Mom in the Mirror

Laundry day

Colter changes clothes every time he sneezes or drops food or water on himself or changes activities. In desperation, Gary threatened, "You're going to start doing your own laundry." Naturally, Colter took him up on the challenge. So yesterday, when I arrived home, it was to piles of neatly-folded underwear (who folds underwear?!), socks, jeans, and T-shirts, courtesy of the dynamic duo. Colter's favorite part is throwing the clothes from the washer to the dryer as if he's a basketball player, announcing every move. God bless my husband and God bless my clean clothes.

Clearing your mental ram

It used to be that when I sat down to write, I was suddenly overwhelmed by thoughts of everything else I should do first: pay bills, grocery shop, call friends. I needed the right pen, the right paper, the right system. Over time, this fluid compulsion to clean my desk, my study, my house -- before writing -- solidified into the golden realization that writing is like breathing. Rarely is it the only thing I do. Rather, it's part of how I take in the world, part of how I release it. Part of how I live.

Don't let the bed bugs bite

I was reading Colter "The Official Guide to Bionicle" last night, hoping he'd settle down and fall asleep, when he stuck his hand down his sweatpants and complained that he felt like he had toenails stuck in them. I had just clipped his toenails so this seemed unlikely but not impossible. Nevertheless, I told him to stop squirming.

A few minutes later, he stuck his hands down his pants and pulled out a cockroach. I screamed and jumped out of bed. He screamed and jumped out of bed. Gary yelled, "What's going on?" And jumped out of bed. It was the yuckiest experience, and I felt so guilty. I can't even protect my son from insects, I thought. How can I protect him from real predators?

Fortunately, Colter was the least creeped out of the three of us. Gary remained calm, killing the bug and telling Colter it had probably come in from outside and crawled up his shorts before he put on his pajamas (which he immediately changed). We stripped our bed and cuddled up in Colter's instead, where he promptly fell asleep.

I may never sleep again.

100 days

I just discovered that this is my 100th day as a blogger. In that time, I have: created 135 posts (not counting this one); founded and edit a group weblog for mothers (DotMoms); and loved so much about this process that continues to fascinate and obsess me. Who are you -- the readers of MomintheMirror? What do you think? What interests you? What annoys you? I can't want to learn more.

You're not the man I married

When Gary and I first met, he hated me.

We were co-workers, and he thought I was bossy, arrogant and uptight. I remember feeling misunderstood and determined to show him the "real me."

At the time, I was living with someone, and so was he -- his first wife. Eventually, we became friends, and months later -- after he and his wife separated and I was living alone -- we became more.

Gary was unlike anyone I'd ever met. My suburban childhood had never introduced me to an urban cowboy who smoked unfiltered Camels, took me to play pool and kissed me in cars while night turned into morning.

I was a Jewish princess -- spoiled, materialistic, waiting for life to shower me with all the gifts I deserved: a good job, a loving partner, a cleaning woman once a week.

We were too different and agreed that our relationship would never last. And yet, we are now celebrating our eighth anniversary, and our 12th year happily living together.

We've both changed in so many ways since we married, and not necessarily in ways I would have predicted or planned.

On the outside, Gary's hair has gone from short to long (mine has gone from long to short and back again many times). We've both gained a marital middle -- at least 15 pounds of it each. And we've grown more prone to complain about our backs, our creaky bones and everything in between.

On the inside, life has left its mark. My father died; Gary's parents have aged. I've grown closer to my sister; he's grown more distant from his siblings. And while time has become more scarce, I have turned to books and writing; he has turned increasingly to others.

We have become parents, moved twice and changed jobs several times.

Through it all, we have grown closer and more distant.

Sometimes I wonder, where is the independent spirit I loved and married? Then I remember. He's in our son's bedroom, making sure Colter has the right T-shirt for school spirit day. He's making breakfast. He's checking his e-mail.

And I worry. Have I broken this cowboy, domesticated him, without knowing it?

Or was I the one who changed? Maybe his sense of serendipity, his free-thinking, his fun remained, but had rubbed off on me so much that I wanted more of it than I used to.

See, I'm not the woman Gary married, either. On balance, that's a good thing. Gary has been the best possible influence on me.

I'm more patient, more frugal and more flexible because of him. And though before we married I would have hoped to become more like him in other ways over the years, he's helped me instead to be more like myself.

Gary has always given me the push I need to grow into my own skin, especially when I least want to be nudged but most need it. And I have done the same for him, I hope. Which I guess explains why we have left so much change in our wake.

And yet, the foundation of our relationship remains the same: we talk. About Colter's homework, about what's for dinner, about our future. Love for him creeps into these mundane minutes, and into memories I didn't know I had, and it fills me.

I am grateful for every unexpected moment of our marriage. And especially for the possibilities they present. Like this: maybe, for our anniversary, we'll get a babysitter and spend the evening kissing in the car until the sun comes up.

