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FEATURE ESSAYS Main Feature – Cover Story with Stacey DeBroff Passion Creates Future Role Models Whether it’s a high five from Samuel Jackson, a cancelled interview due to terrorist scares or providing expert advice, parenting guru Stacy DeBroff leads a very exciting life. Just trying to track her down for an interview in the midst of a 10-city media tour as the spokesperson for Office Depot’s “Organize to Learn” campaign was nearly impossible. However a certain group of people do not have to compete for this mom writer’s time – her family. With weekly media appearances including being a regular on The Today Show, to running a successful business, to consulting with multinational companies, Stacy is first and foremost a mother and wife. She lives with her husband Ron, 13-year-old daughter Kyle and 12-year-old son Brooks. “Everyone tells me I am so lucky because I have such nice kids,” DeBroff says. “But it goes beyond luck and does take some effort. My office is right there. I am always available to my kids.” Continue reading Passion Creates Future Role Models Guest Features Mother's Day “I’m sending you over to the hospital. It doesn’t look like the baby’s grown since your last ultrasound, so I want to hook you up to the monitor for 20-30 minutes to see how everything looks.” At just 19-years-old the thought of having a child was frightening enough, but now Dr. Armstrong thought there might be problems with the baby, and my daughter looked scared. I’d just driven her to his office on this beautiful Thursday morning for one of her routine weekly checkups, and here we were just 60 minutes later heading to the hospital. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Everything’s going to be fine.” We arrived at the hospital, and within minutes they’d scurried Moriah into a room where she stripped down to her skivvies. Her nurse, Melinda, checked her cervix and said, “You’re at 2cm, and the baby looks great on the monitor. I’ll just get a 20-minute strip and call Dr. Armstrong...” Continue reading Mother's Day
Toddler Land “Disillusioned” Have you ever considered the work habits of the great authors and writers? Imagine them now - sitting up straight, the instruments of their time in hand, writing effortlessly from dawn until dusk. It never occurred to me that Sylvia Plath might have children crawling all over her while she was penning poetry. Now I tend to wonder. The decision to stay home and write was largely an economic one. My little family is staying with my “bigger” family in order to save for a home purchase later in the year. This was the golden opportunity to get established without the bills going in the red. I had no real idea what this would be like with toddlers and grandparents under the same roof. I laugh now because I really thought my children would understand when I said, “Mommy’s working, Dears.” I pictured them scampering to the playpens and playing together in blissful harmony. They would giggle quietly, and I could just look over the top of my monitor to see them teaching each other the alphabet. Yeah, I actually pictured it. Go ahead, you can laugh... Continue reading Toddler Land "Disillusioned"
Ironing: The New Spa Treatment As I stood in the aisle of a fluorescently lit mega store, I stared down the enemy. I was the only one in the ironing board section. I picked up an iron that was reasonably priced but still had a sophisticated look to it. My fingertips were met with a thin layer of dust. I inspected the iron; it even boasted a little headlight to shine your way through wrinkles. I pondered how archaic this whole idea was: a woman buying an iron to press her husband’s work shirts. I felt like all I needed was a Donna Reed hairstyle and frilly apron to match. Then I thought about how money had become so tight since purchasing a new home. Every little bit of the budget had to be nipped and tucked, including the dry cleaning bill. After all, I was a stay-at-home mom pursuing a writing career. It’s not like I do that much anyway. Dinner and house cleaning were part of the deal, so what was one more chore? Still, as I stood in the check-out line with my streamlined iron, adjustable ironing board and can of starch (in my college years I had fought so hard against for environmental reasons of course) I couldn’t help but feel a sinking feeling. It felt as though the very last part of my independent woman-hear-me-roar attitude had died. I scurried towards home to make the six o’clock dinner rush. I gazed before me, the biggest possible pile of shirts awaited. I screamed out, “Are you sure all these are dirty?” with hopeless anticipation... Continue reading Ironing: The New Spa Treatment
