Change is good

It keeps you on your toes, right?  While we've been under major construction at the actual bricks and siding and oh.my.effing.god. drywall casa de Any, I've also been working with Cat of Rent a Geek Mom to make some changes around my internet home.

Change is hard for me and I'm going to miss this lovely little place where I set my words down with such care for four years.  But, Cat designed a beautiful little room of my own over on Wordpress.  So, if you're still subscribed to this feed through blogger, please come and visit me there (http://anymommyoutthere.com) and re-subscribe.  We don't live here any more.  Hope to see you soon!

Love and sunshine,

Stacey

Winning at BlogHer

Okay, okay already. BlogHer.  I fail at blogging. I think I may be the very, very last out of what? 4000 attendees? to blog about it. There's a point in there somewhere about finding your own path and blogging for you and only worrying about expectations that you have for yourself, but I'll be DAMNED if I can find it.  

BlogHer was lovely.  San Diego made my favorite places list in a heartbeat.

(This is the only picture I took on the entire three day trip. The view from our hotel room.)

I read my post-BlogHer posts from the last two years and smiled at how much the same I feel. Amazed. Inspired. Overwhelmed. Insecure. Joyful. Happy I went. Thirty six hundred women (and men, but mostly women).  That's a lot of women in one large, vaguely boat-themed mega-complex.  A lot of intetions. A lot of reasons for attending. Different goals.  Different objectives. 

In a crowd that big, the truth is that not everyone is going to like the cake.  But worse, not everyone is going like me or seek me out or think that I'm fun or interesting or worth talking to.  And that is okay.  I go to BlogHer because it challenges my personal boundaries and forces me to see, really see, a small part of the huge world of women making shit happen for themselves and for others.  And because I like to write and be surrounded by writers I admire. I go to BlogHer because I have friends there and I love to spend time with them.  It's that lofty and that silly.

So yes. I felt inspired.  I felt lost.  I felt terrified to walk into a room. I felt left out. I felt fulfilled.  I felt joyous and tired and silly and fascinating and boring.  I felt insecure. I felt confident. It depended on the moment, the group, the crowd. Sometimes, it depended on the person standing next to me or whether someone smiled from across the room.

But I found my joy and my reasons for going, as I have the last two years, in hugs and quick moments and smiles and nods and stolen conversations. In being surrounded by brilliant, motivated women with something to say and a platform from which to say it.

Highlights for me?

Voices of the Year and the Community Keynote. Every year, this takes my breath away, but this year, it about killed me with equal parts astonishing happiness and fear because I had the opportunity to read my post Listen.  I did it, though. Stepped onto that stage in front of thousands (!) (I'll never say that again!) and read my own work. That hour and half burns so brightly in my mind. The crowd. The jumbotron. The nerves (not fun). The pinch-myself-to-be-among-them talent of the women who read with me. Pure magic.

Fabulous photography by Kim of Mosey Along.

You can link to all the readers from the transcript of the keynote.  Every single one of those thirteen women was amazing, but I will point you to two that I had not read before the keynote.  Lori's The Red Underwear and Alexandra's When Someone You Love Has A Blog.

The LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER Salon. This was a new event this year created under the brilliant direction of Ann Imig, one of my favorite people in the whole world.  People had an opportunity to read their work in an open mic forum. I cried. (Damn you Zakary, Kate and Varda.) I laughed until I cried. (Damn you, Joy, Deb and Erin (who read Dead Vagina Walking. Do. not. miss.)) Beautiful.

Epic lunch at JSix Restaurant. HUGE thank you to San Diego Momma and Morgan B. of Little Hen House. Amy of The Bitchin'Wives Club and I about came to a fork duel over heirloom tomatoes soaked in golden balsamic vinegar.

Dinner at La Fiesta. Margaritas and deep conversation with women I love from afar. Perfection. This is really kind of an excuse to link to my adored roommates and might-as-well-be roommates because I squishy, puffy pink heart love them:  Renee (@butwhymommy), Issa (@issascrazyworld), Zakary (@zakary),  Galit (@Galitbreen), Kate (@bigpieceofcake), Jen (@froglette79), Kim (@moseyalong) and Joy @parentingmyth Christy (@lilwelshrarebit) Chrisy (@CSquaredPlus3) and Megan (@meganterry01).

