years old —a baby, for God’s sake— cannot like the color pink without raising eyebrows. Cannot wear pink without incurring unwanted attention. Nicholas used to love pink. He loved his pink vacuum cleaner with all of his tiny little heart. He wore a pink polo shirt at his first birthday party. He was my little pink prince. Then something changed. His brother started school. His brother learned that pink is a “girly” color. He told Nicholas that real boys don’t like pink. “Real” boys? As opposed to fake boys? Nicholas internalized this lesson. These days, he tells me that he doesn’t like pink. He doesn’t want to drink out of a pink cup. He doesn’t want to eat out of a pink bowl. He doesn’t want to wear pink clothes.

And apparently, he has nothing to worry about because his mama can’t buy him pink clothes anyway.

Grrrrrr.

It Is Not Always Good News . . .

Last week was a rough one on the surrogate front. Everything is fine for me, no worries, but I can’t say the same for a few other ladies. I can’t talk about the specifics in two cases as no final decisions have been made, but my heart goes out to the IPs and surrogates who are struggling with a usually carefree time.

One surrogate in my California Surrogate Group went in for her 39-week checkup to find no heart beat. Later it was determined that the umbilical cord wrapped around the baby’s neck. Later, she delivered the beautiful little girl and shared a picture of the IM and the baby . . . a picture of their hands with matching bracelets. A perfect little hand. I could not even imagine what the surrogate or the intended mother and father must be going through. My thoughts go out to all of them.

I’m Soaking In It!

By: John Jericiau

It’s hard to be masculine in a world dominated by the feminine. I’m talking of course about the world of the stay-at-home parent, which has been my world for the last 5 years and will continue to be for the foreseeable future. Sometimes no matter how hard I try, there are times when I just can’t help but feel, well, womanly. Here are just some of those times.

Pushing a stroller. Don’t get me wrong – it’s a handy device and a great invention. With two boys 8 months apart, it was a necessity, and Alen’s brother gifted us with a top-of-the-line jogger model. I was able to keep up my running routine (somewhat), and besides the car seats, high chairs, and cribs, this was their home on wheels. Luckily it was not a lacey, pretty thing, but I still had issues with it, mostly about hand placement. I tried to hold it singlehandedly like a man but sometimes I just didn’t have the strength. I tried it with palms up and palms down. I tried to push it by giving it intermittent shoves away from me and then catch up to it and repeat. It just seemed like the minute I placed both hands on the handle (as you generally see people do) I heard “I Am Woman” blaring in my head.

Giggles N Hugs. This indoor playground is awesome. Lots to do and the boys run around and climb and roughhouse for almost 3 hours. (You get 3 free hours of parking before you have to cough up A LOT of money so I’m always hightailing it out of there like Cinderella before midnight.) There’s a Wii there, and plenty of good food too. With their free Wi Fi and ample table space, I’m able to bring my MacBook Air and get some writing and bill-paying done. My issue is with the name of the place! I can hardly bring myself to speak the words Giggles and Hugs in the same sentence. It just sounds so girly. And I don’t see much hugging going on there. Might I suggest Toss N Turn or Nestle N Wrestle, or From Wired to Tired?

Driving a minivan. I gave up my sexy Mercedes for the practicality of the Honda Odyssey (and its 19 cup holders). You can’t beat it when you’re hauling the kids around town. It’s easy to get the boys in and out, as well as their bikes and the stroller and their sports equipment and their toys and their friends. But during the downtime —boys in school or at the grandparents— I wish I could at least switch to a convertible model. People see the minivan pull up and I can see their surprise/horror that it’s not a soccer mom at the wheel.

Grocery shopping. I feel much cooler now that I put my grocery list on my iPhone (which automatically syncs with my husband’s iPhone in case he makes it to the store first), but I still have the stroller syndrome as I push the grocery cart, especially with two boys sitting in the cart screaming and trying to grab anything in reach. I don’t use coupons (my mom had an accordion file that she carried throughout the store and checked for coupons before settling on the product to buy—excruciating!) and I certainly don’t look at calories or labels. Just grab the item and toss it in the cart.

Changing a diaper in public. At the boys’ current ages I’m not dealing with diapers, but I remember that I would try to find a secluded part of the park or beach, block anyone’s view, and do the wiping as quickly as possible. Of course I would go for the three point shot as I hurled the balled up dirty diaper toward the garbage can. Then anyone within earshot could hear me say “Go Lakers”! I learned early on not to wipe the perspiration from your dripping face at the same time you are performing a diaper change … I returned to a parent and me class once after retreating to change a diaper, only to be told by another parent that I had remnants of said diaper change across my forehead.

