Mom Makeover: The Road from Ho-Hum to Hawt

One of the best pieces of parenting advice I got from my mother involved mascara.

I've shared my opinions on mom jeans, Keds, denim jumpers and the like. I don't believe that being a mother is license to be a frump. We all take a few steps away from our dry clean only wardrobe once we have children, but it's not necessary to trade in fab for frump. Yet all too often, it happens. Like back fat. It just creeps up on you before you realize that everything in your closet has an elastic waistband. When we stop putting ourselves first, we plummet to stretchy pant hell.

I'm guilty as charged. To a certain extent.

I recently embarked on a journey with a few other women to do a Mom Makeover. Nothing extreme to walk the catwalk or sport a tiara. Just a simple makeover that's realistic for a mother who spends her time in car pool, at the park, or on a date. I was hoping to transform a couple moms who could go from "Park to Party" in a flash.

With the help of Jill, Joanna, Pam, and Amanda, we pulled it off for our first contestant on Park to Partay!

Meet Liz.

36-year old mother of a three-year old daughter and 5-month old infant son. Liz is tired. She's been feeling frumpy and is scrounging up the time and energy to hit the gym again. Her own sister in law even threatened to turn her over to What Not to Wear. Ouch! Liz knows there's a sprinkle of her former self sparkling in there somewhere.

We were there to help Liz regain her shimmer so she can put some shimmy back in her step.

Meet our makeover team.

Jill, owner of hairdos. Before Jill pulled out her scissors she talked to Liz to get a sense of her style, preferences, and lifestyle. Clearly Jill took the time to know the client first instead of treating her head as a canvas with license to chop. We've all been in a salon seat like that, right? Jill gave Liz a kicky little cut and even gave her options to wear her hair up or down. Options are good. Did I mention that Liz donated a whopping 11 inches of her mane to Locks of Love? I know how freeing it is to cut off all that hair. The key thing about the magic that Jill worked is that she kept Liz's hair maintenance free. After all, what mom wants to deal with a high maintenance hair style that involves multiple gooey products and various electrical devices? It's a wash and go cut that will grow out lovely, meaning Liz can look good while not swapping out style for sleep.

Joanna, makeup artist and owner of Look at Me Makeup. And I don't use the word artist lightly. Every girl dreams of the make up case Joanna was toting. Oh, the creams and powders and shadows and blushes and liners! Some of her go-to products to make us moms look more awake than we feel: mascara, concealer, blush, lip gloss, moisturizer! Also, maintain those brows, ladies. Like Jill, Joanna focused on making Liz's makeup regimen fast and easy. Wearing makeup doesn't have to be a 30-minute ordeal that requires paint brushes and spackling. I don't even own blush and I've never put a drop of foundation on my face in my life, yet I think I don't look half bad. Joanna gave Liz makeup tips that fit her lifestyle and schedule. The beauty is that she also gave Liz tips on how to turn the makeup amp up to 11 for date night. Va va va voom! Again, options are good.

Pam, owner of Dress. and fashionista extraordinaire. Pam is that rare blend of fashion and frugal. Pam's shop perches at the intersection of Quality Road, Style Boulevard, and Affordability Avenue. Dress. is a lovely little boutique that features consigned and new designer clothes, shoes, and handbags. And boy are the brands in there mouth watering! Pam, having the honor of being my most fashionable friend (who is blessed with lean long legs and a tiny waist...damn her), not only sells the clothes, she helps with personal styling too. She gave Liz so many fantastic options that it was nearly impossible to make a choice. Sometimes options aren't so good. ;-) The ticket was to find Liz an outfit that's comfortable, versatile, fun, and easy. Do you see a trend here? Perhaps the best testimonial is that I left Dress. with the most perfect little black dress, and our photographer bought three! Ooh la la.

Amanda of Amanda Olson Photography. She's one helluva talented photographer whom I'm going to hire to take my headshot for my book jacket one day. Amanda captured not only the activities of the day, but the spirit as well. Though she and I were in the same room, her eyes saw things mine did not. She really has a storytelling gift. Amanda's photos were simply glorious. There's nothing phony or diva about her, but she is a true artist. You have no idea how hard it was to select photos for this post. Every single shot rocked. I kid you not. I'd pepper my walls with Amanda's photos and spent a good hour just perusing her gallery on her site. Poor Amanda will now have to chase my two sons and a pesky dog to capture some family shots this fall. You can see more photos from our day here.

So the key is this: style and comfort are not mutually exclusive. We owe it to ourselves to put our best face on and our best foot forward. Clad in a touch of mascara and some swoon worthy shoes.

Motherhood is hot. Bring it.

Reading a Lullabye to My Bird

Books can mend your spirit, even if you're a six year old who needs his mommy to read a lullabye to shush away scary dreams.

Read more at Deep South Moms...

5:00 Fridays: Tipping My Glass to Laura Bennett

I recently got a copy of a fine read Didn't I Feed You Yesterday? A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos from the author herself. I've even exchanged emails with the author herself. I feel like it's a brush with fame. Well, if said brush were but one hair thick. A brush nonetheless. And nevermind that I have never owned a pair of stilettos in my life.

Gasp!

The author of Didn't I Feed You Yesterday? A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos, Laura Bennett, is someone I'd like to have a weekly cocktail with. We'd have our 5:00 Fridays inked in our calendar books, and it would be a weekly standing date while our boys would tear up the joint. We'd kick off our shoes, hers, 4-inch fabulous Manolos, mine, more modest cowboy boots or handmade leather sandals my aunt brought me back from India. I'd drool over her shoes and bags while she'd secretly be thankful I'm not her size. Then Bird would deck someone or Deal's whining would reach epic levels and she'd ask us to leave.

Laura and I would make quite a pair. She towering at close to six feet, while I stand at a solid five feet if I throw my chest out, yank my shoulders back, and hold my head up. She, a redheaded red lipsticked beauty. Me, a brown skinned and eyed, dark eye-circled, 40-something with a swoosh of black eyeliner and lip balm. I think I'd mostly like to hang out with Laura in hopes of her cool factor, sense of style (Did I mention she was on Project Runway and made it excrutiatingly close to the end?), confidence, and ability to shake it off.