All photography by Kim of Mosey Along.

I love this picture.  No idea what we're talking about, but don't we look like it's the most interesting thing ever?

I go to BlogHer because every year I meet someone like Galit, whose writing I adore, and talk to her for an entire breezy, music playing, lights softly shining walk from a restaurant to the Marriott. And because I said I would tear up if I told her one of my favorite parenting quotes and then I did tear up and she didn't laugh at me.

The other day, Kate and I discussed what it means to disagree in the context of BlogHer. Of course we all love, dislike, feel moved by and feel disappointed by different things. Discussing those differences of opinion honestly without hurt feelings or misunderstanding is hard. Especially - yes, I'll say it - for women.

She wrote something that made me sit up and say, yes, (and hopefully she'll forgive me for reprinting it here).

"If you hear one single thing that grabs hold of your heart, confirms your own ardent beliefs, and makes you want to be a better person...it's a win." 

If I weren't completely lazy and overwrought by the very idea, I'd link to all of the astonishing and beautiful women and men I hugged in San Diego. [[Oh.my.god. Fine. I can do twitter handles. @scarymommy @GDRPEmpress @waitinthevan @smacksy @annalefler @thebitchinwife @magpiemusing @countessmo @walktherope @ohjennymae @backpackingdad @headlessmom @wendiaarons @squashedmom @kristenhowerton @sandiegomomma @littlehenhouse @inpursuit_of @redneckmommy @mrlady (WHO LOOKS NOTHING LIKE TANIS, I SWEAR!!) @mrsloulou @alexishinde @ohnoag @edenland @bonstewart @sweetandsalty @bhockeyjesus @neilochka @avitable @looneytunes @debontherocks @bernthis @justanothermom @elainea @jenbshaw @reneejross @missbritt @cecilyk @mommynanibooboo @heatheroftheeo @onecraftyellie @thepanicroom @oldtweener @momofali @honestandtruly @amazinggreis @twentyfour @thatkristen @phdinparenting Now I'm all stressed out that I missed someone.]]

Consider my heart grabbed. It's a win.

Let them eat cake

Well, hell. I thought I was going to write about BlogHer finally, but instead I'm writing about cake. NO. Not that cake. 

Saige turned six today.  She woke early, blaring with entitled excitement that was impossible to resist. She wanted her hair in a bun. She wanted enchiladas for dinner. She wanted - well, maybe, possibly, might there be SIX presents because she was SIX YEARS OLD?! She wanted the white rainbow cake she saw at the grocery store (thank all that is holy because we all witnessed what happened the last time I tried to play cake).

We bounced through the day fulfilling wishes. What parent doesn't want to make such reasonable wishes come true? We played with friends and got ice cream and opened presents and brushed the hair of new little princess ponies. I groused at Matt about the strawberry cheesecake he procured before he left for work because what part of "white rainbow cake from cheap grocery store" sounded like weird adultish cake made out of cheese to you? But whatever, we'll make do. I'll make cheese fun. There are always sprinkles. I made enchiladas while they watched a new movie and served them outside on the picnic table as requested.

Leaving the enchilada and joy-filled children at the table for a moment, I pulled the cheesecake (? WTF, Matt) out of the fridge and placed six bright candles in the strawberry topping. I stepped out the door, the cake balanced on one hand, matches clutched in the other and my camera around my neck, to find Saige and Quinn waging a milk-spitting war that had already covered the table and their clothes. Milk dripped from the bun in Saige's hair.

"But now you can't have cake," I said in such a stricken tone that they didn't even protest. They just sat down in the puddle of milk on the picnic table bench.

I guess I'm a really strict mother. We have places in our house that are for children, where couches are for jumping and toys are left strewn and broken things left behind are quietly picked up and thrown away without recrimination.  And we have places that are mine and where, for my sanity's sake, everyone is expected to follow my rules.  The table rules are non-negotiable. We sit properly. We ask nicely. We try one bite of everything. Anyone who spits, throws, deposits, mashes, hides or otherwise plays with food is DONE. It's important. And that's final.

So we lit the candles and sang happy birthday five times. (Nate really, really likes happy birthday.) Saige blew out the candles and made a wish, but she didn't get a piece of cake.  Garrett and Nate had cake and Saige and Quinn did not.