Combing hair. Applying lotion. Any type of grooming activity where hands need to be soft and touch needs to be gentle. Not good for manly men. I usually turn the application of lotion into a mini-wrestling match where the lotion goes on with one hand as I’m grabbing their head with the other. You know, just like dads do all over the world.

Lately I’ve been making a concerted effort to let go of these crazy thoughts, especially with the hope of a new baby girl joining our family (one who needs her hair combed and braided and adorned with bows). I’m a confident male who is comfortable with his job description, and the rewards are endless. I just had my first manicure/pedicure and loved it, despite the fact that as they put my hands and feet in some kind of solution in order to soften my cuticles, echoing in my mind the whole time was the classic Palmolive commercial from the 80s. Whereas in the commercial the manicurist announced to her surprised new client Madge “You’re soaking in it!”, I create a make-it-work moment by imagining I just heard her say “You’re smoking fit!” I’m going to be okay.

A Lot of Excitement in New Delhi!

Hauz Khaus market area was beautiful, lush, green and quiet. We enjoyed our time there; we ate bagels and cream cheese and peeked in the beautiful vintage shops. We were not there to shop, just enjoy the day as a family. The outside of the market area contained the tombs of a ruler from the 1300’s, and these were a beautiful sight, so rich in history. On the weekend we headed to Select Citywalk Mall. This is a ginormous western style mall with high end stores like Rayban, Mac Cosmetics and Crocs. Mark was desperate for a hair cut, and decided to avoid the barbers at the side of the road with rusty razors and try out a proper salon at the mall. He ended up with a great haircut for less than six bucks! We cruised the mall and had some coffee, enjoying the air-conditioning and keeping busy. Monday we were booked to have family photos taken at Lodi Gardens, but, being that it was monsoon season, we ended up postponing until Tuesday with hopes the skies would clear. Since it was raining on Monday, we decided to grab a rickshaw and head to McDonalds for breakfast. It was barely raining and was quite fun to strap Cailyn into the Blue Celery sling and boot out for breakfast. McDonalds in India is very similar to what we know in North America. The obvious difference is the absence of beef, and all beef is replaced by chicken or a vegetarian alternative. We had the pancake breakfast and Egg McMuffins, coffee and juice. The cost for breakfast was nominal, and the end result is the food tasted the same, and sadly, settled into our bellies the same as it would at home! We spent the rest of the day at the BnB, enjoying our baby girl and relaxing. That evening we spent some time with Rahul from Western Taxi Services. He was in the process of creating a business website and wanted our help to ensure his English wording was understandable. Rahul stayed a short time and then it was time for wine! Our Irish neighbours brought their baby boy out to the living room and we cracked open a bottle of Australian wine and enjoyed the babies and the company. This continues to be a very fond memory of ours, spending time with this family, and enjoying conversation. We checked the weather and it looked like Tuesday would pan out nicely for out photo shoot. We were super excited to do this and had bought Cailyn a very adorable dress at Monnalisa in the mall. After the wine I pulled out my sewing kit and shortened the little shoulder straps on the dress so that it fit Cailyn perfectly for our pictures. Since this was Labour Day at home, we were able to have some Skype time with friends and family to catch up on all that had been going on both in India and at home. Tuesday we awoke to a nice day and firmed up with our photographer that we were still on and set our meet time for around 10:00am. Rahul’s driver got us to the correct entrance gate at Lodi Gardens and met up with Tim the photographer. As we entered the park we were taken aback at how beautiful it was, how lush and green and the historic tombs and monuments standing tall in historic glory. We ended up taking most of our pictures with the monuments in the back ground. It was so muggy that day, I would think the humidity was at 90%! It was a task to hold Cailyn and pose for the pictures as we were all very dewy and sweaty from the humidity and heat. Tim was so great to work with, he was patient with us as we juggled a sweaty baby, and also aware that we were limited for time due to having a baby out in this heat. We ended up getting a good 50 pictures in the gardens and then Tim suggested that we head back to his home to do some individual shots of Cailyn. At Tim’s house we had such a wonderful time watching our very alert little girl pose for pictures. In between some shots we gave her a feed and a diaper change and eventually she was just tuckered out and needed her sleep. As we departed for the day it started to rain, which made for a lengthy car ride back to the bed and breakfast. When we finally made it back we received a call from the Canadian High Commission asking for some further detail on Mark’s employment. We were optimistic that we would get Cailyn’s passport on Thursday morning as we had an appointment scheduled with one of the Indian government offices. Later in the evening, Tim sent us a few samples of the day’s pictures and we were more than impressed. We now had four beautiful pictures to share on our blog and with family. Baby Cailyn looked so gorgeous in the pictures and they just melted our hearts. Wednesday morning we awoke to the awful news that there had been a terrorist attack in New Delhi, outside the Delhi High Court. All the TV channels were engaged in the activity with speculation of what had happened and who was responsible. We were fortunate that we were about twenty minutes away from this location, but it still was unnerving to know this had happened so close to our current home. We immediately contacted everyone at home to let them know we were ok and not affected at all by this attack. It was surreal to be in New Delhi as this played out. It certainly put a small reminder in our heads that despite as comfortable as we felt, we should hike up our awareness when out and about, especially at the local markets and larger shopping complexes. As if this day was not anxiety-ridden enough, late in the evening we had an earthquake! All of us at the bed and breakfast immediately jumped out of bed and rushed into the common area. Hariz the cook went outside to look around and we all assumed it was an earthquake, and sure enough, by the time we returned to our rooms it was all over the news, that New Delhi had felt a 6.1 quake on the Richter scale! That was enough excitement for one day, and we were sure tomorrow would bring us a new, fresh, and less stressful day.