You see, Laura (We're totally on a first name basis. I mean, we did exchange emails and all.), lives in Manhattan in a two bedroom loft. With FIVE boys (her daughter is lucky enough to be away at college...incidentally, her daughter and I went to the same boarding school...but let's just say I didn't graduate from the same school). And of course Laura has a husband, who's really like boy #6. And here I thought a lousy two boys and a husband (boy #3) was bad. Even my dog is a male. Being outnumbered isn't the issue as much as the sheer dirt and noise. You did know the meaning behind my blog's name, right? If two boys can run amok and wreak havoc, I can only have nightmares about what five boys can do.

Laura's life is pretty much a gassy cloud of burps, farts, shrills, guffaws, spills, and well, Chaos.

Yet she thrives in it. What I learned from reading this laugh-aloud funny book was that I could use a lesson in taking it easy. I'm clearly wound too tightly, and it ain't from my Spanx (which, thanks to Laura, I must run out and buy because it's apparently the miracle non-surgical surgery fix). My version of letting loose is to declare Sunday as no-making-the-bed day. In fact, on a recent vacation Bird cleared Deal's stuffed animals off the hotel bed and started to make it. I stopped him, but part of me was damn proud. In an admittedly sick way.

I'm a stickler for rules, manners, healthy food, home cooking, blah blah blah. After reading about Laura's philosophy on mothering, take care of yourself first (akin to putting on your oxygen mask first as Laura recounts), I realize I am piling on loads of couch fodder for my sons' future therapy. But can I really exchange my rigid cookin' ways for a more fabulous MO? I mean, it doesn't seem that Laura's sons are any worse for the wear. Actually, they appear quite smart, gracious, and downright funny.

And yes, she has help. Dear God, she must. But let me be the first to say that having help doesn't make Laura less of a mother. There are no blue ribbons in motherhood, so get off your soapbox and make room for us all to share a piece of the winner's circle.

I might not be as relaxed, charming, talented, and funny as Laura Bennett but I could at least don some red lipstick and stop yelling for a spell. Luckily for me it's 5:00 Friday so I can put up my kicky-shoed feet and relax with a cocktail.

This one's for Laura. Her candor. Her humor. Her style.

Now go buy her book. If you don't laugh aloud I'll buy you a drink. Make that three. Because if you don't laugh out loud, it clearly indicates that you are a fool with no sense of humor and a corncob stuck up your ass.


DIFYY

3 ounces of Hendrick's gin
1 ounce of Stirrings Bitter Lemon Soda
1 cucumber slice

Drop a few ice cubes into a highball glass. Pour in the gin. Top off with Bitter Lemon Soda. Float a cucumber slice in there to make it look fancy and spa-like. Put on some of that long lasting lipstick that doesn't wear off, you know, the kind flight attendants and Mary Hart must wear, and sip away. You'll tune out that chaos in no time.

Wordless Wednesday: The Real Deal

My Latest Hang Up

You know how when you bring home all those teeny tiny itty bitty onesies and Jon-Jons that are so cute when your baby is the size of a sprinkle? You know how the outfits are so dang small that your husband couldn't wear them as mittens, much less snap the things? You know how you so gently washed them and folded and hung them on those precious little hangers that are impossibly adorable and fit for a pixie?

Remember how small they once were?

Being small equates to so much more than size. The utter smallness of a newborn son nestled in his Moses basket or better yet, upon your chest, is love and mortality and family and goodness at their finest. The simplicity of smallness. That smallness means miracle, responsibility, opportunity, potential, glory, dedication, future. That smallness is the starting line for the growth of a family and the bonding of a mother. The first drop of immense love that fills you up a thousand fold over. That smallness is larger than life.

And then they grow.

And grow.

I was almost awash in tears last night as I was putting away Bird's laundry. Yes, his laundry nearly drove me to tears. Granted, I hate laundry so it often drives me to whining hissy fits but this is not what I'm talking about. I caught a fat salty drop before it fell to my cheek. You see, Bird's teetering on the cusp of seven.

7. Years. Old.

His clothes aren't so small anymore. His clothes aren't even all that cute(sy) anymore. His shirts could pass as mine, and in fact, Mac Daddy often questions whose T-shirts are whose when he folds the laundry (Yes, I have a husband who folds laundry. I told you he is a keeper.). What made me weepy was that Bird's big boy clothes don't fit on the baby sized hangers anymore. Those tiny hangers that have been in his closet since the day we started stockpiling a baby wardrobe are now too small. My little Baby Bird is becoming a Big Bird. All that means to me is that he's slowly growing wings. To fly.

Away.

And all I can do is watch, beam, love, applaud.

And maybe shed a tear.

Fly, Bird, fly.

WRAL GoAskMom: I Get Around

While I might seem like a willy nilly blogger here at Dirt & Noise, I assure you I am no slacker. I've been writing at other places and have been too busy to even get the word out. It's ironic that I write about myself and am a marketer yet neglect to pimp myself effectively.

Don't hold it against me.

I'm contributing to WRAL's GoAskMom blog these days. Check out my post about eating out with kids here.

And if you want to read the weeks you missed, you can find them all here.

Old Navy Work Out Gear Rocks for Gym & Grocery Store

You are aware that I hate to work out, right? I mean, sure, I go to the gym. I even go to a Butts n' Guts class twice a week (not that I'm a poster child or anything). I haul my butt to the gym because I know it's good for me. And yes, I admit I feel better after a good sweat. But I don't enjoy it. Ever.

What I do love is to at least look the part. Gone are the oversize shorts and trade show T-shirts. This mama has graduated to far chicer gym attire. I don't need to wear bags to cover up my flaws. Instead I simultaneously embrace and mask them with the right fit, color, and proportions.

I've been a loyal Target shopper for many years. The workout clothes suit my budget, size, and style. It's no Athleta but it's...shall we say...fine. Just fine. The fit isn't all that great, and teh pants lose their stretch after a couple sets of squats and donkey kicks. I'm no high end fitness freak so I can't justify spending oodles on gym clothes. I could never find a happy medium.