I know some parents will think that I was wrong. That it's cruel. It's possible that they are right. I don't know. Is it more important that Saige has a beautiful memory of her sixth birthday or is it more important that I am consistent and rules are rules?  Do we argue that children are children and they get excited and spit milk? Or do we argue that children need limits? That they must understand that no spitting doesn't mean no spitting except on your birthday when I really want to give you cake?

We could argue parenting choices all day and we'd be missing the soft, sapling-green heart of it. If you cut away the bark to the wick, you would see me sitting at the table after bedtime under the champagne light of our dining room chandelier. There is a piece of cheesecake in front of me, but I'm crying too hard to eat it.

I don't always want to be the one who ends the fun and says no cake. But I'm their parent. It's important. And that's final.

((This is so reflective, I find myself needing to say that we had a lovely day. And Saige and Quinn handled their consequences very respectfully. I was really proud.  It just struck me as a moment in parenting.))

I'm just a girl

I strongly disliked a post I read today (it's an older one, published in June) on ForbesWomen.  I disagree and look at this miracle of modern technology.  I have a forum from which to spout my own opinion on the subject and I don't even write for ForbesWomen. Hell, I don't write for CafeMom. Little ole me, a stay at home mother of four in Spoe-KANE Washington. How pink magical bubblesque is that?

The author disparages "blogs for women," which she defines at first as large media outlets directed at women such as BlogHer and CafeMom (ForbesWomen?), but goes on to include "mommyblogs" and "recipe sharing sites" in the wide swath of her disdain.  In fact, by the end of the confusing diatribe she strays rather far off point and reaches the conclusion that all blogs written by any women on any subject other than the ones she deems worthy (they remain undefined) are "morally indefensible."

She bases her argument against blogs for women on three key points, as any good argument, we all learned in basic essay writing, should stand upon a three-pronged support.

1) They are limiting in their viewpoint in that they universally focus on appeasement and fantasy.  All targeted writing is limited in its viewpoint from tech writing to pet writing to food writing to parenting writing.  Reading the subtext, (oh yes, I can do that, actually) I believe what the author intends to say is that those that consume writing directed at women or focusing on traditional women's issues are 'way too totally dumb y'all' to seek out other opinions or think critically about the shit often shoveled in opinion and culture sites of any kind.

2) They are hypocritical.  I'm not sure I am understanding the hypocrisy beyond the very first sentence.  I'm certain it's because I'm too mired in appeasement and fantasy to comprehend a good point when I see one.  Or maybe it's the author who fails to understand hypocrisy because this reads more like a list of things she finds annoying in online women's culture.  Certainly, there are hundreds, possibly thousands, of annoying blogs written by and for women, but that doesn't make them hypocritical. One example of a hypocrite might be a woman who makes a living posting on the internet about how boring and banal it is for women to discuss women's issues on the internet.

3)  They do not exist in reality because they withdraw from the real world where men exist.  This only works because the author defines her own world as the real world. I adore the websites for women and by women that I read precisely because they discuss and analyze in an honest way the real world that I navigate every day.  There are plenty of men involved and complexities of all sorts, but the issues at the center of my current reality revolve around raising children and finding time to challenge my mind in a busy, home-centered life.  The fact that this is not interesting to her does not make it unreal.

I do find fault, at times, with the pervasive cultural idea that disagreement or argument between women is "unpleasant" and that we must all get along and support each other.  I'll defend critique and the unpopular opinion. I'll defend both your right to state it and its merits, where I find them.

I find none here. All I find is intellectual elitism at its worst.  Declaring one's own interests and prejudices less "morally indefensible" than another person's - or woman's - interests is the intellectual equivalent of mocking sports fans on their way to a game with their faces painted as you glare at them down your nose though your opera glasses.  Attending an opera on a given night over a baseball game doesn't make you better in some grand life plan. No more than reading and enjoying sites aimed at cooking or mothering or scrap booking  makes one less than those that enjoy music sites or news sites or political commentary.  Nor do any of these individual interests define us a people.

I'm disappointed in this lowest common denominator style of commentary.

