When Class Mom Becomes a Competitive Sport

Last year when my son Jonah asked me to be the class mom, I responded “but I’m your mom sweetie,” I don’t need to be the class mom. He was temporarily disappointed, but didn’t push the point. This year Jonah was adamant. “Mommy,” he announced at the end of August, “you will be the class mom this year…you MUST.”

Having your mom as Class Mom when you’re in third grade seems to carry elite status. It’s like being a hall monitor or on safety patrol, but better because your mom is ALWAYS in the classroom for the smorgasbord of events – events that often involve food.

So midway through last year, Jonah began plotting my move to become his Class Mom – the quintessential Queen Mama School Bee. Maybe he was motivated by first choice cupcakes at the end-of-the-month collective birthday parties or maybe he simply wanted to bask in the glow of my in-class presence, who knows. But the pressure was on and I didn’t want to let him down.

So I promised that this year to volunteer as class martyr and throw myself into the minutiae of mind numbing responsibilities like collecting Scholastic book order forms. I am not knocking the importance of the administrative efforts that must happen to make a classroom run smoothly, I just have no interest in doing them. And while I swear I am at the school for pretty much everything – or certainly everything that warrants an in-person visit, the class mom literally is there for EVERYTHING. Things frankly, I’ve chosen to avoid.

So believing that Jonah would feel more pride in my being his Class Mom than if I were to say win a Nobel Prize for eradicating the Swine Flu, I decided to suck it up and sign up. After all, how much longer will my son actually want to see me in his classroom?

What I didn’t realize was that this Class Mom thing had become super competitive. In past years at Back-To-School night a paper was passed around seeking volunteers. I would always push the paper to other desks mumbling softly so the other moms could hear and not think that I was shirking my duties something like, “I really wish I could, but I work full time.”

But this year, in a PTA reorganization effort, we were asked to apply for Class Mom with a one-page application sent out along with a ream of other back to school forms. The application outlined the responsibilities of the Class Mom which included phone call chains, teacher gifts, potential mid-morning/mid-day meetings and other activities that as they noted may not be conducive to a working mother. I signed the form thinking that I’ll just work it out as we go along. Let’s be honest, how many mid-morning meetings do I really need to be at?

Jonah, assuming that I was his Class Mom after I filled out the application, was overjoyed until I received an email notifying me that I was not chosen because of “mass interest” and instead I was awarded my “second choice” to be my younger daughter Lexi’s Class Mom.

But Lexi was not my second choice – not that I wouldn’t want to be her Queen Mama School Bee, but because Jonah would KILL me. The next three days continued with me emailing the designated PTA class parent operative who clearly has the unenviable job of dealing with irate moms who don’t get their proper class assignments. I explained my dilemma and a dozen emails later, the lovely PTA lady informed me that there was “good news” because Jonah’s teacher would be thrilled for me to volunteer and help with some of the paperwork in class.

Clearly, they didn’t understand my selfish intentions. I am not looking to fill my time during the day with paperwork, I just NEEDED to be at all of these in-class events where class parents can come but regular parents aren’t invited.

So I declined both positions, as Lexi’s class mom and as Jonah’s special volunteer. I’ve promised Jonah that next year I will be his Class Mom, even if that means I have to bribe the PTA parent chair for the position. But before I take out my checkbook, I’m secretly hoping Jonah will change his mind. After all, safety patrol is way cool too.

Staring Facebook in the Face

I love boys....always have. There were the two Alans and a Brad, a Noah a Scott a Chris and a slew of Mikes...I wound up even marrying one. There were also the scandalous Todd and Lance. And, of course, there was the beautiful Dutch guy, Iljan, my summer camp love. It was an exquisite romance – six weeks of intense, young passion followed by a year of heartache when he went home to the Netherlands.

I was four when I shared my first kiss with my first Alan. I fantasized about marrying him. I worshipped Alan and wanted to dress like him. It was pure and uncomplicated until he told me that he preferred Emily, a girl who looked like Pocahontas with jet black hair and bright green eyes. She wore dresses and played with Barbie dolls. I wore shorts and played with balls. I remember sleeping in Alan’s trundle bed – we were both in kindergarten when he told me about his crush on Emily. It broke my heart. I was only 5 years old.

I couldn’t tell you what I ate for dinner two nights ago or remember the names of all of my college roommates and I’ve been known to even forget my home phone number, but strangely, I can’t forget the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I played Spin-The-Bottle at my 12-year-old birthday party and landed on Noah. I leaned in to kiss him. He pulled away. I was crushed.

What is it about those first experiences, first loves, first heartbreaks that stay ingrained in you for all eternity? Thirty years can pass and I can still recall what I was doing and wearing when Brad, my fifth grade boyfriend, dumped me for Melissa. We had only gone steady for 24 hours. What could I have possibly done?

Those boys have been more than 1,000 miles away for more than two decades since I left Miami for Chicago then D.C. and now New York. But Facebook has magically reconnected me to my past and all the complicated feelings of insecurity, nostalgia and obsession that are intertwined with those boys.

Like many of my fellow over 30-something Facebookers, the addiction kicked in last summer when the novelty of FB networking kicked in. And then I took a hiatus. Facebook is a time suck and frankly, who has the time?

But now on the cusp of my 20th high school reunion, I've taken to Facebook with renewed gusto. More of those boys have recently joined but now I'm finding it sort of depressing. It's not that they look bad; it's that frankly I wouldn't be able to recognize these guys if I fell over them in a Starbucks….they just look, well, old.

For decades they’ve been captured in my memory as forever adolescent. And that’s when time stopped. It’s as if they’ve been cryogenically preserved as Peter Pans in my brain only to resurface on Facebook as unrecognizably almost 40-year-old men.

I find myself searching their photos for recognition, my eyes adjusting to their aged images. What happened to their necks, their hair, their braces? Maybe I’m projecting, because if they’re getting old, what does that mean about me?

And that cuts to the core of Facebook, high school reunions and reconnecting with your former lives. It reminds you of the passage of time. It takes you back to another era – an era in which you may not want to return.

Noah never even knew that I loved him. I’ve confirmed that now – 25 years later when one of my oldest friends in the world, Nikki, exchanged some emails with him. Noah didn’t have a clue. And after all of these years, I thought he just rejected me. So besides the somewhat queasy feeling I have connecting with old friends on Facebook, there is some closure in it after all. And by the way, Noah still looks great. I hope to see him in Miami when I go home for my reunion.

What Is A Mom Worth?

I’ve always had a hunch that I am being grossly underpaid. After all, shouldn’t I be more flush given that by 9 p.m. each night I’m so wiped that my body feels like it’s been mowed down by a Mack truck and I need a triple shot of espresso just to get me moving in the morning.

