{Originally published on Mamapreneurs, Inc.}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on July 7, 2008

-I have insomnia and I’m tired.

-I work 7 days a week but Mondays and Fridays are my FT kid days during the summer.

-E-mail is the best way to communicate for me; if you leave me a voicemail, you honestly might not get a call back. If you leave me an e-mail, you will definitely get a response.

I tell you all this not because you are my friends, my family, my colleagues or my clients (although you may be one or all of these things): I tell you this because being transparent about who I am as the owner of three companies and as mama to two kids is essential to the success of my businesses and peace in my personal life.

Being a mamapreneur means that my businesses don’t just rely on the products or the services, they rely on the entire brand package—and that includes me as the owner. As mamapreneurs, like it or not, we ARE the brand.

When I meet with mamapreneurs who want PR help but tell me they can’t mention their kids in any press releases or bios, or when mamapreneurs say they have to lie about their odd work hours because their clients wouldn’t understand, I am more than disappointed. Maybe it was growing up with Elizabeth Cady Stanton as my hero, but I’ve always felt that we have a responsibility as women not to conform to the rules but to help MAKE the rules. As a mamapreneur, I feel immense pride in being part of this amazing group of women who run businesses and raise families. I came from the corporate world where I’d pretend I didn’t have a life outside of the office persona, to the life of a mamapreneur, where personal and business often gets all tangled up. Why? Because I am the boss.

It doesn’t matter whether you work from home or are the owner of a multi-billion dollar company with thousands of employees: you are still a mom who runs a business, you are still the one who calls the shots. You have a family at home. To pretend that part of your life doesn’t exist when you’re in business mode is doing a disservice not only to yourself, but to the entire business world and to your fellow mamapreneurs in general. Once I understood this, accepted and embraced it, I found the balance, the harmony, the peace I have always been searching for. It’s right there, if you’re willing to let go of traditional corporate thinking and just BE YOU.

One of the reasons I chose to make Mamapreneurs, Inc. an S-Corp instead of a non-profit was because I know that American corporations can do better. We CAN come back to a time when corporations aren’t looked at as mega-monsters, but as teams of individuals who are working to make the world a better place. My goal is to have Mamapreneurs, Inc. model what corporations SHOULD be. Mamapreneurs Inc. is about following through with family friendly policies and not just maintaining rhetoric on paper for appearances or awards. We’re about supporting the success of employees and members as moms, women and as business professionals. Here, working toward your version of success is important, but in doing so you don’t have to pretend to be the perfectly glossed CEO or the perfect mom.

{Originally published on The Bloggess}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on September 28, 2008

Yesterday someone asked me how to deal with trolls and haters. I have no damn idea.

Trolls are just like you and me. Only shittier. Or more honest. Or likely to murder gypsies. Fuck, I don’t know. I’m not a mind reader. I don’t know the motivation of everyone reading your blog but what I do know is that in real life you come across assholes and weirdos and someone out there is selling computers to these people. People like the guy who left me this comment:

“I was right, you aren’t that hot. Damn.”

I didn’t mind that some stranger thought I was un-hot but what was disconcerting was that in the photo the guy was referring to? I was seven. And totally hot.

Or that comment I got on my I-invented-a-scooter/flame-thrower/cookie-warmer post which simply said:

“Your retarded.”

{Originally posted on At Home Redesigns}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on August 13, 2008

In my line of work, I help people beautify their homes by using, mostly, what they already own. My feeling is this: Many of us have plenty of stuff, plenty of stuff we really like, we just don’t know how to pull it all together to create pleasing, comfortable, organized spaces. In fact, sometimes too much stuff is what keeps us from creating those pleasing, comfortable, organized spaces.

If that is the case in your home, listen to this: It’s OK to get rid of things.

Perhaps to you that seems obvious, but I have run into numerous (wonderful) people who don’t see this as an option: Because someone they love owned the thing, gave them the thing, or maybe just because they have Always Had The Thing.

I’m here to tell you: People you love or who love you really, really don’t care if you get rid of stuff associated with them. Stop calling them, sending them money on their birthday, or smiling at their memory, that’s a problem. Getting rid of the stuff that bottles up your home and gets in the way of loving where you live, that’s not a problem.

Same with stuff you’ve owned for ages. These items are not your friends. Friends don’t let friends live in cluttered houses.

Stuff isn’t people.

So what to do with it all?

Originally posted on Ponderings.
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on August 12, 2008

I attended a funeral for the father of new friend of mine recently. In our understanding he died too soon. He was only in his early 60′s. Although I never had the opportunity to meet this man, his funeral impacted my life. The tributes and memories shared by family and friends were beautiful. We viewed a slide presentation set to music, tracing the journey of his life. The one thing that really spoke to my heart was that this man had truly lived.

He was an adventurer. Fear didn’t hold him captive. He lived out loud. He wasn’t afraid to follow the dreams God had placed in his heart, and yet he didn’t take foolish risks. He enjoyed life to the full. In many ways he has gone from living to living.