Let's identify and celebrate brilliance by women in writing, in media and in culture where ever we find it.  Let's be our own worse critics at all times, but when we do let's be specific.  Don't tell me that an entire genre of women's writing is worthless. Don't identify a subculture as worth less than the subculture with which you identify most closely.  You lose all credibility the minute you do it.  Tell me that a specific trend, a specific argument in popular use, a specific piece of writing is wrong or trivializing for xyz reasons.

For example, I abhor the Forbes article for the following reasons:

1)  It fails to acknowledge the wide spectrum of interest, debate and creative accomplishment taking place across social media platforms aimed at women.

2) It crosses, in my opinion, the line of constructive analysis or critique and instead mocks a stereotype of a subculture.

3) It misses the inherent value to be found in connecting with people with similar interests without regard to physical distance or gender for that matter.

When will all of these women's sites - ForbesWomen included - stop trying to make me mad and focus on making me think. I don't find that sites targeted at women are diminishing the presence or contribution of women on the internet, but SEO is certainly dumbing down the conversation so far that it's hard to see it from here.

Painting "blogging women" with one color for page views or for your own amusement is just laziness. Yes, even at ForbesWomen.

Stepping back, moving forward

I'm having trouble with my BlogHer post this year. So much and so little to say. I wrote this half on the airplane to San Diego and half in a bathroom fighting my terror before I read at Voices of the Year.  Does that count?  Honestly, I think it's all tied up together. The BlogHer experience. Writer's block. My need to let go of this intense time mothering babies and move forward with some things of my own.

Quinn stands at the very end of the diving board. The swim coach waits patiently four feet below him, patting the target spot on a white flotation noodle.  "Right here, Quinn," she encourages. Behind him, a college kid who assists with the swim class crowds close. So close. Not touching my tiny boy in his shark swim trunks, but there is no escape back to the ladder.  He doesn't cry, but his whole body is braced backward like a balking mule. The scattered parents on the side of the pool call out to him at intervals.

"You can do it."

"Come on, Quinn."

I am silent.  He is the last one to jump.  I can see from the far side of the water how scared his is. His arms are rigid. His face set in a worried frown. But he won't cry. He's in the big kid class with Saige and Garrett. My lip hurts where I chew on it to keep from contradicting the swell of encouragement.  You don't have to jump. It's okay. Come and sit in my lap and I'll wrap you in a towel and kiss your baby cheeks.

The assistant crowds him from behind. His eyes lock on the noodle and I see his body language change. He leans forward and jumps.  His head surfaces to applause and cheers and his smile is radiant.  "Yay!" Nate claps, standing in front of me.  "Yay! Kin did it!!"

**************************

The wind rustles and the pines speed by on the steep banks of Lake Roosevelt. There's no word for the blue of the deep, glacial water.  The surface, before we weave our peace-shattering way north, is mirror still. There might not be not a soul in all the world but our small boat party and the ospreys calling on the shore.

I sit backwards with Nate's head buried in my shoulder.  My eyes lock on the large inner tube pulled behind the boat by one slim rope. It has three "seats" in front and a place for someone to kneel at the back.  One slim rope. A little rubber raft with handles.  It skims the water, jumping the wake back and forth. Riding the edge of the wave before it spins over the top and settles back into the middle of the wake.  We draw a loop pattern back and forth across the lake.  My five and barely four-year-old children cling to the handles, except when they let go with one hand to wave wild thumps up signs in the air.

Faster. Faster. Thumbs up. Faster.

I bite my tongue not to scream. Stop!  They'll flip.  It will hurt.  The water is so cold. Which one would I swim to first?  

They laugh and laugh and laugh. Thumbs up. Faster.

******************************

"I can do it."

"Okay."

"Don't hold it."

"I'm not."

"You are."

I am. Okay. Okay.  I let go and step back and he carefully rearranges the pedals, places his foot on the raised pedal and pushes.  He steers erratically, jagging towards the street and then corrects and sails down the sidewalk.

Too fast, my mind screams, too fast. The concrete. The street. The gravel.

"Use your brakes."  I try to keep my voice steady.  "Stop at the corner."  He hits them too hard and bails off the side. The bike crashes to the ground and he hits his feet and then his hands.

"Are you okay?  Garrett? Are you okay?" 

"Did you see me?  Did you see?  I did it all by myself!"