Brave Enough to Create and Give Away Will you give away something you have struggled to create and devoted a lot of time to? Not at all, you think. But if you are a Mom or a Writer you have already done it, or will do it in the future. Mom and Writer want to go through conception. They dream of their prospective unique offspring. They are pregnant with dreams. Mom gets nausea, bulging body, swelling legs, and aching back, to finally reach the time of labor and delivery. The reward is a chubby baby she clutches in her arms with devotion. Writer looks for ideas in the newspaper, in her idea file, in the surrounding world. She brainstorms her ideas spontaneously, but she can't organize her story. Finally, her muse gives her a gift, and the story comes clear to her mind. Writer has a fascinating story. Writer researches to provide accurate information. Writer strains to give birth to her beloved writing. Mom and Writer have a new born. Mom has to raise her boy. Writer has to do the craft of writing. Mom devotes her time to her boy, feeds him and keeps him clean. Mom teaches him good habits and rules. Mom loves him enthusiastically. Writer gives shape to her story with well chosen words. Writer makes the language lively, applies good grammar, and uses her particular style. Writer writes passionately... Continue reading Brave Enough to Create and Give Away
Looking For A Sign I just read an e-mail from a new friend. She’s adopting a baby girl from China! Seconds later, I opened a note from another friend. A picture of her co-worker’s adopted daughter from China was attached. I couldn’t take my eyes off that little girl’s face. A woman at church just adopted a girl from Guatemala. A business associate adopted a daughter from India. I always wanted to be a mother. In my youthful dreams, I saw myself holding the hand of a little girl. Imagine my surprise when I was blessed with four sons whom I love dearly. But I’m over forty now, and for various reasons, I’ve decided I’m done with childbearing. I know this decision is for the best, but my heart grieves. I loved being pregnant, and the thought that I’ll never bear a child again saddens me. But I also love being a parent—and perhaps I’m not ready to relinquish that dream quite yet. Yes, I am a mother—but not to a daughter... Continue reading Looking For A Sign
Farmer of Life A month before my due date, my friend Sheila gave me a book called Birth Without Fear. It explains how a woman can avoid the medical establishment’s routine insistence on pain medication by using visualization to calm fear during labor and birth. I devoured the book, appreciating its feminist perspective while simultaneously acknowledging that its ideals of a non-medical birth could never actually apply to me. Because I have juvenile (Type 1) diabetes, my pregnancy was considered to be high-risk, which meant that my last eight months had been filled with extra ultrasounds and monitoring, culminating at week 30 with thrice-weekly visits to the hospital to be attached to a fetal monitor to make sure the baby wasn’t in danger of becoming stillborn. While many of my friends talked glowingly about their natural birth experiences, preferences for midwife practices, and decisions to deliver at birthing centers over hospitals (or even at home), I sighed and sucked up the hospital smells that were an inevitable part of my pregnancy... Continue reading Farmer of Life
Slicing Tomatoes What can I tell you that you don’t already know? So much I can tell you now, so much to show you that only time and experience create. You thought you’d reached the end; that life encompassed only what you could imagine with your mind, and no more. You knew you had lost. In your years, you had yet to experience what it meant to work and plan and sacrifice, then fail in your endeavors. And in this foreign act of losing, you were brought to a sudden and complete standstill. There was fear in the silence of your inaction, unlike any worry or panic felt before. This was fear at its purest. Fear that once brought to a halt, you would be unable to begin again. It was the summer of your thirtieth year and you sat on the floor at the end of your hallway, your head against the wall and your feet planted on either side of the black garbage bag before you. Your feet were bare and slicked with sweat, sliding against the hardwood flooring, but your mouth was dry, your throat swollen and aching. Toys filled the bag. Playing cards, stuffed animals, a metal car - its yellow paint chipped, a favorite one-armed baby doll. Books overflowed from the top of the bag - a massive volume of Shakespeare beneath a dog-eared collection of Poe. Balanced atop a stuffed elephant were the paperbacks—John Irving, Alice Sebold, Doris Betts, Oates, Updike, Kerouac—one for every mood, comfort food in its finest form. And there, spilled out of the bag by your foot, Tuck Everlasting and your childhood copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends... Continue reading Slicing Tomatoes