Last week, Salary.com confirmed my suspicion. While I get bi-weekly direct deposits courtesy of my office gig in publicity, I’ve gotten bupkus over the past eight years for my vastly more complicated, messy, exhausting and yes, sometimes heartwarming career as Mommy.

According to Salary.com I should be earning $85,876 for the “mom job” portion of my work day while my stay-at-home mom friends deserve $134,121 for their various labors of love. Wow! Well, it’s no wonder why we moms feel so gypped. My eight years of lost wages would total a whopping $687,008. Jeez, with that kind of cash I may actually be able to afford sleep away camp, braces, college or more importantly, a long overdue spa visit for me.

Salary.com calculated the mommy paycheck based on an algorithm that took into account hours worked and the job titles that best matched a mom’s definition of her work including: housekeeper, day care center teacher, cook, computer operator, laundry machine operator, janitor, facilities manager, van driver, CEO and psychologist. The less glam jobs like launderer and van driver yielded low hourly wages. But add up the oodles of hours worked together with the more skilled and higher paying professions of CEO and psychologist, and moms are apparently deserving of some serious cash.

While I applaud the website for putting a price on a mom’s worth even if it’s just a clever PR move, I think Salary.com’s press release must have either been written by a guy trapped in a time warp or Dr. Laura. Trying to neutralize the harsh reality that women are screwed financially in their mom job, the press release sought out to prove that moms – at least good moms – have no needs, are utterly selfless and don’t give a hoot about money.

“The rewards I have by being there all the time in spite of my own needs are priceless,” said Laura Pennington, a stay-at-home mother of three from El Paso, Texas. “My children’s well-being and education are my priority regardless of the daily marathon I face from sun up to well after sun down.”

Seriously? Maybe this is one of the reasons our society doesn’t recognize the work we do. Sisters, where is the outrage? Ok, I get it that our rewards are not financial and that the mini painted flower pots, handmade cards and foam necklaces I got for Mother’s Day from my kiddies are indeed priceless. But until society truly appreciates a mother’s value in caring and raising her children, well, frankly nothing much more will change at home or in the workforce.

Some other interesting nuggets that came out of the study include:

Moms work an average of 90 hours per week.

Working moms spend 44 hours per week at their “work job” and 49.8 hours at their “mom job” for a total of 93.8 hours a week. The stay at home moms work 91.6 hours at her mom job.

Working Moms Get Less Sleep. Working moms reported getting only 6.4 hours of sleep per night, versus 6.7 hours.

Working Moms Work 7.2 hours as housekeeper, versus 22.1 for Stay-at-Home Moms.

Working Moms, who report being more focused and efficient in their day job so they can come home and have more time for their “mom job.” Often these moms skip lunch, come in early, and give up exercise in order to save time to be with their kids for homework and other activities.

Destined for Greatness

A colleague of mine recently said to me without irony, “I think that you think you are destined for greatness.” He didn’t say this as a compliment. It felt more like a zinger – an accusation along the lines of 'who the heck do you think you are, Missy, wanting so much more out of life? Isn’t this Popsicle stand good enough for you?'

Wanting to keep the peace, I bit my lip and said almost nothing. But the snarky words have been gnawing at me. Shouldn’t we all feel destined for greatness or at least want to do great things with our lives? The fact is, what motivates me are fears of failure more than the belief that my fate will be fabulous. And as it turns out, fear is a fantastic motivator. But because this comment on my character came during Women’s History Month, the few weeks set aside each year to recognize the tremendous accomplishments American women have made, I found my colleague’s statement not only condescending but ironic.

The bittersweet truth is that at one point many of us women did feel destined for Big Things. We were the “Sesame Street” and “Free to Be You and Me” generation who were told to aim high and dream large and anything was possible, even if you were as awkward as Big Bird. But as the reality and routines of life crash around us each day, it’s easy for us moms to feel that our dreams have been aborted, interrupted or at the very least deferred. Kids, mortgages and the utter exhaustion and chaos of managing the two have a way of sidetracking and dashing lots of dreams, which is perhaps why we moms need to be reminded, not belittled, about our potential for greatness.

Maybe this is why I am totally infatuated with Michelle Obama and how she is redefining the role of First Lady, sculpted arms and all. While Americans are furious with Wall Street and the greedy bums who are getting bonuses at a time when there are apparently more unemployed people in America than the entire population of Pennsylvania, there is some sunny news coming from the Beltway – coming from our nation’s First Mom – the person with no doubt, the greatest gig in Washington right now.

Today, Michelle Obama and a bunch of D.C. fifth graders started digging an organic garden on the White House lawn. Growing green produce in the backyard of the White House may be less politically charged than printing Greenbacks and organic Arugula will not exactly kick start our battered economy, but it does make for a tasty salad with a peppery kick. But hey, this is symbolism. So while our Commander-in-Chief keeps reminding us that it’s time for Americans to roll up their sleeves and dig deep – sacrifices need to be made – digging in the dirt and planting organic berries actually seems to be on message, and a heck of a lot more fun than dealing with AIG.

And, yesterday, in honor of Women’s History Month, our First Mom – our nation’s head cheerleader – spoke at a local high school and invited more than 100 high school girls to the White House for dinner. The message was simple, inspiring and very 1970s – yes, you can be anything you want to be.

“Someone in your school thought you had a lot of potential,” the First Lady said to students from Southeast Washington’s Anacostia High School, a school in one of the poorest neighborhoods in D.C. “I didn’t want to talk to kids who had already arrived; I wanted to talk to kids who are pushing to get to the next place.”

I get the feeling that Michelle Obama never believed it was her destiny to live in the White House, but I bet her husband believed he was destined for greatness or at least, like me and other neurotic high achievers, was either motivated by a great fear of failure or had something to prove to his father.

But as the First Lady reminded me this week, we can’t stop dreaming and trying to make a difference. We must each keep striving for greatness, not just for ourselves, but to show our children that yes, anything is possible.

Mommy Knows Best?

One of the things I’ve always struggled with since becoming a mom is wondering if I’m doing it right. It all started at 3 a.m. after my son was born and I roamed the hospital corridors with a screaming, famished, newborn who was angrily attached to my nipple and clearly didn’t understand why his mother’s breasts were still empty. “Where’s my milk? Feed me already, damnit!” he made clear in his primal screams to me. He hadn’t been in this world more than 12 hours and I already felt like a failure because I couldn’t satiate him. Throughout my pregnancy, I had been intent on exclusively breast feeding and feared the horrors of “nipple confusion” that had been drilled into me at Lamaze. My instructor made me feel like feeding a newborn formula was the lethal equivalent to shooting them up with Crack Cocaine. So I starved my baby for the first few days thinking that I was doing the right thing.