In steps Old Navy.

Did you know Old Navy is cranking out fitness wear now? It's all super cute and comfortable. And what's key for this 60-inch powerhouse is that the styles come in petite sizes! Trumpet fanfare ensues. The yoga pants I got to try out as an Old Navy Brand Enthusiast are softer than the stretchy pants I wore post-pregnancy (many moons post-pregnancy...ahem). The moisture wicking fabric is light and really works. But again, since I'm no real athlete, what I love best is how the gear looks. I am that superficial after all. As an active, busy, overscheduled mom (bet you readers can't relate to that at all, eh?), I don't have time to actually shower before running errands. I mean really, it's a banner day when I sneak in a shower at all. Usually a swipe of mascara carries me until I can hit the shower. However, I do like to look more fashionable than frumpy at any given time.

I'll be checking out the racks at Old Navy to stock up for summer workout wear. Try it out out and let me know what you think.

Here's what I'll be dropping into my shopping cart:

Active mesh skort (in bright purple!)
Piped active shorts
Racerback tank
Graphic mesh racerback tank
Foldover yoga pants
Active shorts (though I have miles to go before I can wear these for public consumption)

Thanks for the test gear, Old Navy! Even if I'm never the poster child for Butts n' Guts (the "After" image, natch), I'll at least look good and feel great trying.

Project Enlightenment Saved My Family

I posted this to Facebook this morning when I read about the drastic cuts proposed for Project Enlightenment.

"My family was in crisis when our son was 3. Not medical or financial crisis. Behavioral crisis. It is no hyperbole that we would not be who and where we are today without Project Enlightenment's support and care. Without those counselors and programs, our son would not be thriving in first grade now. The impact of that experience fixed what was a potential shattered relationship with my son at that tender young age. I'm emotional even harkening back to that time. These programs are not just for those people whose paths you don't cross. "Those people." These programs are for ALL of us. And they work."

My fingers quiver on the keyboard as I conjure up the memories of when Bird was 3. He had violent raging temper tantrums. I'm not talking the I-Want-Candy variety. He'd overturn furniture and fling books out of his bookcase in a head spinning rage. He would yell like a banshee and writhe in fits of fury. 15 minutes would pass. Then 30. 40. Most rages lasted 45 minutes to an hour. Full on screaming, flailing, kicking, hitting. Deal was an infant then, cradled snugly in my arms for fear he'd be in the path of Bird's destruction.

Destruction.

Not just his room and his belongings. Our family. Our relationship.

I sat in tears, quaking with stress, worry, fear, resentment. I never knew what would tip the scale to make Bird fly into a tantrum. I tiptoed and spent every waking moment anxiously awaiting the rage to begin. He saved it all up for me. Bird didn't demonstrate this behavior at school. Whatever he corked up at school came gushing out at me. He spewed all his emotional venom and bile upon me. We spent many hours huddled in his room sobbing. Feeling helpless. Alone. Defeated. Guilty. And just terribly sad.

All while tending to an infant.

I was alone. No family support. A husband at a new job.

Bird's tantrums were escalating. It was as if he were possessed. Seriously out of control and a danger to himself. I began to resent this behavior. To resent my own son. Do you know how that feels? I feel ashamed admitting it now. My heads hangs, my whole being awash of guilt. I defied all truths of motherhood; suddenly I was rewriting what unconditional looked like. I loved Bird, of course, but I didn't want to be around him. I didn't want to cater to him and fear him. I wanted to instead protect the sweet baby Deal who was innocent and vulnerable. And yes, easy. Easy to love. Easy to care for. Easy to adore. Then I was swept with such guilt for feeling so that I mentally collapsed.

Once, just once, I slapped my son.

In the midst of one particularly violent rage I slapped Bird across the cheek thinking I could get him to snap out of it. It didn't work. He didn't even take note of my hot hand on his wet cheek. I still feel the sensation of my sweaty shaking palm making contact with his tear streamed soft skin. His face. I literally shake my hand to get rid of the sensation as if it were an EtchASketch. My eyes well with tears and a coal-like lump rises in my throat as I write this. I've never said this before. I never talked about what hell it really was. For all of us.

But that afternoon I called Mac Daddy. I told him I couldn't do it anymore. I wasn't fit to be a mother. I was overwhelmed and under supported. In retrospect I am most certain I suffered remnants of undiagnosed and untended-to post partum depression. I was the camel, and my slapping palm was the straw.

We called Project Enlightenment.

Our counselor saved us. Saved me. Saved our son. Saved our relationship. Without the skills and insights and therapy we received....

I'm afraid to even think what might have been.

Project Enlightenment gave us specific tools, words, exercises to manage Bird's tantrums. We learned how to handle anger, fear, anxiety, in him and in ourselves. We learned how the parenting we were a product of made us the parents we were becoming. We learned how to repair what was shattered. Just yesterday I opened my Project Enlightenment file to get a quick refresher on how to teach empathy to my sons.

That file has sat atop my desk for almost four years. Its contents are dog eared and highlighted. Those resources have given me my son back. Project Enlightenment served a need, a desperate need, that no doctor or grandparent or teacher could have filled. Or fixed.

If our counselor at Project Enlightenment hadn't helped us, my resentment toward Bird would have surely escalated. I know this much is true. I find myself still battling it at the times he's particularly difficult or defiant now. My brain takes me back to those fits when he was three, and I think, "Haven't we been through this? Haven't I paid my parenting dues?" But now I know how to change. Now I know what resonates with him. Now I know. The self loathing I have from that time still haunts me. There are times I want to rewind, words I want to retract, steps I want to retrace.

Project Enlightenment, while unable to magically erase or rewrite the past, has enabled us to walk into a shinier future. Hand in hand.