Interview with Tosha Woronov

An Interview with Tosha Woronov, TNF Managing Editor, by The Next Family

TNF: How has it been blogging for TNF?

It’s so important to me. I love that I have this small collection of stories to mark my life as a mother. It goes by so fast as we all know, and anything I can do to memorialize it in some way gives me a shot at holding on to these times. I hope I can come around to start writing more. I’m either too lazy, or too blocked, or too something. Sometimes I have a hard time opening up. My warped thinking is, if I feel safe enough to share it then it must not be that interesting (and therefore not worth sharing). On the flip side, if it’s good – if I want to really rant or really open up about life as a mom/wife/woman, then it’s too risky to share. It’s a catch-22. And I’m impressed that so many of our writers can navigate this issue so much better than I. We have some who can write about normal stuff – dropping off her kid at preschool, or a son’s first zit – and the result is pure poetry.

But I have another special role with TNF that I really treasure: managing editor. I read and edit each and every piece before it goes live on the site. And I love love love editing. When Brandy, our editor-in-chief, first approached me three years ago about being a contributing writer, I was psyched, but said in no way could I work with a site that permitted grammar or spelling errors, from any of its writers. So voila! I was editor. And I’m proud of what we’ve done, and all the unique writers we have from so many interesting backgrounds. Their stories are all special to me.

TNF: How is your family like every other family and how is it different?

We are just like any other family (which is like every other family and also different from every other family). Except I’m quite certain we are wholly different from your typical evangelical Christian Tea-Party family.

TNF: Did your family accept you and your lifestyle? If yes, explain and if not explain what you have done to help them to accept your decisions and your lifestyle.

I hail from some pretty conservative, Republican parents. But I turned out to be a liberal who attended the People’s Republic of Boulder (as my dad refers to the University of Colorado at Boulder) and then married a liberal who works in entertainment. I think they’ve accepted it but will never love it, and we’ve had some problems with it in the past. It can trickle down to bigger things, like our differing views on parenting. But in the end, we are family, and we love each other very much, and as long as we don’t watch Sarah Palin being spoofed on SNL, we have a great time together.

TNF: How do you juggle the work at home with your jobs?

I can’t juggle, so I don’t try. It’s more like dodge ball. Stuff flies at me and I either catch it and execute, or it smacks me hard in the face and I sit on the floor blubbering. I work from home, which is great because I get to work and still be there full-time for our son. My paychecks are teeny but I get to wear pajamas all damn day. And sometimes I can blow off a project and watch Real Housewives. I don’t have to fake sick. (And I love sick days!) What’s rough is that moms – no matter what other outside work they do or don’t have – are always busy with the job of managing a house and family. And so I have a hard time separating the two. I’ll be in the middle of a project, go downstairs for a fresh cup of coffee, and get blindsided by the pile of dirty dishes. Or Real Housewives. But really, I don’t want it any other way. I make it to all of Leo’s sports practices, I host gazillions of play dates, get to be field trip chaperone, be room mom at school and a carnival chairperson, AND I have a job. Also, I get to be at work with our cat sitting on my lap and the dog snoring away on the daybed behind me. A dream!

TNF: What lessons do you feel are the most important to teach children in this day and age? Are there any lessons they, or perhaps we as parents should unlearn?

I feel that our generation of parents just worries too damn much. And look, I’m part of it! I’m talking about myself here. And this emphasis on careful parenting has been a good thing – it was necessary. But (and perhaps this is some remnant of conservative blood in my veins) sometimes I think we should all just calm down and let life happen to our kids – just a little bit. Maybe it’s time to sway the parenting to the other side, back to an older time. Let’s see how our kids handle life rather than rushing in so fast. I don’t think we even allow kids to feel their frustrations or fears – we are so quick to swoop in and fix and bandage and wipe tears and mediate and call the school and intervene. I heard someone once refer to the “helmet-free” parenting of the 70’s – when I grew up -and it stuck with me. I’m not talking about toughening kids up, but actually letting them think and feel and make mistakes. And jesus! – let them find their own ways to entertain themselves that don’t involve an app or a charger!