When baby #2 came exactly two years later, I insisted that I have an emergency bottle of formula at my side. “Yes, I’m nursing but my kid needs to eat,” I confidently told the militant maternity nurses who looked scornfully at my Similac and made multiple threats that my nursing wouldn’t take. But I ignored them. After nine months of successfully nursing #1, I felt like I had a Ph.D. in the ability of the breast and was confident that my dual feeding method would work until my milk came in.

But as the cliché goes, the bigger they get, the bigger the problems. And these days, I constantly feel like I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. We know it takes a village to raise a child, particularly a complicated kid. So I have spent years consulting at great length and great fees my fellow villagers, particularly the doctors among my tribe. But ultimately, I’ve found that the buck stops with mom. Like my first night in the hospital, those BIG decisions seem to fall squarely on me. Not to completely diss my husband, but he looks to me to lead on the kid stuff.

A year ago, I decided to medicate my son for ADHD. I imagine many of you are cringing, especially if you adhere to the Tom Cruise philosophy that all of these disorders are just a bunch of hogwash or that ADHD is the most over diagnosed, over medicated, over hyped condition that has given an excuse for scores of lazy and neurotic parents to dope their kids to their detriment or to no real benefit. I get it because at one time I also thought that ADHD was just a flimsy diagnosis to label today’s ants-in-the-pants kids. But when it’s your kid who is facing a smorgasbord of fuzzy, hard-to-put-your-finger on issues without clear diagnoses, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed and just want solutions.

Am I insecure about how I handling all of this? Absolutely. If your child has asthma, you give them an inhaler. If they have lice, you call in the nitpicker and de-lice your home. But if your kid has a complicated cocktail of various issues, what do you do?

I am one of those got-to-feel-it women who rely on my gut for almost all of my decisions from whom to marry to what color to paint my house. So while my maternal instincts often give me direction such as, Fruit Loops are not for dinner, you must wear a helmet to ski, and you cannot, for any reason, punch your sister, making medical and psychological decisions makes me tense, insecure and yes, defensive. Do I send my seven-year-old to therapy as some suggest or wait until he’s older and can handle it? Do I force him into yoga as a holistic remedy or jack him up on Omega-3 vitamins, as the Internet would recommend? What do I share with his school? My friends? My family? One thing that I’ve realized is once you put your kid on meds, you face judgment everywhere.

At a recent meeting with my son’s teacher, who happens to be wonderful, I was surprised by how shocked and slightly horrified she was that I was medicating her student. I immediately went into defensive mode explaining in probably too much detail how we thoroughly arrived at this remedy after consulting every expert I could meet with in the tri-state area. And still she seemed wary.

For those of us in this precarious place of trying our darndest to make sense of our kids and their needs, we can often feel that we’re steering a ship without a map, a compass or a day in nautical school. Who am I to make these decisions? I know that I am not alone and have outsourced as much professional advice as I can, but ultimately in the blurry world that is child psychology much is left to the parents to decide how to deal.

“Am I doing the right thing?” I constantly ask myself. And then I hear my friend Lauren’s words ringing in my ears, “you’re taking action and you’re doing the best that you can.” And sometimes that’s all a mom can do.

Sarah’s Spanx

True Story. A friend of mine just returned from a weekend in Pittsburgh where she apparently checked into the same Marriott hotel room where Sarah Palin had just checked out. Housekeeping had not yet cleaned the room and so aside from an unmade bed, an empty can of Coke and a towel strewn bathroom, my friend made a surprising discovery – a discarded pair of black Spanx in the garbage.

“Seriously…you found Sarah’s Spanx in the trash?” I asked my friend. “Did you take them? You could’ve auctioned them on Ebay! What size was she?”

My friend – who does not want to be outted on Spanxgate – has been kicking herself that she didn’t snag the slimming control top and auction it online. She realizes she could have given the money to the Obama campaign or better yet, to charities that support women who can’t afford Spanx. No doubt, Sarah’s undergarments could have fetched some serious cash from everyone from an apolitical panty fetishist to a rabid Right Winger. And the media would have gone berserk.

You can imagine the tawdry headlines: “Sarah Palin Trashes Taxpayer Paid Spanx in Pittsburgh Hotel Room” or the inevitable “Sarah Gets Spanked in Pittsburgh!”

As the “Obama-is-a-Socialist” argument gets tired and the Palin Family Shopping Spree story has run its course, pundits would now be pontificating on whether money spent on Palin’s girdle was a good idea and how much is too much to spend on sucking in a woman’s muffin top.

Larry King would be asking pols if Spanx makes Sarah more relatable to the every woman battling cellulite or if her overpriced thigh huggers suggest a secret diva. And Elisabeth Hasselbeck, defending her new BFF, would be arguing that yes, Wal-Mart shoppers can relate to the pricey, scientifically engineered Lycra that can only be found at fancy department stores like Saks because, well, everyone knows a girl wants to look svelte. “But let’s not forget, what’s really important is that Obama has a socialist agenda!”

And inevitably, Gloria Steinem would probably pen an op-ed in The New York Times about the ongoing sexism in the media’s presidential campaign coverage titled: “A Woman is Still Measured by the Size of Her Girdle.”

So the good news is that given my friend’s discretion or sheer squeamishness about digging into the trash, (no, she never checked the size) Sarah narrowly avoided what could have been this election’s “October Surprise,” – the Sarah Spanx scandal. So fortunately for us Americans, the seriousness of the campaign can continue.

And when the post mortem on Election 2008 begins on November 5th and we reflect back on John Edwards’s $400 tarmac side haircut and whether Hillary’s laugh was too loud or forced and if McCain could have benefited from tooth whitening next to Obama and Biden’s fabulous sets of pearly whites, we’ll be relieved that at least this election we never got wrapped up in the utter silliness of a candidate’s underwear. Boxers or briefs? That’s just so 1992.

Grace for President

In my local bookstore I recently discovered “Grace for President,” the most fabulous and timely book for children, particularly little girls. The story is about Grace Campbell, an African American, about 8 years old, who is incredulous when she learns that America has never had a female president. “Where are the girls?” Grace asks when her teacher unfurls a poster of our nation’s past presidents. “Our country has never had a woman president,” her teacher answers. “I’d like to be president,” Grace announces to her class. Her enthusiastic teacher thinks that’s a “star spangled idea” and decides to host a school election. The race comes down to Grace versus Thomas Cobb, the popular, blue eyed, soccer team captain and spelling bee and science fair champ – a tough challenger.

As the book goes on, Grace makes campaign promises about beautifying the school and getting rid of the bullies. She follows through on her commitments and works after school to clean up the grounds. Thomas promises to give free tutoring and soccer lessons. It’s a tough race and with the electoral votes nearly tied, the election comes down to the three remaining votes from the state of Wyoming. It is there at the podium with the whole school watching, when Sam, a little boy representing Wyoming, earnestly announces that his state is voting for Grace Campbell for president because she’s the “best person for the job.” It’s a triumphant end with Grace narrowly beating the shoe-in, Thomas. But for all of the girl power, the book which was published last year, now feels bittersweet.