Bird is now a thriving first grader. He has no behavioral or medical or psychological issues. Well, he does pick on his little brother and talks too much in class, but that's all normal, right? My Bird is bright, curious, eager, and awfully funny. He knows he is loved and adored. I still call him my first baby when I kiss him good night. We exchange Eskimo kisses, butterfly kisses, and lip kisses. Then he blows me a kiss from his bed, and I pretend to catch it and put it on my cheek. This is our ritual.

And we have Project Enlightenment to thank.

Join the Facebook Group here.
Send an email to the school board. You'll find their contact information here.
Write to the paper.

Raise your voices, people. Cutting funding for early childhood development and education will prove to be disastrous, and expensive. Our children are an investment, not an expense.

Haiti: "Te a fatige."

The earth is tired.

Words spoken by forlorn Haitian farmers. One cannot help but sigh. Or moan.

From National Geographic: "So what do you do if you live in the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere, and the price of the primary carbohydrate—'Miami rice' from the U.S.—doubles? Mostly, you go hungry and watch your children do the same."

Such grim conditions are reality to Haitian mothers. Can you even bring your mind to the hell theirs must occupy? I simply cannot. I watched my sons inhale two helpings of sesame chicken at dinner tonight. As I watched them dawdle and chat and chew, all I could think about was Haiti. The people of Haiti. The mothers. And their sons.

Haiti has seen its share of hell. It is the Western hemisphere's poorest country. A long history of war, pillaging, greed, and destruction has made it so.

The recent earthquake devastation reeks of Katrina in its imagery, social classism, and utter despair. The income gap is more a canyon. The race and class divide is astonishing. The destruction is beyond my grasp. Katrina and the tsunami all rolled into one whirling nightmare.

Despite the bigotry masked as Christian righteousness that Pat Robertson spews, Haiti, and her people, did not deserve this. There was no pact with the Devil. Do people really buy this shit? If the Devil does indeed exist, I believe he looks a lot like Pat Robertson.

We are citizens of this planet. We share our humanity. Poor people do not love their children any less. Disenfranchised masses don't deserve less. We waste in one day what could clothe and feed a family of four in Haiti for days. As human beings who have so much, it is our duty to be giving. If you cannot open your passport to join an aid mission, then open your checkbook.

For just one day, I ask you to forgo that latte, Target impulse purchase, or eBay pair of Frye boots. Donate that money instead. What is so small to us makes an enormous difference to those in need.

We're giving here. Stop Hunger Now.

You can also give here:

Unicef

Yele Haiti (You can text "yele" to 501501 to automatically donate $5 to the Yele Haiti Earthquake Fund. The 5 bucks will be charged to your regular cell phone bill. It doesn't get any easier than this.)

International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies (Text "HAITI" to "90999" to donate $10 to the Red Cross.)

Doctors Without Borders

Charity: Water


And one last thing, don't wait for tragedy to strike or the advent calendar to count down, be giving everyday, in whatever small ways you can. We recently wrote down our family values on a board in our mudroom, an exercise I often do to help my clients define their brand and messages. I figure we represent brand Dirt & Noise so why not give this a shot. Here are the values that define our family:

Respect.
Kindness.
Generosity.
Gratitude.

Now, to make those four little words come to life....

This isn't just about Haiti; it's about Humanity.

Bring Sexy Back, One Girls Weekend at a Time

Reporting for duty after a much needed vacay from reality. Reality doesn't suck, but it sure does suck the life out of me. Sometimes it's nice to steal away and forget that my name is Mom. Sometimes I like to be Ilina again. You know, the woman who wears dry clean only clothes, tall leather boots, carries all her belongings in a pocket, wears red lipstick, and has runway posture. Life with children can be shackling. Come on, I know you've thought it too. Now before you get all high and mighty on me, let me explain that I wouldn't trade my life. I love my family and cannot imagine life without my Bird and Deal (Mac Daddy too, natch). Seriously, folks, all that goes without saying, but I can't deal with the holier-than-thou freaks out there who are ready to pounce. Allow me to extinguish your fiery words of contempt.

No matter how you cut it, once in a while a girl's gotta break free from the shackles and don some sexy heels.

Girls weekend was a blast. A downright full blown spring break romp. Spring break minus the hooking up. Not that the boys weren't trying. A Shaun Cassidy lookalike thought I was 24. In the the din of the dance club he thought I said 31 when I corrected him. His eyes popped like a bad Spencer gag gift when I held up my fingers to make a 4 and a 1. And then there were the flock of boys and men wanting to get their groove on with the eight of us shimmying and breaking out all the bad moves together. We had not a care in the world except that we were free and together.

What's so great about aging (gracefully), is the confidence you gain. No worrying about looking just right, is he looking at me, is she giving me the stink eye, will he call, do I look like an ass doing this move, is he gonna buy me a drink, should I, would I, could I. The dizzying questions that run through a girl's head in a bar are far from the questions that run through a woman's head.

Am I going to trip in these shoes?
Will I be able to walk if I groove down to ground?
Are my ears going to ring tomorrow?
Does that guy realize I'm old enough to be his mother?
How do I get the smokey smell out of my clothes?
Am I too old to down a Slippery Nipple?
How many calories am I burning dancing this hard?
How far past my bed time is it?

The biggest difference between rocking the dance floor as a girl versus a woman is that at the end of the night, the single thought we all left with was, "I still got it."

And that, my friends, is the kind of confidence that money cannot buy. We're bringing sexy back to motherhood.

Toto SoftClose Toilets in Every Parent's House

It's a wondrous life we parents lead, thinking our little children adore us. I know I for one picture a gaze of love and wonder and respect when Bird and Deal daydream about how darn right awesome I am. Oh I have intricate, if not deluded, images of how fantastically perfect I am and that they relish in winning the mommy lottery. I like to imagine that they truly believe that mommy rocks. I sometimes trick myself into thinking that they'd never trade me for the mom who buys Lucky Charms and Lunchables and never utters the phrase "Mind your table manners." Granted, what's lucky about motherhood is that my sons have no other reference points.

