|Tales from the Mommy Track is a weekly column about the daily life of a part-time working mom. Risa Green is a critically acclaimed author who lives in Los Angeles. Her previous adult novels, Notes from the Underbelly and Tales from the Crib were made into a television series. Her latest novel, The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball, is a Young Adult book that will be released in September, 2010.|
I love the fourth of July. As far as holidays go, it’s my hands-down favorite. There’s no obligatory gift giving, no stressful family meals, no cards to be exchanged, no mile long to-do lists. It’s just beach, barbeque, booze and fire works. And really, what could be better than that? more
The school year has finally ended. Cubbies have been cleaned out, worn out backpacks have been thrown away, classrooms have been stripped bare, and a year’s worth of artwork, class projects, writing journals and worksheets have been sent home. more
There is a woman who calls herself “The Potty Whisperer.” For $250 dollars, you can send your child to “Booty Camp,” where, in four hours, she will teach him to use the toilet. Perhaps you saw her last week, on the Today Show. But don’t confuse her with the Baby Whisperer. more
Whether you were with her or against her, you have to admit that Hillary’s final speech last week was the best one she’s ever given. If you were a supporter (as I was), then you might find this fact somewhat frustrating (as I did). We call it the Al Gore Syndrome in our house – only when it doesn’t count does the candidate show that he or (yay!) she is actually quite likeable and sincere. But, like Hillary herself said, there’s no point in playing the What If game now. And yet…I still can’t help reflecting on her campaign. more
Some people, it is said, feel the passing of time more deeply than others. While others cheerfully celebrate birthdays, graduations and the like, the deep-feelers tend to mourn these milestones. Rather than viewing them as opportunities to rejoice in a life well-lived, they see them instead as markers along the inevitable road to death. If you’re not one of these people, you might not even be aware of their existence. Yet they silently live among us, pretending to be regular human beings when they are anything but, just like
It was about 94 degrees last weekend here in LA, and my son refused to take off his brown, calf-high Ugg boots. You might be curious as to why a child would want to spend an entire day with his feet encased in a pair of fuzzy, insulated sweat boxes, and rightly so. But Davis has discovered that when he dons a white tee-shirt, tan pants, a white, zip-up jacket and those brown Ugg boots, he bears, with his sandy-colored hair and light olive complexion, a striking similarity to Luke Skywalker.
So, about a year ago I get this email. It’s from a woman I’ve never heard of, asking me if I’m interested in being a part of a book she’s putting together, something about mommybloggers. Of course, I immediately say yes. I say ‘of course’ because my philosophy is to always say yes to any opportunity that comes my way. I mean, you never know what might happen, and it’s turned out that for me, lots of things actually have happened just because I said yes to something that other people might not.
Harper is turning six this week, which means that I have been running
around like a maniac, trying to organize all of her various celebratory
gatherings without completely losing my mind. Call me crazy, but when
I was a kid, I had ten friends over to our house, we played in the
backyard, we ate some pizza, sang Happy Birthday, and then everybody
went home, empty-handed. more
My son asked me tonight what those scrinkly things are on my forehead. What skrinkly things? I asked, thinking I must have had something stuck to my face. I looked in the mirror and he pointed at the long vertical lines etched into my skin. Those, he said. What do I want for Mother’s Day? I want Botox.
My daughter asked me last week if I would please not yell at her when I put her to bed that night.
What do I want for Mother’s Day? I want patience at eight-thirty p.m.
Some women fantasize about sex. Some women fantasize about food. Some about shoes. I, however, fantasize about being organized. This means that I don’t have orgasms. I have organazms. Pottery Barn Kids catalogues are my porn. It’s a recent development for me, actually. I used to be firmly in the shoe-fantasy camp, but then I had kids, and suddenly my structured, type-A, everything-in-it’s-place life began to fall apart at the seams. Now, instead of drooling outside the display window at Barney’s, I find myself lingering in front of The Container Store. more