Risa Green
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.


Every August our family, along with the family of my good friend Jodi,makes a pilgrimage to San Diego where we sit by a pool for four days and then, on the fifth, get up off our lazy asses and spend some QT at one of the local parks. Last year was Sea World, and the year before was the San Diego Zoo. On the agenda for 2007: Legoland. more

Risa Green: Loser Mom.

About a year ago, a friend of mine told me that her four year-old was obsessed with High School Musical.  I remember that I scoffed to myself, thinking how totally inappropriate it was.  Because even though I’d never seen the movie, I knew that it was called High School Musical, not Pre-School Musical, and I knew that I did not want my four year-old going near anything high school related with a fifty foot pole.  But when all of the kids in Harper’s pre-school class were running around singing Bop to the Top, and when


The August Write Off.

Back in June, I took a trip to Toys ‘R’ Us to buy some pool toys for my kids, and I found this amazing sunscreen there. It’s a spray-on lotion, the metallic purple can has a picture of Tinkerbell on it, and it smells like berries. more

Risa Green BC (Before Children).

After five long years of holding on – my grip growing more tenuous with each day of working motherhood – I’ve finally decided to let go of my hobbies, at least for now. They were old, old friends, my hobbies. I met the New York Times crossword puzzle in college, old editions of which ran in the school newspaper each day. The puzzle accompanied me to boring geology lectures and nursed me through hangovers on Sunday mornings, as I sat with it over bagels and cream cheese, smiling at its cleverness. more


A friend of mine was telling me today about her son’s tennis instructor: tall, gorgeous, Latin, twenty-nine years old, with a Stanford MBA, to boot.  She joked to her husband that she would leave him in a second if the tennis pro ever came on to her, and she confided to me that she always dresses up, just a little, on tennis lesson days.  I knew, of course, exactly what she was talking about, as I’ve had quite a few crushes of my own in the last few years.



FINALLY, Rosa is back and my life has returned to normal....It’s funny, I thought that I would be counting down the minutes until she returned, but I was actually a little sad when she walked in on Wednesday morning. Of course, it didn’t help that the second Davis saw her he went running over to her, gave her a huge hug, and then informed me that he wanted to stay with Rosa the entire day and that, I quote, “Rosa is the best.” I was definitely a little insulted. I mean, I just spent three weeks straight with the little guy, and you’d think it meant nothing to him.


My Life As A Stay At Home Mom.

I had a brief moment of delusion at the beginning of last week, when I actually thought that my husband might stay home from work for a few days and take care of the kids so that I could get at least a little bit of writing in while Rosa is on vacation.  But the moment quickly passed after I suggested the idea to my husband, whose response was a brusque, “yeah right.”  Why is it, I asked him, that you automatically assume that I will be the one to stay home with the kids and miss work? 


Ode to Rosa.

Rosa, my kids’ nanny, is on vacation for two and a half weeks, and seeing as how a) I am totally missing her right now, as I squeeze this column in while my son naps and the laundry tosses around in the dryer, and b) there has been a slew of new books about nannies lately, I thought that this would be a good time to reflect on my relationship with the nanny in my own life.


Fathers: Don't Kick Em When They're Down.

Last year at this time I wrote about how fathers don’t really deserve to have an entire day all for them. Just because they contributed an equal amount of DNA, I argued, does not mean that they do an equal amount of work, which therefore does not entitle them to an equal amount of hours in which to be honored. But this year I’d like to take a different approach to Father’s Day. This year, I’d like to feel sorry for my husband, or, as I’ve taken to calling him, Poor Old Dad.


Thank Goodness the Glass is Still Half Empty.

In case you ever had occasion to doubt it, payback really is a bitch. After all those years I spent making fun of annoying, sappy, oh-having-kids-is-the-greatest-thing-in-the-world parents, it turns out that I am actually one of them. Somewhere between my son turning two and my daughter turning five, a pod person must have landed in my bedroom and stolen my soul while I was sleeping, replacing my dry cynicism with a sopping wet blanket.


Syndicate content