*******************************

Don't you see them, momma?  Don't you see?  How tall they are?  How brave?  How confident?  How beautiful?  The job description changed while you were busy holding them tight and keeping them safe.  It's time to step back a little.  Time to let them jump, flip, fall.  I suspect (I hope) it will hurt me more than it ever hurts them.

The entire world is cooler than me and also more organized

I've reached half written post level: CRITICAL.  Red lights are flashing on top of my crappy laptop but I keep wandering off because there's this one really important thing that I haven't done yet and I really should pick up that dry cleaning ...

I'm going to BlogHer in two days (make that tomorrow morning) and I haven't packed and I don't own any cocktail dresses and it's my third year and I'm still scared.  So, ahem, if you're going, this isn't one of those posts helping you with any of that.  However:

1) I'll be in San Diego in two days (make that tomorrow) & I've never been to California.

2) BY MYSELF. AS IN WITHOUT MY CHILDREN. ON MY OWN. WITH MY OWN BED.

I'm pretty happy about that second point.  You know those friends you have that agonize about trips because they can hardly bear to leave their children? Or maybe you are one of those people? God bless your sweet little hearts.  That's not me. I can barely wait to leave their dirty little asses (LITERALLY) behind. I mean that with love.

More seriously, I am (There is no adjective for the depth of my emotion. fantastically?) honored to be a Voice of the Year at BlogHer this year.  I'm one of 15 bloggers reading at the Community Keynote.  I've been in awe of the Community Keynote for three years and I'm just slightly, braggily proud of the fact that I've nominated a reader every year.  In 2009, Issa read her thought-provoking post about her uncle. Last year, Marinka killed us all dead (of laughter, not literally, although I sometimes wouldn't put it past her) with her post Fantastic News!, which I nominated. (Yes, I am going to keep reminding you.)

And I won't lie. I longed to write something good enough to put me up on that stage. This year, I'll be there. (Thank you, Marinka!!).  AND, oh yes, I did maintain my unbroken nomination record. MomoFali will read a post I adored from the first moment I read it.  And Bon will read a devastatingly beautiful post that both Neil and I nominated (But I'm taking 70% credit because I nominated it first. Petty, but true).  Corny alert:  I'm floored to be reading in the same CK as Bon. I started reading her blog before I started my blog and I idolize her dreamy, descriptive writing. 

Are you going to San Diego?  Are you already there because I am so very untimely with my posting that it's practically moot and the conference is all but over? Come find me.  Say hi.  I suck at small talk (truly), so hit me with something deep & personal. Tell me you weren't able to have any more kids after your last and it hurt because I've been struggling with that all year. Tell me you've had miscarriages too. Tell me that you don't know what to do with the rest of your life.  We'll chat all night.

Oh! And also! The Serenity Suite. It's a really great place for chatting.  Heather and Ellie are the lovely ladies in charge and you can read all about it and who is hosting. Spoiler! Me! I'm hosting.  Thursday from 9-10 p.m. and Friday morning from 11-12.  I would love to see you there.

***********************

In other non-blogging news: 

1)  They plumbed the new master bathroom last week and now the entire rest of my house lacks water pressure and hot water.  I find that to be a problem.  Matt and Scot (contractor) and Jim (plumber) stood around a few days ago "brainstorming" and I made the mistake of wandering through the room.  They were all trying to explain it to me with words like "air pressure" and "leak in the vent" and "insulation."  Dear God, I don't care if tiny firebreathing dragons need a better supply of magic mushrooms to make it right.  Let's just order those damn things in, okay? Excellent.

2) I can't have the tile I want for the shower because apparently they make it but NO ONE ACTUALLY SELLS IT.  Yes, I am aware that my problems are privileged, first world problems that rank in the "no one gives a shit category," but JESUS. If you're going to make tile and put it on the internet for me to see could you possibly also SELL it.

3)  Quinn turned four.  I have about fifty half-written, sobby posts about that.  Instead, let's look at my cake disaster prowess, shall we.  New motto:  When life gives you a crumbling, cake disaster from hell, make cake cocktails. Because everything looks better in a cocktail glass.

 Surprisingly, this is not a tutorial on how to successfully remove a cake from a pan.  What tipped you off? (This picture cakesonifies why I hate baking. And crafting. And anything else that is supposed to be easy and pretty and actually requires "tips" and "patience" to pull off.)

