Truth in advertising

I'm writing this from the front porch of The Beaumont Inn in Harrodsburg, KY. For my Mother's Day gift this year, my husband booked two overnight reservations: one for us at the inn and one for our three kids at his parents' house. I literally shrieked with joy when he told me.

I used to pass judgement on parents who celebrated their respective "days" by getting away from the people who made them parents in the first place. Then I became a mother.


Now I pass judgement on mothers who wax poetic about motherhood. Being a mom is tough, demanding, thankless and exhausting, and I firmly believe that women who say otherwise are either a) trying to fool you or b) trying to fool themselves.

There are moments of unparalleled joy, to be sure, but in the early years especially, when you're sleep-and shower-deprived and your little angels are 100% dependent and demanding, it's been my experience that the moments of tedium, frustration and exhaustion dominate.

I love my children and make daily sacrifices for them because that's what I want to do. However, I also enjoy leaving them with my in-laws for the occasional overnight getaway with my husband (our last, for the record, was in October) and don't mind candidly informing the sweet woman who works in our church office that, in fact, not every single second with our kids is "fun." (A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she thanked me for being honest and proceeded to confide about some serious challenges they're enduring with their college-aged son. Apparently honesty begets honesty, and I'm not the only mom who thinks that motherhood is more than blue skies and rainbows.)


If honesty begets honesty, then propaganda like the Johnson's Baby ad I stumbled upon while paging through the latest issue of Parents magazine on Monday evening begets false expectations of parenthood.

A half-sheet insert that makes holding your place (if "your place" happens to be anywhere other than the ad insertion point) impossible while trying to simultaneously fix an almond butter sandwich and apply lip liner to your five-year old who's getting costumed for an in-house production of "Princess C slays the fire-breathing dragon", the ad was nearly ripped out without a second glance. For some reason, though, I read it.

Apparently, Johnson's is sponsoring a "moments of joy" contest on Facebook, so the ad featured excerpts of "what moms are saying about their joyful before-bed moments."

According to this ad, every night (with Johnson's Baby bedtime bath, of course) is sweet, relaxing, cuddly and wonderful. Smiling babies drift off peacefully (by 8:30 at the latest, of course) while their moms marvel at the wonder of it all.

The one that made me guffaw out loud: "Right before bed I sing to Brody and he reaches up and touches my face before he smiles at me, and then drifts off to sleep."

Bedtime at our house goes down more like this: "After finally wrestling C into a clean diaper and pajamas, I take her to the glider for round two where she proceeds to wriggle, squirm and smack me in the face repeatedly while giving me a look that says, 'What? You gotta a problem with me slapping you in the face?' Exhausted, I finally deposit her, still wide awake, in the crib, from which she chucks all her pacifiers and sings to her lovey before finally giving it up 20 minutes later. At least she doesn't scream for 20 minutes (or longer) like her older sister used to at that age."

Maybe I need that bedtime bath stuff. No, wait. I've tried that. Our kids seem immune to the powers of its calming lavender scent.

I get that the goal is to sell baby wash. But I do wonder if ads and contests like this don't have the unintended affect of creating false expectations of what parenting will be like or, even worse, making parents (like me) wonder what it is they're doing wrong to have homes in which bedtime (or any time) more closely resembles a three-ring circus than a Norman Rockwell postcard.

If Johnson's wanted my money, they'd sponsor a Facebook contest challenging parents to keep it real. Wow, your son rubbed lotion in your hairbrush while pretending to be a dentist? So did mine! Your 10-month old thinks unlatching the fire screen every time you admonish her with a "no, no" is hilarious? Mine too! Honesty, in my book, is worth its weight in gold.

I "like" it

As anyone who knows me will attest, punctuality has never been my hallmark. So it should come as no surprise that I am quite tardy to the social media scene. To be honest, the only reason I'm showing up at all is because it's become increasingly clear that in order to perform well at my paycheck job it's unavoidable.

So it was that I signed up for a Twitter account a few weeks ago. I have yet to Tweet. Neither have I checked in on the entities that I'm "following." I have a Facebook page that contains my name and nothing else.

I'll admit I've been a hater. I don't do things just because everyone else is doing them. And I definitely don't do things just because everyone tells me I should. (No, I do not wonder why my kids are so hard headed.)


I also don't fancy my life that interesting that people would want to "follow" it via social media channels. And yet, they seemingly do.

Before I paint an inaccurate portrait of my popularity (or Klout, as it's known in the social media world), let me explain. I have two "followers" on my Twitter account. One is my job-share partner, and the other is another colleague. The majority of my "followers" (and they aren't many - maybe a dozen) are on our corporate social media tool, Chatter.

The first few times I got the e-mail notification that someone new was "following" me, I felt incredulous. They're following me? Then as more notifications rolled in I started to feel a little panicky. They're following me?

They must expect me to say something profound. Or entertaining. Or at least useful.

I started to feel performance anxiety. They're waiting for me to post something. I should post something. What should I post?

