Binkytowne

OMG Y'all Don't Do That At BlogHer!

Ok, so I only made it to one BlogHer conference, and I am clearly not a subject matter expert on this, so feel free to disregard, also disregard all of these commas because Mayberry Mom is probably appalled at my lack of punctuation skills by now and these COMMAS, but as I keep reading tweets and posts about BlogHer kicking off I keep coming back to a couple of my experiences there. Ok, one in particular that I'm still kind of pissed off about.

I went to BlogHer 10, a.k.a., the year of the swag whores. At least that's what you would have thought by hearing some of the stories, which were in my humble opinion greatly over-exagerated. For the most part.

Shortly after I arrived in Chicago I realized I had some time on my hands before my scheduled visit to the Estee Lauder event on the Miracle Mile. I heard rumblings about a Social Luxe event at a nearby hotel and how it was supposed to be SUPER! FABULOUS! so I followed the sea of bloggers down the street, up some steps, into a hotel and down into the basement where the event was being held and where chaos was evident. There were not enough staff, long lines where no one really knew what they were in line for and the elusive swag bags. The deal was if you RSVP'd, you could have a gift bag,  but no one knew that, there were hundreds of women swarming around the basement and some bloggers took bags that probably shouldn't have. So after that, everywhere I went, all anyone would talk about were the bags. Bags, bags, swag, swag, blah, blah. What was in them, how many there were, what a tragedy it was that some people didn't get them. Were you there? Someone cut in front of someone in line. Can you believe it? Did you get a bag? Blah blah. 

As the Estee Lauder group gathered back at the BlogHer hotel lobby, I looked around and recognized a few faces, including one very well known parenting blogger. As we all made small talk in a group she announced to everyone that she was one of the hosts at Social Luxe, had anyone been there because OMG y'all, (that's a clue. She's southern) she received a swag bag that was worth FIVE! THOUSAND! DOLLARS! She told everyone what was in it, including from what I remember: A Flip Camera, expensive wine, shoes, make up and lots of other stuff. My first question was is all of that really worth five grand? My next question was why in the world is she telling us this?? It seemed to me, like it was probably not really true, it was adding fuel to the smoldering swag bag fire and just overall not cool. You don't need to tell a bunch of women holding a bag with mascara and a chocolate bar in it that you have a bag in your room worth 5K. So you if you get a bag worth FIVE!THOUSAND!DOLLARS! Don't tell everyone! Keep it to yourself. People will like you better. Also, they will not fantasize how good it would feel to to steal your room key and take your swag.  

 Cut to the Estee Lauder event: The same OMG y'all big time blogger is standing next to me. Intros are going on all around. I turn to her and offer my hand, I tell her who I am and I say to her "I know you! I read you all the time." and she looks at me, I can tell by the look on her face that she has no idea who she is and she says "I'm a big fan of yours too." LIAR! I know for a fact that she's never commented and she's likely never read my blog. I think about that every time I read her blog or her column. I've tried to let it go and consider that maybe she wasn't lying, exactly, perhaps she thought I was someone else? Had me confused with a different blog that is clearly better than mine? I want to give her the benefit of the doubt, but I am bitter and can't help it and every time I see her name I think LIAR! So, don't tell someone you are a fan unless you know who they are. People will like you better. Also, they will not think you are a liar-liar-pants-on-fire.

 

 

 

He Jumped

He was last in line, his blue noodle which matched his swimsuit tied tightly around his waist. The kids in front of him were noodle-less. They had discarded them, tossed them to the instructor in the pool so they could use as a target to aim for when jumping off the diving board.

I stood a safe distance away, camera in hand, ready to capture his first leap off the diving board. This one is not so much of a leaper. He's more of an incher, taking baby steps in this big body that naturally assumes long strides while his fretful mind tries to catch up.

"I'll do it next time" I heard him tell the teacher, his hands resting safely on the noodle. I inched over and gently touched his shoulder, whispering so the other kids wouldn't hear: this is our last swim class, we won't be here next week so if you want to take the noodle off and jump, go ahead. If you don't that's ok too.