My life in comparison would be such a shadow. Many of us would be likened to “dead men walking” in contrast. Oh, maybe outwardly we’re going through the motions. Jumping through all the right hoops. We know how to play the “Game of Life”. For generations it’s been the same. We’ve read the rules. We know the expectations. Years go by, but our passion is getting buried deeper and deeper. We are allowing ourselves and others to dig our own grave…only we’re still breathing. We’re being buried alive.

I read recently of someone who, though living, described themselves as dead. Have you been there? Have you been to that dark place that numbs the heart. Apathy is your new normal. You feel indifferent…listless. You’ve lost interest in all your surroundings. Dejection and weariness characterize your existence. You are no longer a participant, but a spectator. You have eyes that see, without seeing. Ears that hear without hearing. A heart still capable of loving has become your prison. You feel empty, drained, alone.

Unbelievers are not the only ones held captive. Many Christians live life behind locked doors. Self-imposed cells. Discouragement, pain, rejection, insecurity, fear, accusations, past, present, future all build up walls. Gasping for breath you feel smothered, yet weakness and familiarity keep you hostage. It’s often comforting to stay in the security of this new normal. Realizing work and effort may lay ahead, awakening holds too many uncertainties. A strange part of you enjoys the attention, pity and compassion from others. Silence is your truest friend and your most consuming enemy.

The problem? Right now life seems too overwhelming. Negatives far out-weigh the positives. Somehow your focus has shifted from what can be, to what is. Often it’s a slow fade. Unfulfilled desires in a marriage, demanding children, a stressful job, painful, abusive memories, illness, …disappointment in God. Oh, you’d probably not come right out and say that, but somewhere along the line, you’ve felt God has let you down. You had plans. You had desire. Your life was filled with enthusiasm and drive. You’ve been robbed in the cruelest way possible. You don’t have to worry about being one step closer to the grave, you’re already there.

Originally published on Mother of Confusion
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on July 24, 2008

My son was born after midnight during the cooler days of May, before the Central Valley could blaze triple-digit temperatures.

The delivery room was packed full of people. The doctor, several nurses, my husband, my parents and my mother-in-law were in attendance. As my son emerged into the world, I expected him to gasp and then cry about the abrupt ejection.

He did not.

Instead he was quiet and blue. The umbilical cord was wrapped around his slender neck several times. Of course I didn’t know that yet, but the jubilant faces of the others gave way to peaked, pinched expressions.

When I asked what was wrong. The response was, “Nothing. Everything’s okay. It’s okay.”

The reassurances scared me. I was only 20-years-old, but already I knew people lied when things were really, really wrong.

Did I not push hard enough or fast enough? The doctor had yelled at me to stay focused, but I kept passing out. He had to assist the delivery with a vacuum device.

Before I could convince myself my baby wasn’t coming home, he cried.

Once assured my son would keep breathing, the doctor plopped him on my belly. When his skin touched mine, I panicked. My stomach felt as slippery as satin sheets on a waterbed. The baby was going to shoot right off and smack the floor. I grabbed on to him and asked for a blanket — something, anything — to give some traction.

Maternal fear knifed sharp and deep. The days of planning the nursery, rubbing my swollen belly and wishing my son would be born sooner, rather than later, felt whimsical. What the hell was I thinking?

I searched for my mom. She sat on the left side of me and appeared happy, but exhausted.

“Mom.” I felt shaky. “I can’t do this. I can’t.” I wanted her to hug me and to tell me it was going to be okay. I wanted to be reassured.

It took her a moment to process my proclamation. When she figured out what I’d meant, she chuckled. “Well, too late now kid. You already are.”

Originally Published on Dr. J and Mr. K
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on June 30, 2008

The discussion in my last post about how the political left advocates change of every sort yet appears terrified of any change in the environment – or has adopted such a pose, at any rate – left the environmental portion for another day.
The quick and easy hit about refusing to “embrace change” in this one important area struck me as pointing to an important idea. Why do certain people think the environment should remain exactly as it was, when nature continually provides evidence of its (or, as another era would have put it, “her”) ability to produce unpredictable events and inflict cataclysm at every turn?

Some conservatives attempt to explain the fundamental weirdness of so many liberal or progressive policy prescriptions – especially on the environment – as flowing from the increasing disconnect of urban residents from the natural world. That seems to have merit. But this view is undermined by two things: first is the ubiquity of information media that bring nature’s acts – tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes killing tens of thousands – into the home or office, second is the burgeoning popularity of recreation out in the natural world, made possible by the very mass prosperity and personal mobility the left opposes. Nature’s real nature is on display before you, if you’re willing to look. Many appear unwilling.