I started wracking my brain for useful, profound things to share with my colleagues, and I actually hit upon something that I thought qualified as the former. So I posted it. Which makes it sound like such a straightforward process, right?

Wrong.

The rules of the social media  road run counter to the natural tendencies of those of us who value things like tone, syntax and proper punctuation. They fly in the face of those of us who edit e-mails and capitalize proper nouns when texting.

It took me fifteen minutes to craft, edit and finally post a 48-word, um, post (what else do you call them? Does anyone but me care that I used the word "post" twice in the same sentence? Probably not.)

I'm clearly no expert, but I'm pretty sure that's a disproportionately long time for so few words.

So I posted and waited. Would anyone "like" what I'd said? Would anyone post a comment in reply? Minutes ticked by. An hour passed. Nothing happened. I knew it. Nobody likes me. And that post was clearly not at all useful.

In two days on the social media scene I suffered from performance anxiety and junior high-esque insecurity. Who needs it?

Then I logged in at work yesterday and was surprised and, I can't lie, delighted, to find that three people "liked" my post. One was my faithful job-share partner and the other my boss, which is somewhat akin to having your parent and sibling "like" your post, but whatever. At least my post didn't go completely ignored.

As the day wore on, a few more people liked my post. Someone commented that she'd downloaded the app I recommended. As of this morning (yes, I checked again) 10 people "liked" my post.

And you know what? I like being "liked", which is, I'm sure, the driving psychology behind the whole phenomenon. Who among us doesn't like to be "liked" and "followed"? As the mom of three children who literally follow my every move, I appreciate the virtually variety even more.

So while I have no delusions of building a gigantic flock of Twitter followers, I think I may actually enjoy posting useful, if not profound, information for my colleagues and receiving the same from them.

And if anyone reading this blog wanted to, you know, recommend it to a friend who might actually leave a comment on it, please feel free. My ego can only take so many months of stone silence in the comment field below . . .

Guilty as charged

In case you're not familiar with the term "mommy guilt", allow me to break it down for you. "Mommy guilt" is the phenomenon in which mothers, feeling personally and solely responsible for the health and well-being, both present and future, of their children, believe that their children's mental, physical and emotional welfare is compromised or, in some cases, flat out damaged, when they don't pour 100% of their time, energy and resources into those children.

Put more simply, "mommy guilt" is feeling like you're failing your kids on a daily basis.

I'm not sure if "mommy guilt" is a product of our two-income culture (does anyone remember June Cleaver feverishly packing for a business trip, fretting that Wally and The Beav would experience separation anxiety for the 72 hours that she was out of pocket?) or of our tell-all tendencies. Perhaps mothers throughout the ages have been wracked with guilt of this nature, but we only began hearing about it at the dawn of the technology age.

I work outside the home three days per week (and feel guilty sometimes for being gone, especially when one of the kids is under the weather or particularly clingy in the morning) and have begun to hear buzz from other women in my organization about managing the "mommy guilt" they feel for pursuing a career and allowing their spouses/partners/nannies to do the bulk of the child-rearing. Even women who have no desire to be stay-at-home moms struggle to squelch the nagging feeling that they should be home with their kids.

But "mommy guilt" does not discriminate. As a part-time paycheck earner, I have the distinct opportunity to experience, to some extent, what it's like on both sides of the fence. And I can tell you that I feel just as guilty, though for different reasons, on the days I'm home with the kids as I do on the days I'm at the office.

Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, I beat myself up for skipping a visit to the lactation room. My baby will surely sprout horns and a permanent case of strep throat if we have to give her formula when I'm working, right?

Earlier this week, after getting a call from home that my youngest was running a fever (though otherwise symptom-free), I worried, fretted and convinced myself that I should definitely be at home (where I would have done precisely the same thing our parents did for her.) Then I felt guilty for ducking out of a staff meeting to check a voice mail update from my mother-in-law.

On Wednesdays and Fridays, I torture myself with a running tally of all the times throughout the day that I've lost my temper, failed to capitalize on a teachable moment and/or missed the opportunity to "catch" the kids being good. I also classify reading a magazine as a "guilty" pleasure. Unless those magazines contained illicit material (which they don't!), I don't think paging through something other than Chicka-Chicka Boom Boom constitutes a sin.

Did I mention what an utter failure I considered myself to be after serving frozen fish sticks for dinner one night? While they've now earned a semi-regular spot in our culinary repertoire, I still feel a twinge of guilt anytime I pull dinner - other than a homemade, frozen-for-a-busy-night casserole - from the freezer.

I don't hear much about "daddy guilt." Actually, I don't hear anything about "daddy guilt", and I attribute that to antiquated expectations that still linger in our social consciousness. Men are breadwinners, women caregivers. Though the trend over the last couple of generations has been toward uber-involved daddies (some even blog about it - Babble has a Top 50 of 2011 list if you're interested) I'd venture to say that social stereotypes still run deep in most places.