You are impressed. Admit it. I swirled chocolate and vanilla frosting together. It's hard to contain this kind of genius, but somehow I manage to contain it and even hide it most of the time.

With

"Hold my hand," I say to Nate softly. It's awkward to drive with my right arm bent backwards around the seat and my fingers clutched in his drool-slick hand, but he quiets. His mind-piercing shrieks calm to snuffling sobs and he takes a shaky, stuttering breath. In a few minutes, he is asleep and I pull my aching arm back around to the front, turn up the music, sip my coffee and place my hand back on the wheel.

A flash of memory cuts through me and it hurts.  I remember an afternoon driving Saige and Garrett and a newborn Quinn to some destination. Toddler class?  The store?  Quinn screamed in that five-alarm-fire newborn squawk that induces a fight or flight response in every mother. Garrett threw an epic fit about a shoe, I think, that he wanted off or on or backwards and Saige, ever the opportunistic tantrum thrower, sensed weakness. Or possibly safety in numbers.

I briefly lost my mind. I reached around from the front seat and swatted at my two toddlers' feet.  Hard. And then, I pulled over and cried. This is not one of those confession posts.  "I swatted her hand and curled up into a little ball under the table and died a thousand deaths from grief and guilt and misery."  No. I was positive that, having given up a child that I couldn't parent a mere month before, some black-clad government official was going to leap out at me at the slightest mistake and snarl about unfit mothers while taking away the rest of my children. I was positive that losing my temper was "not okay" in the grandest of senses. In truth, it happens. It's not the best reaction; but under normal circumstances, I think most parents repair the relationship and move on.

I don't know when it started with Nate, this hand holding, but he must have been quite young.  I can't remember when it didn't work to soothe him and let me focus my (one-handed) attention to a task.  It probably began at story time when we are all tired and his demanding baby antics wreaked mayhem on my  bedtime routine.  He would plop himself in my lap, pull at the pages, block views until every single person in the room screeched manically including me.

I can't see.  Stop it now, it's okay.  He's in my WAY. No, Nate.  I can't see the pictures. No! Don't hit him. Nate, sit beside me.  Nooooooooo. One night, I met his eyes and said, sit here, baby, hold my hand. It worked, but not because holding hands is some magical solution to parenting temper tantrums. It worked because I am a calmer mother now than I once was. I am more regulated.

"Be with your child in his emotional storm," my favorite attachment psychologist advises.  "Be with whenever you can, take charge whenever you must."

Being with, for me, especially for the hard emotions, anger and fear, is a skill that has grown with experience.

I have changed so much as a mother and as a person in the last six years. I am steadier. More centered. I understand (though I don't always remember) that being with a child in an emotion is a function of staying out of the storm yourself.  Every time I handle Nate with ease and patience that I didn't possess four years ago, I am grateful for the wisdom that comes from practice and time and heartbroken just a bit for my first babies.

I was a good mother then, but I'm a better mother now. But then again, I'm a better mother to all of them.

If you throw a fit about leaving the park, you will not get to play tomorrow. You will sit on the bench, I tell her. Saige scrunches up her mouth and chokes down the scream in her throat. Will you hold my hand to the car? she asks me.  I will.  / Quinn crumples to the ground in toddler agony over a moth that is. not. coming. inside. my. house. I'm sorry, bubba. I want to hold your hand, he sobs. / Nate shrieks for the red Candy Land man because only the red one will do, but Garrett will not give it up, possibly because he likes to see me die of pierced, bleeding eardrums.  I'm fed up, impatient and short, ready to put the entire game away. Nate, Saige coos, seated beside him on the dog-haired covered carpet. Nater, Nater, do you want to hold my hand? He takes her fingers with his sweaty little paw and lays his head in her lap while I sit at the table and cry fat, disbelieving tears into my steaming coffee cup.

I think it's going to be okay. I think maybe I'm doing alright. After all, she never swats at his feet.

It's scary. I'm reminded daily that one person's story about personal growth is another person's story about their crazy bitch of a mother.  That's generationally required, right? Tell me it is. They have to have something to blame it all on, don't they? How have you grown as a mother?