SPLASH went the first kid, then SPLASH went the second and third. He untied the noodle and threw it to his teacher in the pool. I gave him a thumbs up. "Mom" he said, just loud enough to hear "I'm a little scared". I reassured him. I knew he could do it. His teacher would be right there to catch him and the lifeguard was watching and I would jump in with all my clothes on if he needed me.

SPLASH went the fourth kid.

SPLASH went the fifth kid.

And then he jumped.

 

Sunday Snapshot

 

5:20

If he is walking in the door and I am walking out, we will make eye contact. Maybe flash a half-hearted smile. I know he wears glasses and he has brown hair but I couldn't pick him out of a lineup if my life depended on it. I never really see his face.

If he's already sitting in the waiting area I avert my eyes, looking straight at the heavy wooden barrier between here and everywhere else and the heavy metal doorknob. Sometimes the door sticks and I fumble for a second before sweeping through and away, leaving five to ten pounds of my burden behind.

Usually I stare at the owl on the bookshelf. Yesterday it was the flower shaped design in the middle of the oriental style rug that floods the huge library. It has green and black alternating petals, both lined with white.

He sits with his feet propped up on the leather ottoman. The soles of his shoes are well worn. He always wears a tie. He would say there is a reason the flower held my attention today. I have no idea what it is. Other than that I am desperate for spring, obviously. Only when I ever I say obviously about anything, he challenges me to explain what the less obvious explanation is. I try not to say that anymore.

5:20 drives a silver Honda. So do I. They are paralleled parked next to each other across the busy street. I run past here a lot so I know the traffic will eventually slow and my window will appear when I can run, my big green bag bouncing on my shoulder to the other side.  

 

Because That's How We Roll

 

Keep Your Red Roses

 
Somewhere here, buried in my work drawers between the extra barettes, mints and peacock blue, tiny post it notes that are too small to be of any use to anyone, I keep a photograph.

One summer during the late '90s I had a shitty camera, but somehow as I was whizzing by in a car, as night was turning to morning, I snapped a photo of the Italian countryside and a full field of sunflowers in bloom. Growing up in the midwest the most plentiful thing I had ever seen a field of was corn, and believe me, there was no comparison. It was one of most incredible things I had ever seen.

When I got married a decade later, I did so in the fall and I chose to carry sunflowers. Because of the colors, of course, but also because they reminded me of that morning and moments of complete wonder.

My son knows nothing of any of this.

One Friday evening my son sat on the couch playing with some toy or another and he very non-chalantly announced: I'm going to be in an art show. Sure enough, in his backpack I found a note from his teachers letting us know he'd been one of the two children selected from his kindergarten class to be presented in the upcoming district art show.

His painting was of three sunflowers. 

It was all very busy at the art show. Relatives came, there were snacks, the little one ran madly through the stacks and needed to be chased and held and chased and held some more. I went back the following week when I was alone. I stood as still and as somber as if I were in the Uffizi. The bursts of yellow and the green stalks and his signature scribbled in green colored pencil. 

No one tells you how a school art project will make your knees feel weak and like your heart is too big, so full of pride that it can't possibly be encompassed in your tired, forty year old, thought-you'd-seen-it-all chest.

But it is, and you haven't, not by a mile.

I Can't Stop Writing About Circumsicion

I guess when you live in a house with three penises (peni?) this topic is bound to come up (ha) and boy does it ever.

BlogHer invited me to write about my position on circumsicion again in the She Vs. Her column. You can check it out here if you are interested. Most commenters disagreed with me. Again. But it's a civil discussion over there. No CHILD MOLESTING HORRIBLE PARENT YOU ARE WRONG kind of stuff. Which is refreshing.

See, really, he's just fine. More than fine. He's even wearing a tie for pete's sake.

 

 

 

 

Triumph

Can I have a cookie?

No. Cookies are not bedtime snacks.

BUT I WANT A COOKIE. You used to let me have cookies!

Yes, and now you have a cavity. No cookies for bedtime snacks.

PLEEEEEEEEEEASE???????

No.