We moms and dads like to think that we are the proverbial apple of our children's eyes, as they are ours (most of the time, ahem). What's with all the apple analogies anyway? (e.g. Apple of my eye. Apple that didn't fall from the tree. One bad apple ruins the whole bushel. And let's just toss in the whole apple a day bit for fun.) Anyhoo, we figure it's well into the tween years that our children start finding our faults and uttering the I hate yous and slamming doors in our faces. I don't know if you've ever used a Toto SoftClose toilet before (pegged as "The Ultimate Toilet Seat"...who knew there was such a thing?!), but I'm telling you, there's a market here for SoftClose doors.

Pardon me while I digress a moment. I'm about to impart incredibly important information. Did ya catch the alliteration there? Alliteration comes second to homonyms in the hierarchy of my love of words and all the tricks they do. This is why math is no fun. Math is right or wrong. No tricks. No sleight of hand. Just a bunch of black and white aha moments tied up in a neat bow with exactly the same lengths of ribbon. Now where was I? Aha! Toilet seats! So the Toto SoftClose toilet seat has a lid that doesn't slam. All four of our bathrooms are outfitted with these puppies. Think about it, I have three boys lifting (and closing because I have taught them all about staph germs and manners) toilet seats around this joint. All I need is a trip to the ER because of a slammed little johnson. And I'll never jump in shock while slicing kohlrabi from the sound of a SLAM! What? You don't know what kohlrabi is? What is wrong with you people?! Just trust me when I tell you that toilet seat reduces injury. And it reduces noise. I'll do anything to make my house a quieter home. If it were self-cleaning like my oven we'd be on to something.

Stick with me here, I promise you this toilet seat potty business is going somewhere. We're going places, I tell you!

So I think we need to plan for the teenage years of doors inevitably slamming by installing the Toto SoftClose hinges on all our doors. You parents of girls should definitely heed this. I recall slamming many a door in my day. And wow what a satisfying feeling that was. Better than a Snickers at 10:00 AM behind closed doors. I have a hunch many doors will be slammed in my house. If a smushed johnson doesn't land us in the emergency room a lost finger just might. Wally Lamb said it best, I know this much is true.

Now back to our previously scheduled post.

While we mommies and daddies might fool ourselves into thinking that our children find us irresistible and spectacular, I'm here to burst your bubble that's firmly perched on a high horse.

Allow me to spin a speedy tale.

My friend's 4-year old daughter was wielding a toy magic wand (as opposed to a real magic wand, duh!). This little girls loves to deck out in pink and tutus and tulle. She is really a princess who simply poses as the girl-next-door type of regular kid. We're on to her bewitching shenanigans. And I can tell you that this little girl worships her mommy. So while wielding said wand she asked her mommy what she wanted to be turned into. And my friend, princess' mommy, smiled warmly, fanned the tiny yet powerful flame in her heart, and replied, "Well dear, all I want is to be a beautiful mommy."

Poof.

Fire's out.

Her 4-year daughter replied, "Mommy, pick something else. I don't have enough magic for that!"

Proverbial door slammed in my friend's face. Woulda hurt less if the words had a Toto SoftClose.

Type A Mom, Yup, That's Me

I've never really considered myself Type A. Sure, I'm anal, organized, ambitious, and driven. I thrive on structure and often fumble in the face of flexibility. However, I also lack motivation at times, hitting a writer's block plateau more often than not these days. I am not aggressive and I shy away from competition (unless it involves board games, don't mess with me when it comes to Taboo and Scattergories.). I do share the traits of impatience and need for control with the Type A folks out there but I don't characterize myself as excessively aggressive or obsessive.

Perhaps Mac Daddy would beg to differ.

When it comes to parenting, I surely don't consider myself Type A. In fact, most of the time I feel like Type F, as in Failure. We moms are hard on ourselves, feeling like we could always do more, better, faster, tastier, tidier. We rarely look upon our accomplishments and savor the little miracles of everyday. "Relish" in our book is nothing more than a condiment.

That stops today.

I'd like to pay homage to some of the amazing women I met at the Type A Mom Conference. Women who were my imaginary friends, as Mac Daddy says. Women who are real friends now. Women who I admire. Women who make me laugh, think, cringe, question, applaud, act, discover, cheer, revel, celebrate. If being a Type A Mom means being counted among the likes of the following utterly amazing women, then count me in (in no particular order):

Morningsidemom - My blog love affair and sister, separated at birth. Seriously, how have we gone 40 years (give, in my case, take, in hers) without knowing each other IRL?
Down to Earth Mama - A gloriously funny, self proclaimed geek. I am amazed at her writing and photography that captures spirit beautifully.
Pundit Mom - Really, need I say more? I was on her like beans on a stalk. Smart. Smart. Smart. I beam just to be able to say that she's my friend.
Deb on the Rocks - I stalked her from afar at BlogHer and was all over her awesomeness at Type A Mom. She's gonna have her own sitcom one day. I might be duking it out with MorningsideMom to see who's her biggest fan.
Modern Mami - Beat It is our theme song, and she's a rock star.
Egg Marketing - Susan thought I was a rap star. I hope I didn't disappoint. She sure didn't.
Cecilyk - A woman who proclaims she is more liberal than drag queens is alright by me.
Canape - Founder of Triangle Mamas and most impressive Wii Rock Band drummer. Real life musician who is every bit as cool as you'd imagine.
Abbyjess - Fellow Triangle Mama, Wii Rock Band vocalist extraordinaire. Her snark is hidden by her adorable awesomeness.
Upsideup - Always a joy to run into my friend. Kirtsy founder, designer, all around smart chick. Counting down to seeing her again next month at the Social Media Business Forum.
Sugar Jones & Angela England - I'm lumping these two brilliant women together because their graciousness taught me an invaluable lesson: Heart matters. Regardless of our political views and religious affiliations and histories, we can all get along in earnest. We share mutual respect for our outlooks, experiences, crafts, and talents.
TypeAMom - Oh, words escape me. My fellow foodie, francophile friend. I aspire to be half as awesome as she is. Kudos for planning and pulling off one helluva conference! I bow to her.
Mamikaze - Seriously, her name alone is worthy of our love, right? Kudos for making it a fantastic conference. A good time and a helping hand who can rock the hell out of an organic T-shirt made from recycled plastic bottles.
High Impact Mom - Always a joy. A kind soul who's always game for a good laugh and would never make a girl drink alone.
Vdog - I almost climbed into her lap at BlogHer because I was so excited to meet her. Now I am left speechless or ramble about nothingness when in her presence.
Writing Roads - I dream about being an ounce of the writer she is. Funny and liberal to boot. I think I love her.
Shash - She wins for coolest shoes. And you know how I am moved by a pair of awesome peep toes.
Mommy Niri - My fellow Indian blogger who doesn't write about techie stuff and isn't a geek! Words of wisdom flow from her ever-so-candid conversations.