That was for the parents. For kids, oh man I wish more than anything we could just teach them that it’s OK. It’s OK to love, and it’s OK to fall down, and it’s OK to wear that color to school, and it’s OK that you still love stuffed animals, and it’s OK that she has two moms, and it’s OK if he likes boys, and it’s OK if they were adopted. It’s OK that you’re scared and it’s OK that you’re pissed off and it’s OK that you’re sad and don’t know what to do.

And it’s OK if your mom wears pajamas when she picks you up from school.

TNF: Any words of wisdom to pass on to our readers?

I’m the last person who should pass on any wisdom, but let’s see…

Let your kids cry it all out, while telling them it’s OK to cry it out. I stopped shush-ing Leo (I don’t even hand him a tissue anymore) because I believe that fully experiencing anything – even sadness – can bring joy. I think it’s helped him.

Please, people, know this: You REALLY CAN use the word “me” in a sentence! “I” only sounds better when it’s the appropriate usage. And it’s almost never appropriate to use “myself”.

Forgive your mother, as you’d want to be forgiven.

Read read read! And let your kids see you read! And get books from the library, or a bookstore, even Amazon – not ONLY loaded on your Kindle, Nook, or iPad.

Can we stop referring to everything as a “journey”? You’re having a baby; you’re getting married; you’ve written a novel. No journey! It’s only a journey if you’re wearing a khaki vest and a safari hat. And even then it’s only an expedition.

Don’t be the first to break a hug.

TNF: Anything you want our readers to know about you or your family?

We have 1,000 nicknames for our dog and cat. The cat: Dr. Kits (“paging Dr. Kits!”), Spotted Belly Boy, Apple Face, Long Cat Number 205. The dog: Fluffito, Cha-Chi-Cho-Cho, or Chimini-Chee-Cha, Gruffalo. Or Mr. Proud.

I stay up too late. Crazy late. Like 4am. My circadian rhythm is all screwed up. I’m beyond ashamed to admit it but now that it’s out there I feel better.

Hope? Nope.

By: Ann Brown

Clearly, it is just a myth that if you get enough sleep, eat a healthy diet, get daily exercise and think noble thoughts, you will wake up each morning at the crack of dawn, bound out of bed and face the new day with a smile and a toned pelvic floor.

Not that I’d know anything about that. My lifestyle runs a bit more to the, I don’t know, pre-suicidal.

I suffer a sweaty, fitful night’s sleep, wake up at the crack of noon, carb-load like I am going to run the fucking Boston marathon, buy new underwear each month to avoid the exertion of going downstairs to the washing machine, and keep my head filled with bitter, poisonous envy of the good fortune of anyone I know.

Still, this lifestyle is not as awesome as you’d think. I wake up every morning with a headache and lurch to the bathroom to spit out my bite guard before I gag on it. I chew down my Prozac with an Advil, lurch to the kitchen to hit the “on” button on the coffee maker, lurch back to the bathroom to measure my facial moles and recalculate the day of my death from melanoma, remember that I did not put coffee or water into the machine last night, lurch quickly back to the kitchen to turn off the coffee maker before I burn the empty carafe (again), eat one of the bajillion things I will regret eating that day, bask in self-loathing and then return to the computer to remind myself that I am a hack and nobody thinks I am funny.

Maybe I should get more fiber. I seem to have lost my joie de vivre.

I’m in a bad way. You see, there is a slight possibility of good news.

Living here on the bottom, it’s pretty hard to hurt yourself when you fall down a few notches. Disappointment? Yeah, I’m already there. Rejection? Got it. Bad news? Puhleese. Like I know from anything else in this veil of tears. Allowing myself to rise up, to even glimpse the shiny underbelly of hope, well, that is just asking for trouble. I come from a people who know that unexpected news is never good. I mean, after the third time Nazis show up uninvited to your door and it’s NOT because they are bringing you a bundt cake to welcome you to the neighborhood, well, you learn to hide behind the bookcase.

So I just live behind the bookcase now and rarely come out unless the cake thing is an absolute certainty.

Claire said to me, “you would rather fail immediately than ever wait and have a chance at success?”

I love how Claire gets me. And, duh. Nazis rarely come to the doors of my people with the sole (or even adjunct) intention of bringing cake. Well, maybe German chocolate cake. Which, I bet, they would force us to watch them eat and not offer us any. Those sick fucks. Thank God we defeated them.

Great. Now I want cake.

Next Page »