This LifeFiles column originally appeared on about 70 TV station websites managed by Internet Broadcasting Systems.

What thrills me

On DotMoms, I posted 25 things I find truly frightening. Here's a companion list of 25 things that get me excited:

1. A clean house
2. A pile of books I can't wait to read
3. James Taylor's voice
4. My husband cooking
5. My son sleeping
6. A really big pile of birthday presents, all for me
7. SoapNet
8. Office supply stores
9. Art supply stores
10. Cameron's and every other card/gift/home gallery store like it that I haven't discovered yet
11. A handwritten letter
12. A package from Amazon
13. Green lights
14. Being on time
15. People posting comments to my blog
16. Serendipity and Serendipity
17. Kindness
18. Good service
19. Good food
20. Good conversation
21. Mary Engelbreit
22. A new journal
23. Anything written by Jennifer Crusie
24. A day with nothing scheduled
25. Writing
Extra credit: Taking a bath then putting on my favorite pajamas.

What excites you?

The Tates, the Campbells, and me

"Soap," the show that introduced us to impotent Burt, insolent Benson, and the irresistible Billy Crystal, is now on DVD, and Gary and I started watching it again, from the beginning, last night. I forgot how really insane it was, but I remember this: being 12 years old and writing my own version of "Soap" with a friend, whose brother was secretly my boyfriend, whose parents were about to divorce, like my father and my mother, who was constantly in bed with a boyfriend or hangover, unable to recover from the long-ago death of my brother, who was playing with matches when he was supposed to be playing with my sister, who was dropping out of college, the summer before the custody battle my dad won so that I could move in with him and begin a normal childhood (better late than never). Turn that into a comedy! And yet somehow I did: my life.

From my in-box

Prozac speaks:

A new comment has been posted on your blog MomintheMirror, on the post On the menu. http://roughdraft.typepad.com/mominthemirror/2003/10/meal_ticket.html

IP Address: 217.26.240.61
Name: Prozac
Email Address: [email protected]
URL: http://www.anti-depression-drugs-prozac-zoloft.com/

Comments:

I think you have made the web an art form with your site.

Prozac

A paranoid person might think drug company reps are reading my posts and can tell I'm a good candidate for Prozac etc. But I'm not paranoid, just pissed off that they keep posting comments to my blog! For all our sakes, let's hope you've heard the last of me on this subject.

Is this weblog journalism?

I normally stick pretty close to the family beat here, but this evening I'm veering off-course a bit to focus on the medium, not the message. Today, a very interesting seminar ended at The Poynter Institute (where I work) and part of it was devoted to the subject of weblogs. After the session, I wrote a piece about blogging and I want to publish here because I'm interested in your thoughts (it was also e-mailed to the subscribers of Lost Remote, a TV-new media weblog I contribute to infrequently). Here it is:

What Blogs can do for Newspapers, TV Stations and Their Websites

California politics blogger Dan Weintraub was at The Poynter Institute this week to participate in an election coverage workshop. He spent several hours talking to the group about his weblog, its origin and evolution, and what it's done for him and the Sacramento Bee, where he works as an editorial columnist published three times a week in the newspaper.

How it started

Weintraub started an early form of his blog a few years ago, when he noticed two growing piles on his desk -- one was a stack of e-mails from readers, the other was a stack of unreported items that didn't make it into his columns (which remain focused on how the world would be different if candidates and elected officials succeeded with their plans).

With the Bee's Web staff, he started an electronic newsletter that was sent to folks in the first pile and focused on the material in the second pile -- the "inside baseball" he continues to believe does not belong in his columns (topics like how candidates intend to get elected) but for which there is a growing appetite among news consumers.

Earlier this year, the popularity of the newsletter gave birth to the weblog, which came along just as petitions were being filed for the California governor's race.

The timing was good, and the response has been great. As election day neared, Weintraub's blog was the most-visited part of the paper's website; it received Doppler Radar-sized pageviews.

What the blog did for the Bee, what it can do for you

Here's what he says the weblog did for his organization:

- Built readership for the website
- Created buzz about the paper
- Spoke to a niche audience without alienating the broader readership
- Expanded audience beyond circulation (or viewing) area
- Created a feedback loop that brought him more sources and tips
- Lured readers to the print product
- Connected with a younger demographic
- Allowed him to try a different writing style and develop more consistent writing habits

Weintraub also had some suggestions about who should blog. He said only volunteers should be candidates, as the work is truly a 24-hour a day "labor of love."

He also answered some questions, several related to two predictions he'd made. First, he predicted that if Arnold ran, he'd win. Then, he predicted that Arnold would not run.