With Hillary Clinton out of the race, there will be no “girl president” any time soon, unless, in the tragic event that girl is Sarah Palin.

Not to beat a dead horse, but I am still completely flummoxed that there are those in this country who are still drinking the conservative Kool-Aid and believe that McCain’s female understudy could effectively lead America during one of the most stressful and complicated times our country has ever seen. From our total economic meltdown to Bin Laden still plotting evil in an Afghan cave, to our polar bears dying, the continued threat of terrorism, an energy crisis, and an Iranian nuclear weapon, this is clearly not the time for Joe Six Pack burping in the bleachers and his Hockey Mom wife to guide our nation. Am I crazy to think that Americans should want to hire the most brilliant, informed brain and skilled politician we can find who is insane enough to take on the toughest job on the planet?

While I’ve questioned McCain’s random and pandering political choice of veep from the beginning and knew Sarah Palin never represented me, in the past few days, she has really kicked it old school to represent the worst of America – the fear mongering, racist who paints a picture of her rival as a dangerous, unknown foreigner with the funky name. She is now using her charming folksiness to become the Republican Mean Girl sliming Obama as “someone who sees America, it seems, as being so imperfect that he’s palling around with terrorists who would target their own country.”

Maybe Sarah has no choice but to carry on her unofficial role of desperate VP attack dog. But this is not the role model we want for our children. A few nights ago my friend Allison was reading “Grace for President” to her 4-year-old daughter Charlotte. She was not sure Charlotte really grasped the book because it is geared for older children. But when Charlotte rolled over and clutched her blanket as Allison was kissing her goodnight, Charlotte said “mommy, I’m going to be president one day.” Hopefully, America will have our first girl president before Charlotte grows up, but doggone it for the love of our country, let’s pray that girl is not Sarah Palin.

My Ninth Nanny

I just lost my ninth nanny. I go through nannies the way some women go through men. Nine nannies in seven years seems suspect. Some wonder if we’re secretly beating the nannies or keeping them chained inside the playroom. Why else would we have had such a spectacular run of bad luck in keeping childcare?

Our latest casualty is Stephanie, an attractive, athletic, marathon running Mormon who has been with us for a year. My kids adore her, she even took them camping a few weeks ago. Always anxious that I’m going to lose a good nanny, I tried to keep the love alive by throwing in job perks including free gym membership and tutoring. (I rewrote all of her English papers last semester.) I even indulged Stephanie in her various and pricey diets – from the all organic cleansing one to Weight Watchers. And this summer, knowing how Stephanie likes the outdoors, I got her a gig at my children’s day camp. After a raise and the promise of a roundtrip ticket back to Utah during Christmas, Stephanie committed to staying with us another year. We were thrilled. And then, my nightmare replayed itself, Stephanie got poached.

At 10 pm, two nights ago Stephanie announced to me that she would be leaving in a couple of weeks because a mom in a neighboring, tonier town offered her more money and THREE roundtrip tickets to Utah each year.

First I was shocked; then I got angry. Strangely I was more peeved at the mom who poached my nanny than at Stephanie herself. I see Stephanie as a kid who is being practical and is trying to put herself through school. At least this is what I tried to convince myself in between spurts of crying to my husband about how our kids are going to be crushed when Stephanie leaves. I also felt like a total sucker. I was buying her organic raspberries in November! While I felt betrayed by Stephanie and nauseated by the thought of finding someone new and integrating them into our chaotic family, I was seething that another mom – for the second time – had poached one of my nannies. About a year ago my nanny Sally was spotted on the playground by a predator mom and offered more money to leave us. But Sally didn’t even have the courage or decency to tell me she got a new job. She simply moved out on a Friday night without our knowing and never said goodbye to my kids. It was devastating.

I don’t know how moms could do this to each other. There should be a non-poaching pact among us. Stealing another woman’s nanny is like sleeping with her husband – maybe even worse. Robbing a working mother of good childcare could more quickly destroy the fabric of a family than a one night stand. I’d seriously sacrifice my husband for a fling faster than I would want to lose a good nanny to another family.

My nanny dramas are legendary. There was Vanessa, the Mexican hottie who we flew in from Mexico City and showed up dripping in Chanel. Within a few weeks, she contracted Scabies or some other itchy ailment and after three unsuccessful visits to a dermatologist, she too packed up and without warning disappeared. There was the Czech nanny who told me she didn’t like my children and after four days in my house, I deposited her in another town with garbage bags full of her clothes.

She was followed by Mercelena, the curvy Colombian graduate of the Au Pair in America system who suddenly decided to take a job at a mechanics shop three months after starting with us. Then came Natasha, the Rastafarian, vegan Yogi with dreads down to her ass who had me running to Whole Foods for soy milk the first night she arrived so she could drink her organic tea in the morning. Natasha never finished the soy milk because she never returned to us after her first week, leaving a closet full of clothes behind. Natasha caused the most alarm after we cracked into her cell phone’s voice mail and heard dozens of threatening messages from her so-called boyfriend. Alarmed that the yogi was in trouble, we contacted the police who eventually located Natasha in her apartment, apparently completely shocked that we were actually looking for her. And after two months of Natasha’s underwear and jeans sitting in a corner and never hearing from her again, we sent her stuff to Good Will.

And most recently there was Stephanie, the best friend of a friend’s nanny. We brought her in from Utah and hoped for the best. We thought we had a great thing – until two nights ago. Now with fourteen days before school, my race to find a new fabulous, warm, responsible nanny begins again. We have contacted the agencies and posted ads online. A Manny (male nanny) emailed me this morning. Maybe that’s the way to go. Mannies in New York are apparently progressive and chic. But if anyone has someone good for me, please let me know….gym membership included.

And I promise never to poach.

The Breast Pump in the White House

This has been an historical election season; busting down barriers thought impossible to penetrate only a few years ago. From Hillary Clinton’s ovaries (yes, Hillary haters, she is a woman), Barack Obama’s bi-racial DNA and Mitt Romney’s Mormon faith to Mike Huckabee’s funny name, this has been perhaps the most colorful and inclusive American presidential campaign season ever. So much so that the rest of the world – at least the modern, Western, Starbucks-gulping world – has taken notice and been in awe of the progressive state of our political system. But one thing has been gnawing at me. It’s the mommy issue.

John Edwards, Barack Obama and even Fred Thompson, the aging TV star, turned blip on the presidential scene, each have really young children. Aside from seeing gorgeous photos of the genetically perfect Romneys, or the cute Edwards children, Thompson’s toddlers, and the precocious Obama girls, the kid thing has been absent in the campaign. Forget that Thompson is old enough to be his children’s grandfather and Giuliani’s kids loathe him – but you get the point. Presidential hopefuls toting their offspring along on the campaign bus make for a sweet visual. End of story.