Competitive Coffee – Sipping and Social Climbing in the Suburbs If you want to watch the big game, don't follow the team bus to the ball field. Just keep your eyes on those mini vans and SUVs each morning after school drop off, and you can catch caravans of competitors rolling into their favorite stomping grounds. Pop into your local coffee shop, and you'll find teems of suburban moms, driven and ready to rumble. Steer clear as they gear up for their daily grind and a shot for a spot in the hotly contested sport of Competitive Coffee. In most sports the game is clear - or at the very least, you know when you're playing it. With Competitive Coffee, it gets a bit muddy. While an invitation for a cup-a-Joe might seem friendly enough -- trust me -- the challenge of that cup of cappuccino runs dark and deep. That cheery call to meet is merely the coin toss. Sure… that double skinny macchiato latte is delicious… but what makes it taste even sweeter is the unquenchable thirst of social success. You see, in the Starbucks World Cup, it's not really about what you're drinking in that “venti” vessel with the protective cardboard cozy, but rather who's French-manicured fingers have got the strongest grip on the French roast... Continue reading Competetive Coffee – Sipping and Social Climbing in the Suburbs
Mom's Last Stand Against Clutter Her trifocals sparkled when she saw me at the fabric-cutting counter. “How ever do you have time for sewing with those two babies?” “Well,” I snorted, “it’s simply because I rarely clean my house.” She squeezed my hand with generational compassion. “Honey, a clean house is the mark of a misspent life.” Oh, how tempted I was to take her words to heart, forgiving myself for the vortex of chaos I called home. How alluring her words of understanding seemed as they reached across to my frazzled mommy-mania. My shoulders had begun to relax when my vision cleared, and I recognized her true identity: Pure Evil. Without a doubt, that sweet head of white hair concealed her association with the worst hell-devil himself, the malevolent demon, Clutter.. Continue reading Mom's Last Stand Against Clutter
In Pursuit of Leisure Clavellina cholla: a member of the cactus family; fringed with sharp-needled balls which detach easily and maul innocent spectators Latin name: Opuntia molesta I needed a hobby. I chose photography despite having poor eyesight, a cheap digital camera, and allergies to most outdoor species. Since I live in a desert valley rimmed with inspiring landscapes, I had an idea that the splendid photographs I captured would be translated into glossy poster-sized reprints to decorate the foyers of everyone I knew, instilling in all observers feelings of tranquil well being while offering a window into a greater life purpose... Continue reading In Pursuit of Leisure
My Name Is Wendy, and I’m a Napaholic I swear, some new parents can be so competitive. Always comparing what their babies did and when. You know, “Little Hortense walked at nine months.” (Yeah, right.) Or, “Junior here was potty-trained at six months.” (And wet the bed till college, bless his heart.) I’ve even heard moms comparing how quickly they lost all their baby weight; “Would you believe I wore my pre-pregnancy jeans home from the hospital?” (Oh, I’m so happy for you…more pound cake?) My favorite of these not-so-subtle contests by far is the “How-old-was-your-little-darlin’-when-he-or-she-first-slept-through-the-night” competition. Of course, I must confess that the reason I love it is because I’m always the undisputed winner (some might say loser, but I prefer to stay positive...) Continue reading My Name is Wendy, and I'm a Napaholic
Manhattan Playdate Scene I have lived in New York before. I left for Montreal after a six-year long love affair with the city. John Steinbeck wrote that once you’ve lived here no place else is good enough. He was right. But he never moved back as a mother of two. New York is another city now. When I lived here, I thought people with children migrated to the suburbs. I could find an obscure bookstore faster than a playground, toyshop, or public library with story-times. Today, Upper East Side playgrounds are ruthless. Many women work full-time planning their children’s schedules, from birth to grad school. There are play dates. There are as many toddler classes as a college course guide. There are clothes, toys, strollers, and perfume to keep up with. Babar, Mickey Mouse and Gucci boast toddler colognes. If you are pushing less than a Maclaren stroller, fuhggedaboudit. Toys are bought off-sale at FAO Schwartz. In winter, miniature versions of runway couture scamper across jungle gyms. In the summer, children in white linen, ironed and labeled with designer names worn by broker fathers and psychiatrist mothers, stroll in Central Park... Continue reading Manhattan Playdate Scene
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