{ 5 minutes of negotiation including discussions about the health and wellness benefits of bananas over goldfish crackers and 2 additional minutes shooting down requests for JUST ONE hersheys kiss }

FINE! I'll eat a banana! If you give me some goldfish.

{ Weary mother trudges downstairs to procure goldfish and a banana. Only, what the hell? Who ate all the freaking bananas? WHO DIDN'T TELL ME THEY ATE THE LAST BANANA? I hate that.

In order to avoid another 7 minute drawn-out discussion of what will be acceptable to eat as a bedtime snack in absence of the banana it took 7 minutes to convince him to have, weary mother breaks off a tiny piece of a chocolate chip cookie, purposefully looking for a spot with no chocolate in it and trudges back upstairs }

Nobody told me we were out of bananas (said for the benefit of the not-tired boy's father, who was within earshot and definitely the one who ate the last banana AND DIDN'T TELL ME. (I hate that)) so I brought you this TINY piece of cookie.

Boy rejoices. 

Weary mother tries to hold on to some shred of credibility by announcing the cookie has no chocolate in it. At all! Boy settles in to be read to while consuming his bed time snack of goldfish crackers and fraction of chocolate chip cookie, minus the chocolate. Or so I think.

Mom, mom, mom...

What?

This cookie has a chocolate chip in it.

He holds it up so I can see the miniscule bit of chocoalte floating in the inch by inch piece of broken off cookie in his hand. He waves it in the air in a triumphant circular motion and smugly takes another bite.

You lose again, mom.

Weary mother agrees.  

 

Circumcision, CNN and Courting Controversy

Over at The Stir I pitch three story ideas a week to my Editor. One week I included a pitch about circumcision, thinking it would probably be rejected as more of a pregnancy-related topic. She said sure, go ahead, but cautioned me, I'd better be ready for the comments.

The day came to write my post, I opened my laptop and because I like to procrastinate, I decided to cruise through twitter first. I saw and read what was happening to Jill Haskins (@fierceandfiesty) and how she was being cyber-bullied by a group of intactivists in the most cruel of ways after losing her son. I read the comments and the tweets and how they were blaming her for her son's death because her family chose to have Joshua circumcised. I thought about it all, emailed my editor and asked if she wanted me to postpone the circumcision post. She said no, but gave me the green light to pull it if I didn't feel comfortable with the timing.

I went ahead and wrote it. It's a very balanced piece, if you ask me. It doesn't knock any other parent's choices, it is my perspective on the issue and why we chose to do what we did. Because it was written for the Stir I didn't go into my deal about how really, at the essence of all of this, it's not your business to know and how if you are a parent, you should worry about your own kid's penis and like, stop with all the judging already! Find a hobby! I left that part out.

I knew people felt strongly about the issue and I knew the post would get comments and that a lot of them, maybe even most of them would disagree with me, but I wrote it anyway. Within a couple of hours the comments poured in. Hundreds of them. Throwing around phrases like "child molester" and "genital mutilation", I was called vain and ignorant. Someone actually likened circumsicion to giving your baby Botox. Studies were cited! Comments were littered with ALL CAPS and EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!!! Dozens of comments were from men, whom I am quite sure never, ever, read my baby column over at The Stir before and have not visited since. 

Last week I got an email from CNN, wanting to know if I wanted to talk to them about our choice for an article they were writing on circumcision. I did want to talk to them, but after all of that? I didn't want to attract ugliness on a national stage. When I asked myself, was there anything that anyone wrote in any of the comments on my post that changed my mind about the issue or made me feel like we did the wrong thing? Or that I, in any way, hurt my kids? There wasn't.

So I called them. I practiced restraint. I only answered the questions I was asked and I didn't go into any more detail than I already had on the Stir post. I didn't rant, vent, express remorse or call anyone out.  Madison Park wrote a great, informative, non-inflammatory article on the issue that published today. She really heard what I had to say and she presented it as such. I was worried I would be misconstrued or that my words would be twisted, but they were not and for that I'm thankful.

(It's been a couple of hours since the post went live on CNN and there are already more than 800 comments. I haven't read a single one. It's all rainbows and unicorns up in here!)

  

    

 

O.M.G.