But let’s swap the pants for the pantsuits and imagine if the candidates were moms, not dads, of young children grinding it out in Iowa and Michigan and Florida for votes? What if it were Elizabeth Edwards or Michelle Obama at the top of the ticket? How then would the media and America react?

If we think the media skewer strong, independent women like Hillary Clinton and Michelle Obama for being well, strong and independent, I can only imagine the fun they would have with the “mommy candidate.” Instead of Michelle sporting a machine gun and an afro on the cover of “The New Yorker” as the magazine did this week in a distasteful attempt at satire, it could show her carrying a breast pump dangling from her briefcase, as she’s about to fumble the “football” of nuclear strike codes.

So I don’t think it would only be Rush Limbaugh and his dittoheads attacking the mommy candidate. I bet everyone from the Granola Mom to the grandmother in Middle America would take issue with a woman leaving her children to take the job as leader of the free world.

It isn’t fair. But in our society we scrutinize moms. Dads get credit for showing up. Moms get chastised if they don’t show up all of the time. We know that Michelle is a “good mom,” because she swears she won’t spend more than one night away from her girls even amidst the throes of an exhausting and rigorous campaign trail.

While Americans question whether Obama is experienced enough to be president and examine his policy positions, no one seems to be questioning his ability to parent while in the White House. It’s understood that Michelle will take care of that.

I don’t know if it is society or biology or a combination of both that makes us feel that mommies need to be around more than the daddies do, but that’s simply the way it works. With Hillary out, many doubt we’ll be electing a female president anytime soon. But a menopausal woman in the Oval Office seems much more likely than the mom with the breast pump, unless Jenna Bush now gets pregnant and pays her dad a visit sometime soon.

Wendy Sachs at home in New York

Kids Say The Darndest Things... Sing Them Too

They are blissfully unaware, unedited and even painfully honest. Sometimes it’s cute…like when my daughter Lexi at three years old asked my father-in-law, who has a generous midsection, if he had a baby inside his tummy. Sometimes it’s not so cute like when my son Jonah asked me why I looked different when I woke up in the morning compared to after I got dressed. (Answer – bronzer and lipstick) “You look like an old mommy in the morning,” Jonah recently said. My daughter confirmed this as well.

But when my kids came home from camp singing songs they learned on the bus – hand clapping, rhyming songs, I was shocked. “What was that you just sang?” I asked Jonah, suspiciously. When he repeated the lyrics with the hand movements to create “Chinese and Japanese eyes” I was horrified. The tunes actually sounded remotely familiar. Did I sing those at camp too? I don’t remember my mom getting tense about my tunes. But now they seemed radioactive.

The more I told my kids not to sing the songs because they were mean and hurt people’s feelings, the louder they sang them. When I tried to ignore the offensive lyrics singing hoping that the lack of my response would get them to stop, they sang even louder.

For the record, we live in a very progressive and tolerant community. My town in New Jersey is known for its social activism and diverse population of African Americans, Gays, Lesbians, Asians and Jews. It is not uncommon to see a gay couple with adopted African American children from nearby Newark. Our town population would make for a great Benetton ad – and I love that. My children are exposed to and interact with lots of people who do not look like themselves. But they had no sense that their words were in any way hurtful.

Needless to say, I was horrified when my kids broke out one of their offensive tunes in the middle of my local Starbucks. At first I nearly choked on my latte. Then I loudly reprimanded my kids. People stared. I wanted to scream out, “I swear I don’t teach them this!” But no one would believe me -- people always blame the parents. Isn’t racism taught at home?

The further we get away from summer, the less they’ve been singing the songs. But now both of my kids are extremely curious about people with what they call “brown skin.” “Carly’s nanny has brown skin,” Jonah says. He also tells me about other children in his class with brown skin. When we got a new nanny, he wanted to know if she would have brown or peach skin. (We’ve had several nannies from the Caribbean, one from Colombia and now one from Utah).

I like to write it off as simply kids’ curiosity. My daughter tells me about the girl with red hair in her class. She now wants red hair too. My son’s best friend Lilly told her mom that she likes the “brown skinned girl” in class with the “puffy hair.” But in our culturally sensitive society today, alarms go off when our kids point out differences in other people and label them. Jonah just started Hebrew school and now divides the world into Jewish and Christian. He hasn’t learned about Muslim or Hindu yet.

I give my “Everyone in the world looks different, practices different religions, believes in different things, eats different foods and that’s what makes people special” speech all of the time, but frankly it still doesn’t make me feel less embarrassed when my children publicly and very loudly point out different people in the neighborhood. And it’s not just color or weight. “Why is that man sleeping on the street with dirty clothes?” Jonah asked me the other day as we walked through New York City.

While we adults have been taught to not see color or differences and maybe even step around the homeless person on the street without even a glance, children do pay attention to everyone. And as long as they are taught sensitivity and tolerance, maybe that’s not such a bad thing after all.

Click Here To See Book At Amazon

What to look for in stores!

Breaking All The Rules

One thing, among millions of others that nobody warns you about before having kids, is how your children can ruin your friendships. Now I’m not blaming the kids themselves for being particularly offensive to grownups. (Although mine certainly can be.) But it’s the way we parent these little apple-juice-guzzling, tantrum-prone chocoholics that can create enormous tension between even the closest of girlfriends. I know – I’ve personally lost some friends due to my Slacker Mom tendencies.

Make no mistake, motherhood and how we mother is all about judgment. It’s personal. It’s delicate. And come to my house at 6 p.m. and it’s a certifiable train wreck. In my six years of parenting, I’ve realized that there are two types of Moms – those who have lots of rules and those like me and my friends who simply don’t.

I have also discerned in my years as a Mommy that the Rules have a recognizable pattern and really affect three seemingly simple, but radioactive issues: Sugar, Entertainment and Sleep. Dig deeper into these categories and you will find loads of daily conflict that can explode when Rule Moms interact with Chill Moms.

The Rule Moms, also known as The Organic Moms wouldn’t be caught dead feeding their infant cow’s milk or a regular jar of Beech Nut. As their kids get older, these Moms evolve into the snack food snubbing, Sugar Nazis who on principle would never allow juice, fruit punch or anything but purified water at dinner.

These are the moms who don’t let their babies nap in a stroller, won’t walk outside without a floppy hat on their child’s head, sterilize every nipple or binky that drops on the ground, and reject all commercial television until the age of five.

The Chill Moms, in which I proudly claim membership, simply don’t have the energy to sterilize, count sugar grams, split gumballs in thirds (which just happened to a friend who went out to brunch with an Organic Mom. The gumball splitting then boomeranged into a tantrum situation for her three year old.) reapply sunscreen every 30 minutes, and turn off the TV.