I hung out with many other awesome bloggers at the Type A Mom Conference. We rocked out. We toasted one too many local brews. We indulged. We squealed. We cried. We snortled. We embraced. We cavorted.

We all found each other online, whether on Twitter or other such vehicle, have read each other's writing, commented on touching posts, offered condolences and congratulations, formed a friendship. What is astounding and refreshing is that the people I imagined to be cool turned out to be even more so. We shared a connection through our writing. A certain intimacy becomes apparent after you realize that peering into someone's soul through her words can truly move you. Such is the power and beauty and mystery of writing.

Our words connected us online and have brought us together in person.

Cheers to the Type A Moms out there. Mwah!

Melting

Today I asked Deal, my four-year old son, what I was going to do without him and Bird for five days when I leave town on a little jaunt to New York and Asheville. He pondered my question a moment and then very matter-of-factly, replied, "You can dream about us, Mommy."


I am a Hershey's Kiss, while Deal brandishes the hot August sun.

Dusting Off Some "Me Time"

The weekend here was positively glorious. Sunny, with a gentle warm breeze, sapphire blue skies dotted with whipped cream clouds, and my favorite temperature. 82 degrees. Surely you're not surprised that I have a favorite temperature?

Mac Daddy took the boys to the park to play some baseball Saturday morning. They gathered their gear, a cooler of snacks (that I admit to checking on the sly to ensure Mac Daddy packed the right stuff), and sunblock, thanks to my nagging (no word on if that was actually applied). Hugs and kisses, smooch smooch goodbye. Off they went, downright dancing down the sidewalk. My three boys, to whom I owe all this dirt and noise.

And then I clutched the powder room pedestal sink to keep from falling to my knees onto the cheap plastic stool and wept. Fat monsoon tears that I didn't even bother to wipe away. I gripped the sink to keep myself from giving in to whim and bashing the weathered pewter mirror in front of me. I stifled the bellowing scream bubbling up in my gut and let a snarl escape instead, a rather unfulfilling impostor.

No park for me. No breeze was to grace my face. I stayed behind at home.

Ah, the house to myself. Just me. Unplugged and Twitter free. Illicit, decidedly un-kid-friendly lyrics cranking at rock star decibels on the iPod, hot, strong coffee in my favorite travel mug and another full pot in the French press.

And me, hair swept back in a blue bandanna fished out of the dress up box, tattered purple tank tank top, supremely comfortable baggy jersey knit shorts, not a lick of mascara. Just me.

And a dustpan.
Broom.
Mop.
Murphy's oil.
Vacuum.
Sponges.
Rags.
Toilet bowl brush.
Stainless steel polish.
Method cleaner.
Dustbuster.
And those damned yellow rubber gloves.

You see, the only "me time" I get in my house is when I'm cleaning. Forget what I said before, now I regret firing my cleaning lady. First of all, cleaning my house makes me utterly irascible, while having a clean house makes me deliriously jubilant. The stream of pee around the bathrooms, thanks to two little boys and one big man, with poor aim, is enough to make me gag. You should hear me yell when I catch Bird leaning back to pee so he can (somewhat) aim and watch Kim Possible at the same time. He misses. Every. Single. Time.

And then there's all the dust bunnies.
Hair.
Fuzz.
Crunched leaves, twigs, and other signs of nature.
Sticky floors.
Crumbs.
Dust.
Fingerprints.
Hand prints in the least expected spots.
Toothpaste goop.
And all the usual suspects.

I. HATE. To. Clean.

The proverbial silver lining is this: I am all by myself when I am cleaning. That alone makes it more bearable.

No one is there to tug on me. I can pee in peace, whether the door is shut or not (and for the record, I have no issues with aim). I can eat three popsicles in one sitting, one in every flavor. I don't mentally tally up the constant chorus of "Hey, Mommy" in my exploding head. I don't have to endure knock-knock jokes or the Dragon Tales theme song. I don't have lunches to prepare or LEGO fights to mediate or bottoms to wipe or time outs to impose. There is no whining, bickering, yelling. The banshees have left the building.

And I am alone.

Me time.

Problem is, me time is not the same as time for me.

I suddenly don't feel so guilty about ignoring my family all day Monday while I curled up in the rocking chair on the front porch, with the ceiling fans on so I too could feel a breeze in my hair, to indulge in Twilight.

Sometimes I miss my little one bedroom apartment on Excelsior Boulevard. The one where I had a God awful floral wallpaper border in my nauseously girly bedroom, battenburg lace curtains, umpteem throw pillows on my bed, two walk-in closets, a tiny balcony covered in AstroTurf, a wall of mirrors in the bathroom, my very own stereo, even though it was just a little Bose shelf unit, and wall-to-wall carpeting. The same apartment where my Sunday paper was stolen on a regular basis. The same apartment that smelled ever so faintly of a potion of cat piss, stale Swisher Sweets, and bleach. The same apartment where doing laundry in the basement required a chaperon. The same apartment where I was alone but never lonely. Alone. By myself. Doing whatever the hell I wanted.

When time was all about me.

I'm 6 Years Old. Today.

I started first grade yesterday. I just walked right in, green backpack that my mom made me monogram, slung across my shoulders, and started whooping it up with my boys. High fiving and smack talking and giggling and stuff. I didn't miss a beat considering I missed the first three days of school. I even got all sorts of attention, being the birthday boy and all. I just might be the only kid who was five when first grade officially started. Well, no matter because today I am six.