I'd love to say more on the topic, but I'm already well over the recommended 500 words that represent the sweet spot of blogging and my nine-month old is stirring. There's nothing like ignoring a baby while blogging to get your day off to a guilt-riddled start.

If you can't beat 'em . . .

I'm not sure if it's the age, the DNA, or a combination of the two, but my children delight in non-compliance. In their worst moments, this takes the shape of foot-stomping, red-faced defiance. In their better moments, it looks like two kids ignoring their parents' requests to get dressed/brush their teeth/get in their booster seats so we can get the heck out the door.

Never one to run ahead of schedule myself, having two kids suddenly go deaf in the 20 minutes before we need to be out the door in order to arrive at our destination only marginally late is maddening. I've tried plenty of tips and tricks from Parents magazine (though I draw the line at letting my daughter go to school in pajamas. The one time my son wore his bathrobe to church and brunch had nothing to do with the fact that we were running late.)

And I've done plenty of things (yelling, threatening, yelling some more) that the experts in Parents magazine say I should never do.

I hesitate to say it, because seemingly as soon as I hit on something that works the kids realize I've gotten the upper hand and stop responding to the thing that worked like a charm just days before, but I may have struck gold yesterday.

With a big project looming at work, I was trying my best to get some things done from home, which is always a comedy of errors when you have three kids and no childcare. At lunchtime, everyone except me was still sporting nighttime attire and breath, and my friend, God bless her, had generously offered to have the older two kids over to play in the afternoon so I could actually get some things done.

I foolishly thought that the promise of a play date would be enough to kick the kids into high gear, but it quickly became obvious that ignoring me was just as entertaining as romping with friends. My blood pressure was on the ascent when my daughter, in response to something I'd asked her to do, belted out a gleeful, "No way!" and then quickly announced that it was opposite day.

Since she'd caught me before I completely lost my temper, I played along.

"I definitely do not want anyone to brush their teeth before we go to L's house to play," I announced.

Four little feet scurried to the bathroom.

"Do not, under any circumstances, stand still while I brush your hair," I commanded.

One squirmy little rebel turned to stone before my eyes.

And on we went until we were buckled in the truck and on our merry way.

Like in The Perfect Storm, the circumstances were ripe for this game to play out in my favor.

First, it was their idea. Had I suggested that it was opposite day, I'm not so sure it would have gone over as well. But maybe it would have, because the game was also . . .

Silly. Kids like to be silly, and they love it when grown-ups are silly with them. My sense of humor is more dry to acerbic than silly, so I have a hard time getting into that mode. I like to think that it makes my silly moments even more special.

And finally, opposite day enabled them to indulge their penchant for defiance. They could do precisely what I told them not to do and get away with it - how splendid! 

Stay tuned for next week's update, when opposite day will have likely lost its luster, and I'll be back to playing Joan Crawford sans the wire hangers.

The Danger in Disclosure

I'm a proponent of talking to kids the same way you'd talk to adults. I don't "dumb down" my vocabulary or explanations, and I definitely don't do baby talk. As a result, my 5- and 4-year olds are relatively well-spoken and informed children. I have learned as of late, however, that when it comes to responding articulately to their endless string of "Whys?" there can be danger in full disclosure.

For instance, when you set a precedent of sharing details they come to expect that level of specificity on a regular basis, which made for an interesting situation when we were trying to explain why my husband was out-of-commission following his recent vasectomy. Everyone from our neighbors to my former boss enjoyed hearing stories about my husband's "hurt penis."

Also, by introducing complex concepts you open the door to loose interpretations and misapplications. Such was the case when I, at my wits end with my eldest daughter's constant need for entertainment and companionship, announced that it was high time she learn to play independently. Besides helping her develop self-reliance and faith in her own problem-solving and creative abilities, this critical life skill saves me from assuming the role of perma-playmate/cruise director.

After learning that "independently" meant "alone", my daughter decided she was adamantly opposed to independent play, despite my reassurance that it was not punishment.

Knowing this, I shouldn't have been surprised last Saturday when, horrified to learn that "the plan" for the day was for my husband to work on refinishing my parents' kitchen cabinets and for me to clean our blinds and windows, she announced, "You know it's no fun for me to play independently." So she didn't, opting instead to shadow my every move, which made the messy, tedious spring cleaning job even more enjoyable.

Mere days later, after she and her brother discovered the heap of plastic junk that my husband had "accidentally" tossed into the outside garbage can before mowing the  backyard, she wailed, "How are we supposed to play independently if you throw away all of our toys?!?" Stifling a laugh, I reminded her that there were still plenty of toys on our property with which they could play independently.

My son, a champion independent player, takes a less-accusatory approach, preferring instead to capitalize on my fondness for the concept when his sisters are encroaching on his territory (the younger) or tormenting him (the older.) Just yesterday, when his big sister invited herself into his game of whatever, he looked up at me with his giant blue-gray eyes and said, "Can I just play independently for a little while?" 

Yes, buddy. And as for me, I'm going to practice being vague.