Weintraub described the process that resulted in his second prediction, when it was accurate, and what he did when it became less accurate. He also addressed the transition from an unedited to an edited blog. The full scoop, as he described it, is here: http://slate.msn.com/id/2088432/.

Q: Where does he stand on the edited/unedited blog issue?
A: While it does slow things down a little and is a little less fun than flying "without a net," Weintraub believes readers cannot tell the difference between the posts that were edited before publication and those that were not.

Q: Does he scoop his own column?
A: Sometimes, but only on small items. (He did so for the first time after he told the Online Journalism Review he would never do that and before the article in which he was quoted was published.

Q: Does he scoop others at the paper?
A: See above.

Q: To what standards should we hold blogs?
A: Weintraub maintains that "the website is not the newspaper" and the standards should be different. But what those standards should be is still TK (newspaper-speak for "to come").

Q: Are blogs journalism?
A: This generated a lot of discussion toward the end of Weintraub's talk, and included the further question, "Are blogs good journalism?"

I suggest we ask a different question instead: Given that blogs are so popular, what can they teach journalists about what our readers and viewers want?

I believe they tell us that people want perspective; they don't believe in objectivity and so they want to know exactly where reporters stand on issues. They want attitude. Are we going to find a place in traditional journalism (beyond editorials) to give it to them? Or are we going to let them seek information elsewhere? I wonder. You decide.

Our psychedelic son

This is a guest post by Hunter S. Bombeck (aka my husband)

A little over 8 years ago, Jerry Garcia died. Two weeks later, Julie (who was soon to be my wife) found out that she was pregnant. About a month ago, Julie gave me a set of Grateful Dead concert DVDs.

What do these three things have in common? Read on.

Tonight was our 8th wedding anniversary. After dinner out, our son Colter wanted to watch a video. So, we settled in front of the TV, and to my astonishment, Colter choose the Dead DVDs. At first I thought that he was just being generous in the spirit of the occasion. Maybe he wanted to surprise Julie, who was just feet away in the next room.

How could I have been so wrong? He is 7, and he has a limit to how much TV he is allowed to watch. He certainly wouldn't waste even a minute of his precious TV time on us.

Wow! This is great, Colter actually likes the Grateful Dead. Julie rushed in and sat on the couch. Colter climbed up in her lap, as we all sang along to "Touch of Grey."

Just last week, Colter asked questions about Jerry having died, and he remembered that we had given him (Colter) the Hebrew name Baruch. It means blessed, but it also means friend of Jerome (Jerry's given name). As we talked and listened last night, it became obvious that Colter truly enjoyed the music. He lamented, "I wish I could have seen them before Jerry died."

To which Julie replied, "We could go to see The Dead sometime."

Colter interrupted -- "They used to be Grateful, now they are just Dead, right?"

"Right, now they are called The Dead," she said. "Hey, Colter, you know what people who like The Dead are called? They are called Dead Heads."

And with that, Colter grinned and proudly proclaimed, "I'm a Dead Head. Jerry Garcia is my musical hero."

As much as Julie loves the Dead, something maternal took over inside, and as I sat there grinning from ear to ear, she imagined her 7-year-old son alone at a show, with all of the psycho-cultural ramifications. Half smiling, half grimacing, she asked me, "Do you have to look so proud?" All I could do was smile, smile, smile.

Colter's proclamation came as quite a surprise to me. Yes, it is true that I used to sing "The Monkey and the Engineer" to Colter, as I tried rocking him to sleep. But that was 6 years ago, and he has heard very little Grateful Dead in the house since then. We would try to play some from time to time, but his little musical ears had not yet matured.

I guess when he was about five he started liking Chuck Berry. I used his love of classic Rock 'n Roll to play some Grateful Dead covers of Chuck Berry tunes. He liked those just fine. We would sing "The Promised Land" on his way to kindergarten. Still, the name Grateful Dead, was too much for Colter to bear, and he would laugh and joke whenever he heard it.

But something has happened in the last two years, something marvelous. Colter is growing into a musical being. He has started requesting CDs of his own, he is taking piano lessons, and his teacher is thrilled at his progress, and now he considers himself a Dead Head.

In the moment I spent grinning, I thought back to my own childhood, and the rich musical gifts that my parents unwittingly gave to me. We had only a few albums, but they were diverse and consequential: the theme from West Side Story, Harry Belafonte's classic "Calypso," and of course, my older brother's copy of the Beatles' "Abbey Road."

Sure, I could hear bubble gum music at any time simply by turning on my transistor radio. But those hours that I spent in front of the Hi-Fi listening with passion taught me one thing. Not all music is created equal. Some music takes work, it takes listening to with your entire being. That is the music that I want for Colter.

I don't expect him to listen to the Grateful Dead his entire life, but it seems to me that when he looks back, he will see the rich and diverse world of music that we have given him.

I wonder when he'll be ready for Frank Zappa?