Let me repeat: Today I am Six.

Six.

I was born six years ago, a so-called "Ice Storm" baby of 2003. Mommy says I popped right out after three pushes and 20 minutes. Her friends roll their eyes and turn away when she tells that story. Mommy and I shared an inferno burger and vanilla shake just before that. And we rocked the prenatal yoga classes. Apparently I had some feeding issues a few days after I was born, making me all weak and whiny and wobbly. I think they official term is "failure to thrive." Wow, Mommy and Daddy would croak if that were ever on my report card. Anyway, that's when the doctor ordered the syringe.

You have been wondering why they call me Bird, right? Well, Daddy christened me Bird when I was three days old, and it's clearly stuck. Sometimes my teachers even call me Bird. Mommy calls me Bird on the playground when it's time to go. She even called me No-Strike Bird when I played T-Ball, claiming that would make a fantastic headline-grabbing nickname when I play for the Brewers one day. Actually, I bet it was Daddy who mentioned the Brewers because Mommy doesn't know a thing about sports.

Anyway, when I had trouble feeding from my mommy the doctor told my parents to let me suck my mommy's pinky while my daddy used a syringe to shoot some formula into my mouth. It was apparently the only way to nourish me while keeping my suckling in tact. I don't really get the ins and outs but I do know that Daddy said feeding tiny little baby me with a syringe was like feeding a baby bird. Hence the name. By the way, Mommy still has that syringe in my baby box. And obviously they still call me Bird.

Mommy tends to get all weepy on my birthday. She says that her vision improved after I was born so I'm not sure why she gets all emotional, seeing that she doesn't need glasses anymore. She also loves a good party so I bet the luau I requested for my 6th birthday party is gonna rock. All I know is that boxes from Oriental Trading have been littering our living room. I'm just excited to wear the tiki shirt my Dadu gave me. For some reason Mommy refuses to wear the grass skirt and coconut bra I found for her at the party store.

So today I'm looking forward to a few of my favorite things: playing the Star Wars LEGO Wii game that my Uncle gave me, eating beignets for breakfast, engaging in a fierce dart launcher war with my brother (thanks to the Nerf shooter from my Nani), chowing on cheeseburgers and shakes at Red Robin, and generally being spoiled. I'll squeeze in some LEGO time and an art project or two with my Mommy too. And I get to go to a swimming party since my friend Sarah and I share a birthday (Happy Birthday shout out to you, Sarah!). I might even test my limits and whine a bit just to see if Mommy and Daddy have the heart to scold me on my birthday. heh heh heh. I mean really, six won't come around again.

Mommy tells me that I'm just like her. I guess that means she's smart, funny, and clever, Ha ha ha. I swear I am the funniest person I know! Strangers stop me and Mommy on the street to comment how our smiles are so much alike. I guess it's a good thing we make each other smile...most of the time. I share my mommy's temperament but I am definitely a daddy's boy. I also pretend that my little brother Deal drives me crazy but I actually love him and race home from school to play with him, even though my interpretation of "play" is wrestling and shoving decorative throw pillows on his face.

The birthday horoscope my parents have for me says that I will grow up to be creative and mathy. It claims I will make a living as an architect or engineer. It also says I will inherit a sweet tooth from my Mommy. Right on all counts so far!

My name is Bird, and I am six today.

I am 4 today!

I am 4 years old today.

I like LEGO, Playmobil, puppies, and books. I especially like to make LEGO vehicles with lasers and Storm Troopers. I do not like to swim because I hate getting my face wet. I really really really want a puppy. I promised my dad that I will stop sucking my thumb when I turn 4, but Mommy knows that's not gonna happen. I like to laze around in my red bean bag chair that my Dadu gave me. Mangoes and vanilla yogurt are my favorite things to eat. Sometimes I get vanilla milk at Starbucks with Mommy when she gets a latte. I help my mom bake cookies and I like to help my dad make green pancakes. Pink used to be my favorite color, but now I like yellow. Ball was my first word, but I didn't talk until I was 2. That worried my parents. But I spoke in full sentences right away. When I grow up I want to be a veternarian or a SWAT police guy. I am giving some of my piggy bank money to Barack Obama. I am also giving some to the Ronald McDonald House. My chores are to take out the recycling, help my brother set the table, and clean up toys. Mommy is also teaching me how to make my bed so I can do that too. But we get a break and don't have to make beds on Sundays. I am going to some fun camps this summer. I can't wait to go with my best friend Jayden. He is my best buddy. I am also going to Legoland this summer when I go visit my grandma. Last summer we went to Disneyland with my Uncle Sanjit. Nani just came for a visit and gave me a CD player. I like to listen to They Might Be Giants. I am really good at doing puzzles and writing my name. One day I surprised my parents and teachers and just started writing my name. Those wacky grown ups don't even realize all the stuff I learn just by watching. I am the Wii boxing champion in my family. Bird won't even challenge me anymore. I also like to play Eye of the Tiger on Guitar Hero. I wear sunglasses and my guitar T-shirt to rock out like Johhny Napalm. I really want a mohawk, but Mommy won't let me get one. And she won't let Daddy take me out alone to get a haircut. My daddy lets me tackle him and play hop on pop with him. Mommy thinks he's getting too old for that horseplay, but he likes it. I can tell because he laughs the whole time. I really look up to my big brother even though he's not always nice to me. Secretly we all know what we are best friends and would do anything for each other. It's way more fun having him home for the summer. I miss him when he's in school, but I do like my special time with Mommy. Mommy told me that the doctor said I was born sunnyside up and it shows. I think she means that I'm cheerful all the time. Sometimes I whine and cry. Then I go sit on the naughty step until I calm down. Mommy gets weepy on my birthday and keeps asking me what happened to her little baby. I tell her I grow like the weeds in our yard. When I play I like to pretend I am an 8-year old. That makes my brother 10. And when I'm 10 he'll be 12. When I'm 12 he'll be 14. See how that's a pattern? It's a kind of math. Daddy teaches me about numbers, and Mommy teaches me about words. I know what a homonym is. Hangar/hanger is a homonym. It's a plane garage and something you put your clothes on in the closet. When I grow up I want to live with my Mommy and Daddy, or at least on their street.