One example in this vein would be the manic environmental controls imposed on mining or other resource companies when conducting previously innocuous activities such as bridging a stream. Nowadays such supporting projects often impose years of study and regulatory process over fears of erosion and the allegedly ruinous effects on fish and their habitat. Imperial Oil’s Kearl oil sands project was recently thrown off the rails over a water-related issue of this sort. Meanwhile a few days of spring rains send our local rivers to 10 or 20 times their normal flows. Raging above their banks, the waters strip away thousands (perhaps millions) of tons of topsoil and snap stands of trees like so much matchwood. But hey, at least that’s natural.

Originally published on Anne Nahm
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on July 18, 2008

Dear Diary,

I could tell the moment I woke up: Today was going to be a day like no other. The sun was shining and birds were chirping. I knew because guess what? My wrapping was open! I don’t think that’s ever happened before.

Free of my plastic restraints, I decided to call my BFF, Carmen. We went to the pool. It was pretty awesome. You can tell I totally need a tan. Give me a break – I’ve been sitting in a bathroom drawer for six months.

Around noon, Carmen said we should order some drinks. So we did.

{Originally Published on Swistle}

Some people find they can “Sleep now, because you won’t after the baby’s here!” Some people find their sleep batteries don’t work that way.

Some people have labors that are empowering and make them wonder why other women make such a fuss about it. Some people have labors that bring them to a crisis of faith about human design, because the Eve thing is insufficient explanation for this crap. Some people have labors that give them reason to be grateful for advances in medical science.

Some people will fall in love with their newborns instantly, on sight. Some people are fascinated right away, but not in love for a few days or weeks. Some people don’t fall in love for months.

Some people get the agreeable, laid-back kind of baby. Some people get the colicky, crabby kind of baby. Some people get the angry, opinionated kind of baby. Some people get the happy, bossy kind of baby. Some people get the whiny, fearful kind of baby. Some people get the early-developing, adventurous kind of baby. Some people get the irritable, rule-following kind of baby. Nobody should take much credit or much blame for their allotted baby.

Some people will get babies who will cooperate with the baby-wrangling system the parents have chosen. Some people will get babies who require a re-evaluation of system requirements.

Some people find they can “Appreciate every moment!” Some people find they can only appreciate it later, looking back on it, when they’re well-rested and well-dressed and fuzzy-memoried, standing in a supermarket telling a stranger to appreciate every moment.

Some people think the newborn stage is the best. Some people don’t really like babies until they reach the less-shriveled stage around 2 or 3 months. Some people don’t really like babies until they’re not babies anymore.

Some people find that the impact of children on their lives is so severe, they need to warn the world how bad it can be. Some people find that the impact of children on their lives is so wonderful, they need to tell the world how amazing it can be. Some people find themselves confused about what exactly it is they want to tell the world.

{by Heather from The Extraordinary Ordinary}

I can’t. That’s what I thought.

I can’t.

We pulled in the driveway over four years ago, me in the back seat with this new foreign person, aching in every way. And I thought those words. I thought, I can’t.

I asked Ryan to take the baby in without me, to introduce him to the dog without the excitement of me, the dog’s everything, in the picture. So I stood outside and shivered in the heat, looking around at everything being different than it had been just a few days before, all overly bright and textured from the pain pills. Standing there in my suddenly roomy maternity shirt, I shivered. Empty.

Ryan came out and said everything was going fine. The dog sniffed the baby and the baby slept. There were no big events as I had imagined.

I walked up the steps, not quickly because of the surgery, and passed through the door. I looked down at the sleeping child in the car seat. Our child. My child. In our house. My house.

I walked slow circles in our tiny living room, trying to figure out what to do. My mom and my husband said that I should take a nap, but I don’t do naps. I just nodded and repeated over and over that they should get me if the baby needed to eat, and I disappeared into our room, knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I sat down, frozen and staring, thinking and thinking.

{by Erika from Be Gay About It}

The holiday season serves as a lap marker for me, that pristine line on the track where time is measured and recorded, where, at the end of the race, the ribbon snaps against the heaving torso of the runner, his arms splayed in euphoric victory, holding up the world.

We expect the race to end because that’s what races do.

*****

Five years ago, my brother began to swell. Fluid filled him from the bottom up, an army of ounces colonizing territory after territory in

his feet, his ankles, his calves,

his thighs, his waste, his abdomen, his chest.

Before he entered the hospital the first time, he visited me at my apartment, a sort of willful last act of normalcy and wellness. I remember that we sat on the floor because that was the only place comfortable enough for the sixty pounds of fluid that had inflated his trim, athletic frame. I don’t remember what we talked about that morning, just that we spent the time together.

That was before we knew what was happening. Before I knew the starting gun had fired.

In the weeks that followed, so did the tests and the doctors and the questions until, ultimately, our family lexicon had no choice but to admit cirrhosis, terminal, and transplant into membership. He spent four days in the hospital that first time and all I could do was try to cheer him up. I wheeled around his room in his wheelchair, crashing clownishly into the vinyl visitor chairs and tray table at every pivot. When he slept, I watched him, my eyes squinted in the flannel light of the over-the-sink fluorescent, wondering why he had been drafted for this particular marathon, while I had been spared.