We try. We do. We love our kids and pray that we turn out compassionate, healthy, happy human beings. But bribing them with ice cream sandwiches at 5 p.m. so we adults can relax, talk and sip a glass of Sauvignon Blanc seems like smarter parenting to us. Are we not vigilant enough? Are we lazy? Are we doormats? Perhaps we are…but our style is our signature and as we collectively band together we have perspective. So the kids don’t eat their organic broccoli for a week, and scarf down only chicken nuggets and M&Ms – is this the end of the world? If you think that it is, then I highly suggest that you have a glass of wine.

Puke, Snot and Other Reasons Women are Prepared to Save the World

As I was picking my son’s nose tonight, I had an epiphany. I suddenly realized why women are indeed the more capable sex. It’s not simply our patience, our innate nurturing or our ability to multi-task. It’s that we deal with the disgusting. Even the most squeamish among us rise to the occasion when confronted with the truly gross. It’s no wonder why Nancy Pelosi, mother of five and grandmother of a bunch is now Speaker of the House. Yes, apparently she’s sharp as a tack even if she recently took a congressional trip to Syria, which frankly was really dumb. But I bet she knows her way around the really yucky which is probably why she’s fared so well in Congress. She holds her nose to it all, kicks ass and prevails. God Bless America.

So back to my son’s nose. Tonight as Michael was putting my five-year-old son Jonah to bed, Jonah got a terrific nosebleed – the tissue soaking kind. My kid, who is known for his dramatic, blood curdling screams if he even gets a scratch on his pinky finger, was surprisingly brave given the pints of blood spurting from his nostrils. And for the record, as soon as the blood started pouring, Michael ran to find me and then conveniently disappeared.

So after ten minutes of my pinching, Jonah’s nosebleed slowed and he began complaining about something lodged in his right nostril. It was a stubborn piece of snot and he needed help. I don’t regularly help pick my kids’ noses, but feeling sorry for the trauma Jonah just endured, I gingerly tried to extricate the boogie. This, of course, aggravated his tender nose and the bleeding began again. After some starts and stops I convinced Jonah to live with the snot and I promised to get it out if it still presented when he woke up in the morning.

But the nosebleed/snot episode frankly pales in comparison to catching my daughter’s vomit in my bare hands as I stood in the check out line at Costco last spring. After inhaling a Costco size crate of blueberries while she sat in the shopping cart, Lexi, 3, then began to violently barf up blueberries. I am still bewildered by why my instinct was to shoot out my bare hands to literally catch the throw up. The whole scene was so vile that I think I was in a state of shock – but being a mom – I rallied. As New Jersey, bulk, discount shoppers stood aghast, I stripped Lexi down to her panties, opened the 50-pack of paper towels I was about to purchase and cleaned up.

Subconsciously, I was probably equipped to deal with the Costco crisis after years of becoming somewhat numb to all of the poop that I’ve had to handle. It starts at birth with the meconium – that foul, tar colored first dump that a newborn takes. That, of course, is followed by the familiar explosive diarrhea that somehow shoots up the back, behind the ears, into the folds of the neck and into every baby crevice and crease. We as moms, use the term, “poopie” because it’s a cuter euphemism to the reality of cleaning up another person’s shit.

I am famously known for my sensitive nose, distaste for odors, easy nausea and general squeamishness. But I’ve realized that all of the tushes I’ve wiped and unpleasant episodes I’ve experienced must have had a higher purpose. I say, if women can boldly and adeptly clean up all of those really nasty messes, damn it, we can clean up the world.

Sleep, Sex and Chardonnay

Do kids kill a marriage? If you’re Ayelet Waldman who wrote the radioactive “New York Times” essay professing more love for her husband than for her own kids and then famously appeared on “Oprah” to defend her unique position; the answer is clearly no. But for the rest of us with young children who cling to our ankles like Koala Bears while whining over spilled Sippy Cups and interrupting our precious sleep, I think the honest answer is a solid, maybe.

This is a topic no one discusses before you have children. Weren’t we told that babies brought couples closer – the DNA link, the biological bond, the changing of the poopy diapers? Babies were supposed to make it official, seal the relationship, right? Wrong.

I realized this nearly six years ago on a gorgeous, spring afternoon when my first born was a few weeks old. We looked like the quintessential, idyllic, New York City family. My husband Michael walked our chocolate lab, I pushed the fancy Maclaren (it was the pre-Bugaboo era) and my beautiful baby Jonah, sporting a fabulous onesie lay peacefully inside his stroller – all for about one minute. When Jonah started crying, he didn’t stop. Thirty blocks later, with my boobs literally bursting with milk spontaneously leaking by the primordial, maternal reaction to a newborn cry, I swear I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Weeks of waking up every two hours with a colicky baby had taken its toll on both me and Michael.

“I have to nurse the baby,” I told Michael. “I’m stopping at the next bench.”

“But I’m hungry, I need to eat now!" Michael, who has an infamous short fuse when his blood sugar is low, shouted at me.

“Then get something to eat,” I said whipping out my boob and struggling to get Jonah successfully secured onto my nipple in between his frantic squeals for milk.

“Fine,” Michael said, marching off.

Small children stress a marriage. The utter exhaustion of getting through the day with little ones could drive you to drink heavily. This was apparently documented on the “Today” show recently with a controversial segment about Chardonnay playdates where moms drink and kids play. (By the way, I see nothing wrong with this, and to be fair, they weren’t getting drunk, just taking the edge off.)

And then there’s the sex. My informal surveys among moms have found unequivocally that most of us would happily trade the possibility of an orgasm for a guaranteed extra 30 minutes of delicious sleep. This, of course, is not what we imagined when we were saying our “I do’s.” Pre-kids, my husband and I vowed not to turn into one of those couples who had to schedule sex once a week just to make sure we had it. We were about romance, spontaneity, and adventure. But six years and two kids later, the truth is, all I want to do is to take a nap.

I Hate Cinderella

My daughter loves princesses and fairytales and apparently all stories that end in happily ever after. Yeah, I know, don’t we all? But lately, I’ve taken a serious stance against Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty and all of Disney’s damsels in distress. I vaguely remember being fascinated by the Cinderella story too. I assume it’s because I envied Cinderella’s long, blonde straight locks as I fought with my own poufy, frizzy brown hair made worse by the relentless humidity of South Florida where I grew up.

Now reading the books, 30 years later as a mommy and a grownup, I’m shocked by just how grim fairytales truly are. Everything begins with the loving daddy dying, evil stepmothers taking over, witches casting curses and jealous women poisoning pretty young girls with apples. This is a post feminist woman’s nightmare. Women are pitted against women. Beauty prevails and handsome men adore young women who make friends with rodents and can harmonize with the birds. Yikes.