I am 4 today.

Wordless Wednesday: And Off I Go...

Today marks my baby Bird's flight. He finished kindergarten today. sniff sniff. Hats off to you, my first baby.

He would be tickled to read your words of wisdom and congratulations so humor a proud mama, mkay?

Pennies for My Thoughts: I Accept Paypal

Twitter is but one way for me to find a home for the parade of non sequitors that trample across my brain. My blog, this little verbal hut for my thoughts, is another way I channel all that rolls on the hamster wheel in my head. And so today I bring you the latest round of cerebral confetti flitting about in my brain.

Money with no taste is a shame. Money with no generosity is criminal.

If a woman's work is never done, why is a man's?

Who's making all those hoochie clothes for 10-year old girls? And more pressing, what parents are buying it?

I need a family vacation. But this I mean I need a vacation from my family.

Why are 4, 5, and 6-year olds riding in strollers? A mere three blocks.

Why are those same kids sucking pacifiers? On the way to grammar school?

Why doesn't all the mud tracked into my house stay in the mudroom?

Can someone explain Kate Gosselin's hair to me? Is it an upsidedown mullet? Her stylist must be a beauty school drop out.

Freelance is a misnomer. No wonder I'm not getting paid.

Reality TV has been redefined since I saw the Planet Earth series.

Why is control a character flaw?

The Little Couple?! I'm not sure if I should tune in or look away.

Queen Bee popularity contests don't end. The B just stands for Bitch now.

What exactly is Uniqua?

And why the hell do the Wonder Pets talk in annoying baby talk? Isn't Noggin supposed to be educational?

A perfect playdate means a playmate for Deal and Bird and a playmate for me. George Clooney is preferable.

What's worse: kids who don't get along but moms who do or kids who get along but moms who don't?

Three men with beers standing around a Weber kettle grill. Only one is wielding a spatula. Who says stereotypes aren't true to life?

Why I'm Sorry This Mother's Day

What? No requisite Mother's Day post here at Dirt & Noise? I mean, this is a parenting blog, right? One of many in the mommy blogosphere. Sigh.

I did have some profound words to share but decided to thwart the Mother's Day mushiness and write an apology instead.

Sorry I was such a bitch before I had children of my own. Check out Deep South Moms for the scoop.

Life Lessons

While the economy is top of mind in the media internationally, nationally, and locally, here in North Carolina the two wars we are waging still make the top headlines. North Carolina's fallen make daily headlines around here. There are two major bases close enough to my home that their stories make our local news. Fort Bragg is home of the elite 82nd Airborne and Special Ops. Camp Lejeune is the largest marine base on the East coast. Soldiers from the esteemed bases of Fort Bragg and Camp Lejeune continue to depart to war zones, some never return, some return broken, none returns the same.

Recent estimates count over 4200 U.S. military deaths since the war's start in March over six years ago. Those fallen 4200 were someone's son, daughter, first born, namesake, middle child, only child, flesh and blood, heartbeat. The data is comprised of people; we choose to dehumanize it to make the news more palatable. Let's not forget that each soldier killed, injured, missing, or scarred is someone's child. That soldier's heart beat inside a woman's womb for nine months, and his head sleepily rested upon his father's chest for what seemed a lifetime ago. I know North Carolinians don't forget that.

The Iraq War began in March 2003, before I became a mother.

Motherhood has given me perspective. With every staid military portrait of a young man in uniform flashed on the 6:00 news B-roll, I see a cooing infant expressing pure love, a babbling baby learning to crawl, a curious toddler peeking beneath the tablecloth, a deliriously happy and innocent preschooler collecting rocks in his pockets, a restless kindergartener squirming in his chair. And then the slideshow stops because I have not yet ventured past kindergarten with my oldest son. I am still making memories.

It was an unremarkable morning when I was taking my Bird to school. As we approached the car pool line we were both flummoxed by the stream of soldiers in dress uniform walking silently by. I was struck by their exceedingly perfect posture and shiny patent shoes. Bird was fascinated with their hats and trappings of decorated men in uniform. Soldiers are glamorous and glorified to a boy of five. I followed the path of those soldiers with my eyes and realized they were walking to a funeral home. How could I have been coming to this school all year and not even noticed the funeral home across the street? The subtle signage and beige brick faded into their elements, almost camoflouged within the backdrop of the neighborhood. Suddenly the sight of an elementary school, where children come to grow, and its neighbor, a funeral home, where people come in their passing, was hauntingly ironic. I gulped and tried my damndest to keep an even tone when Bird asked me what all the soldiers were doing.

Because it was a rare moment we had alone, without my three-year old son in the car, I told my little Bird the truth. I explained that a soldier died and his friends and family were coming to celebrate his life and their love for him. I told him that America is waging war in two different countries and that war is scary, dangerous, and scarring. I told him that the soldiers sacrifice an awful lot to help keep America safe. Sometimes they sacrifice their own lives. I struggled with what I had just done. Will this be a moment my son recalls in his adulthood as the time his mother punted him into reality? Will he have nightmares? My Bird, my oldest son, simply looked more sad than bewildered. He told me he didn't think he wanted to be a fighter pilot anymore, and I was secretly relieved. Granted, he will choose 734 different professions before he's 16. He'll engage his imagination and ask questions and keenly observe the world around him. I won't stop his flirting with the military at this tender age but I won't encourage it either. He will eventually make these choices on his own, and I will support him.

Bird has seen death and what it does to a family. He understands why his daddy cries on Father's Day. We still talk about Grandpa and Capote and Casey. He understands that we'll never see his grandfather or our family cats again. And so he stated, in an innocent, heartfelt manner, "Well, I hope the soldier can see Grandpa and pet Capote and Casey in heaven."

I exhaled. And brushed the welling tears from my eyes as I thought about that soldier's mother.

Cross posted at Deep South Moms.