Somehow these “classics” (a collection of Golden Books) made it on to my daughter’s book shelf. Neither my husband nor I know who bought them but there they sit – favorites of my three-year-old daughter Lexi. When I’m forced to read the books, I present my own sanitized version that changes each time I read it. But my daughter is catching on. “Sally reads this story differently,” Lexi says to me as I rock and read to her at night. Sally is our babysitter – the fairytale filter clearly isn’t as important to her.

Why is it that little girls are drawn to these stories? Is there something in our DNA that makes fairytales so appealing? As my feisty pre-schooler trots around my house, preening in mirrors and applying layers of lip gloss “to look pretty” my “Free to Be You and Me” instinct takes over. I see my own daughter caught by society’s competing messages of Girl Power. She’s a strong personality who believes she can do anything while slathered in makeup. “I’m so pretty,” Lexi will tell anyone who will listen and “I can do it!” She screams if you get in her way.

Personally, I love the “Olivia” books. Olivia is headstrong and curious and her mom is exasperated and exhausted but loving – a welcome and honest mix of a mom.

The last page of the first Olivia book shows a picture of Olivia dreaming. The dream is of Olivia her sitting on the Supreme Court – she is surrounded by all of the justices including Sandra Day O’Connor and Ruth Bader Ginsberg (granted the book is now slightly dated) Each time we read the book, Lexi asks me to go through all of the justices. It’s a fun game we play. Lexi insists that Antonin Scalia is a girl’s name – to her Scalia is definitely a feminine name and that Ruth Bader Ginsburg is a man (not a flattering photograph of Ruth – poor thing).

This is exactly the kind of dream we want our daughters to take away with them. It’s not about marrying Prince Charming – because let’s face it – he’s a dangerous myth. This is about sitting front and center on your own, empowered not by a prince but because of your own accomplishments. And let’s face it, true power today is doing all that and wearing lipstick. And in Lexi’s case a tiara and a tutu.

Columbus Day - October 9th

Columbus Day is the kind of pseudo-holiday that many offices for whatever reason refuse to pay tribute to. But when I learn that my office is closed in honor of the great explorer, I am ecstatic. The weekend before my Monday off, I begin idealizing and planning all of the things I can do with my kids (and for myself). My son is off from kindergarten, but my daughter has pre-school. This is perfect, I think to myself, as I strategize how I’m going to maximize the most of every hour. I can actually take my daughter, Lexi, to school, (which I haven’t done since the first day) meet her new friends, check out her classroom and even grab a few minutes of face time with her teacher. These snippets, when I can see first hand what she’s doing when I’m not with her, are priceless to me. I also plot some one-on-one time with my son Jonah and because my husband is home from work today too, I fantasize about getting an hour of exercise in as well – the makings of a glorious day. Or so I think.

The morning begins in typical fashion. When I take Lexi out of her crib she asks, “Mommy are you going to work today?” Usually the answer is yes and Lexi gets spontaneously teary. But this morning when I say “No honey, “Mommy’s not working today,” Lexi smiles brightly and then says matter-of-factly, “Well, then I don’t want to go to school.”

“But this is a special Mommy, Lexi day,” I say in my best chippery, sing-songy voice. “I get to take you to school and I’m soooo excited!” “No, I don’t want to go to school,” she shrieks. “How about we go to the bakery and buy a special treat for your lunch,” I say, hoping to appease her. “Okay” she says, wiping away some tears.

I quickly get Lexi dressed and then hustle to the town bakery to buy her an extra large cookie before heading to school. Driving to school, Lexi munches on her cookie and then suddenly puts it down and says, “But mommy I don’t want to go to school!” Her face dissolves into tears.

Doesn’t she get it? This is my rare chance to take her. It’s part of my plan of engagement today. I want to take her. I need to take her. This is also for me. But then I start feeling guilty and selfish. The truth is – I’m sending Lexi to school because I want to be able to take her for once. Also, I’d like to play tennis for an hour and I’ll feel less conflicted if she’s occupied in school for a few hours. Then we all win, right? Wrong.

I walk Lexi up to her class and she’s clutching my neck like a koala bear. I see the girls in the class who she always talks about: Jamie, Joey, Sarah – it’s good to put faces and names together. I make a mental note that I should really be setting up play dates. I see Lexi’s art projects and the hook where she hangs her backpack. But when I try to peel Lexi off of my body she starts sobbing and I feel terrible.

On my way out of the school I run into one of Lexi’s teachers. She tells me how adorable Lexi is but that “she is clearly missing her mommy.” “She hasn’t quite turned the corner in school yet,” the teacher continues. “She hasn’t really opened up to us or the other girls yet.” I’m stunned and heartbroken. Lexi is an unusually social little girl who always has acclimated easily. At least she used to. So now what’s happening? I start blaming myself. I walk out of the school choking back my own tears.

I come home for a couple of minutes before I’m supposed to play tennis. Jonah is getting ready to go out with my husband but now he only wants me. Jonah crawls into my lap and begs me not to leave him. But I have only two hours before it’s pick up time for Lexi and according to my plan Jonah and Mommy time comes later in the day. But my plan feels useless. No one is getting enough of my time, including myself. My Columbus Day is quickly turning into a disaster.

Fortunately, over the next few hours the day did improve. Lexi was so excited to see me when I picked her up from school – it was as if her entire body was smiling. She ran into my arms giggling with the happiest look on her face. The world at that moment couldn’t have been more perfect for the both of us. We then met my husband and Jonah for lunch at Jonah’s favorite restaurant. We went to a park with paddle boats and played on the playground. After ice cream, I took both kids to their gymnastics classes where I was able to wave to them as they performed on the enormous gym floor. I sat where all the “mommies and Sallies sit,” Jonah informed my husband later. Sally is my babysitter who takes the kids to their classes.

For me, today felt like I was catching up on all the stuff that I’ve been missing these past few months. But when I was putting Lexi to sleep tonight and she asked, “Mommy are you going to work tomorrow?” my heart sank again. “Yes, sweetie I am,” I said softly. “I love you mommy,” Lexi said as I was leaving her room. “I love you too sweetie.” Even with an extra day like today, it just never feels like enough time.

Avoiding The Crackberry

My husband, Michael, is addicted to his BlackBerry and is in denial. Because it's also used as his cell phone, he literally won't even walk our dog unless he's carrying it. For obvious reasons, it's become an issue in our marriage.

My loathing of Michael's black, pudgy PDA reached epic levels when he subconsciously took it out and scrolled through some email a few weeks ago when we were out to dinner with friends.

"That was beyond rude," I scolded him in the car ride home after dinner.
"What are you talking about?" He said.
"It's not acceptable to read your BlackBerry at dinner," I shrieked, in my most shrill wifey/maternal tone.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't even realize it."
"That's the point," I said.

I actually believe my husband can't help himself. The BlackBerry has become an extension of his being. It's the parasitic creature that he feeds by the endless tapping of his fingertips. He cradles it in his palm moments after he wakes up and checks on it right before he goes to sleep. I'm convinced he spends more time with it than he does our own children.

Being slow to embrace technology and a bit retro in my desire to chat on my cell rather than communicate through email, I swore that I would never succumb to the BlackBerry. But I've just started a new job where a Blackberry is as much a part of the culture as reading The New York Post.

It's not that I don't see its benefits. As a commuter who wants to be able to see my children before they go to sleep at night, a BlackBerry will make it possible for me to work on the train ride home. I'll be more accessible to everyone. But that's also what scares me. It's liberating not to be a slave to your email. The buzzing of an email alert that causes my husband to jump and grab his BlackBerry is an annoying interruption in our lives. As with everyone who I know who owns a BlackBerry, he clearly has a hard time creating boundaries between work and home.

Since I started my job a month ago, my three-year-old daughter, Lexi, now pretends that she is "going to work." She picks up her purse, keys and cell phone and says, "Bye sweetie, I've got to go to work now." For her, my working happens outside of the house in "the city." But when I walk through the door and change into my "play clothes" I'm mommy again and ready to play "Ring Around the Rosy." I know that it's just a matter of days before I sign up for my BlackBerry service. But I dread Lexi or my son Jonah seeing me on the Blackberry, at home but still "at work." It's just not fair to anyone.

Goodbye Starbucks Hello Park Avenue

So as of last week, I have officially joined the gainfully employed putting an end to my romantic status as the struggling writer. Goodbye Starbucks, my office for the past three years, hello Park Avenue South. My friends feared for my own adjustment. I feared for the adjustment of my kids. But so far I can report that everyone has survived.

After a four-year sabbatical from corporate America, I admit it’s really nice to put on a great suit and cute shoes and go to work. Maybe it’s the accessories and the reason to wear mascara again, or maybe it’s the regular paycheck, but it does feel good to be back at work in a real environment again – the kind that has other employees aside from the barista behind the espresso bar.

The most surreal thing about being back is how everyone seems so much younger than when I left. After I left “Dateline NBC” I spent a couple of years working from home for a San Francisco-based Internet company. Back then I was still a fresh faced, childless, not quite 30-year-old. Now, well, I’m solidly on the other side of that number. And wherever I turn, it’s obvious that many more women are much younger than me. Their lack of dark circles makes them easy to spot. Don’t know if that really reflects their age or their not having small children.

I guess I imagined myself cryogenically preserved in the workforce, a pleasantly seasoned but still spry 29-year-old. And yet I’ve returned as a 30-something mommy of two. My first day at work, my assistant instantly made me feel old. Of course she didn’t mean to. But when we met and chatted about her background, I realized that a college friend of mine had coincidentally taught at the same private school she had attended in NYC. And our conversation went something like this:

“What’s your friend’s name? Maybe I know her,” my assistant asked sweetly.
“You wouldn’t know her, I’m sure you were long gone when she taught there,” I said.
“Well what’s her name?” she asked again.
“Abby Katz,” I said.
“Oh my God, she taught me eighth grade science and I think seventh grade science too.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” I said in denial.

But then I did the math. And she was right.
A college friend of mine was old enough to have taught my assistant science when she was twelve years old. Wow, now I really felt old.

But aside from my age shock, everything else is moving along nicely. Although, I do find myself missing that comforting buzz of the espresso machine.

Getting Back In

Sylvia Ann Hewlett, an economist and author who studies issues about keeping mothers in the workforce, says that at any given time two-thirds of all stay-at-home moms are trying to re-enter the workforce but having a tough time getting back in.

I know first hand what she's talking about.

For three years I researched, wrote and then promoted my book about working mothers and how to successfully integrate career and family. Then in December, once the book tour died down, I started looking for a real job. I always thought I would go back into television news, because that was my real passion. But after being out of TV news for several years my options seemed increasingly bleak. I started to refocus my search by emphasizing my other skills and background in public relations.

Perhaps I was overconfident. Believing that my resume was diverse and rich, I wrongly assumed getting a job would be a cinch. After all, I had worked as a Capitol Hill press secretary, network TV producer, a PR executive and I was a published author. It didn't make sense to me that getting a job would be difficult.

Ironically, I warn women in my book about the dangers of stepping out of the workforce and here I was living my own grim words. If I'm having a hard time finding a satisfying and well paying job, I can't imagine what the millions of other women out there are facing when they try to re-enter the workforce, I thought to myself.

Yesterday, I spoke to a group of women at Citigroup, several of whom told me about how they took years off from their careers and what they had to do to re-enter. The road getting back in was bumpy, but they had successfully navigated the path. Interestingly, the group who invited me to speak was part of their female "retention" committee. Citigroup, like other big companies, is looking to bring former employees who became at-home moms back into the workforce. They've realized there's a huge pool of talent at home that would like to come back to work, at least in some capacity.

It's become a cliche, but as they say cliches are true. There are lots of off-ramps for women, but very few on-ramps. I did find a fantastic job. But strangely, I feel very grateful to have found one. I just never imagined it would be so difficult to do.

Getting Sick at Costco

For the record, I've never liked Costco. Yes, I know they've got killer prices on bulk diapers, tushy wipes and gallon size bottles of ketchup -- and yes, I've gleefully taken advantage of these benefits But on principle alone, I've never been a Costco fan. To me, it represents the worst of America -- strip malls and suburban sprawl, super sized, gluttonous packages of food that no single family can or should possibly consume.

So why you may ask, did I go to Costco this afternoon if it represents all that is evil about American consumption? I like their Rotisserie Chicken. For $4.99 it happens to be the bargain of the decade and it tastes really good. Also, I had a hankering for blueberries and mango. And somehow in March, Costco miraculously manages to provide crates of blueberries and cut up mango at bargain basement prices. So after taking my four-year-old son Jonah to karate today, my daughter Lexi and I all made a pilgrimage to Costco.

Sitting in the oversized shopping cart side by side, my kids had already consumed an obscene amount of unwashed blueberries before we walked the additional two miles from produce to the checkout line. Once we settled into line with 10,000 other Costco shoppers, Lexi, my two and a half year old, violently vomited half a crate of blueberries. Don't ask what compelled me to reach out with my bare hands to try to catch my daughter's vomit, but I did. Women watched me. I heard some gasp. I saw others turn away.

As I ran for paper towels, leaving my two kids in the cart, not one person said a word to me or even glanced sympathetically in my direction. Was it the sterility of Costco, the massive size and generic feel of the place that makes these shoppers complete strangers and intentionally oblivious to a mom in obvious need of help? I couldn't imagine this happening in a mom and pop shop.

After I stripped my daughter down to her underwear the only person who even acknowledged me and my kids was a security woman who as we were walking out looked my daughter up and down and then sniffed, "your daughter's going to be cold outside."