Ode To An Older Parent And Tribute To The Veteran In My Life

Growing up I was acutely aware (from as far back as I can remember) that I had a much OLDER dad. Even though he looked young - he was still overweight, not in great physical shape, worked hard traveling for business and hardly ever home.

I remember always comparing him to my friend's fathers who were much younger, seemingly athletic and home.

I dreaded the day I would lose him - but knew it was inevitable and when it happened I was devastated.

Even so, knowing what I knew then - what I know know - I'd take my geriatric, diabetic, overweight, Members Only jacket wearing, New York born and bred, former Jew converted to Unitarian Universalism, lefty liberal father over any one of my friend's younger, tanned, tennis playing, golf shoe wearing, Floridian Republican dads any day.

I'm grateful I had a father who was of another era.  Who possessed an incredible sense of humor.  Who turned my sisters and me onto Mel Brooks, Sid Ceasar, Allan Sherman, Ernie Kovacs - when none of my friends even knew who they were.

To think that I was raised by a man who during WWII photograhed Roosevelt, Stalin, & Churchill at the Big 3 Yalta conference.  Who dined with King Farouk and sang for fun around the piano with Edie Cantor.

Wow.

As a young Jewish man, the war was highly personal for my father.  But by the time my sisters and I came along he almost never discussed it.  I didn't really understand until I was older what it meant for him being Jewish to be one of the first Americans let into a liberated camp (I think it was Birkenhauer).   I can't imagine what horrors he saw. That's probably why his photo albums from the war are filled with landscapes of Egypt - portraits of children and camels - soldiers playfully partying.  He only kept a few pics from Yalta and a blurry, disturbing photo of a bloated, mutilated Mussolini after he had been hanged and cut down by the mob - plus a couple of artifacts tucked in his dresser drawer - an electric razor he traded a German POW for and a handmade picture frame made out of old coins from an Italian POW.  But that's it.  The war was not something my father chose to define himself by.  As a child I never understood his choice to enlist.  The sense of duty he must have felt as both an American and Jewish man...

To me he was just my dad.

A man who may have come from a different era, but was never out of step with the times.  And even though he gave up his dream of being a professional photographer (he'd been courted by Life Magazine) once he returned to civilian life - my father continued to take photos - to be an artist.  His sense of composition and lighting was superb.  He was still taking photographs up until the time he got sick.

The negatives of my father's photographs from WWII are stored in the Library of Congress anonymously - because photographers from that time were not given credit for their work. But my family knows they are there.   And we're proud.

In honor of Veteran's Day - I honor the veteran who means the most to me.

Arthur Lionel Benjamin - home movie edited by Julia Benjamin Salleres

Time Out For Thanks

These days are a blur. Between work. Kids. Work. Sleep. Eating. Kids. Work. Scooping litter. Sorting recycling. Watering the garden. Work. Kids. Kids. Husband...

Ah, the husband. The last on the list.

Not fair I know, but as the other adult in my life I assume he'll understand. He knows the hectic schedule I'm keeping these days. And as anyone who works in the entertainment industry (in any capacity) knows, once you hit production it's non-stop adrenaline pumping make your deadines no matter what.

It's fun. It's exciting. I love it.

But when you're in the thick of production it rarely leaves little time for anything else...

This is difficult to explain to a just beginning to understand language 18-month old. Somewhat more possible to explain to an 8 going on 9-year old - and extremely possible to explain to the man who is my soulmate.

The person who understands everything about me and has for 20 years.

I know it's unfair he gets shifted to last on my priority list.

He doesn't deserve it.

In fact, he's in the kitchen now making a gourmet dinner at my request.

Not much of a post I know.

I just felt compelled to say thanks to the dear man who is the glue that holds our family together.

And now back to downloading scripts into iannotate on my iPad - so I can travel paperless on my trip to cover production on set in Vancouver tomorrow.

Juggling, Guilt And The Never-Ending Battle Between The Two

The constant in my life revolves around when to find time for myself.  Being a working mother, a lot of guilt creeps in.  If I carve out an hour to work-out, read a book or do some exploratory writing on a new project in my spare time, then I’ve missed valuable playtime, cuddles, giggles and splashing baths. But if I don’t take a beat and center myself – feed my creative process – I suffer and am less able to be fully present at home.  

The dilemma is a good problem to have. Lucky me to have both a career that I am passionate about AND a family that gives me the deepest fulfillment imaginable.  Don’t think for a minute I am ever complaining about that.  What I am trying to get at the root of is, what is the reason behind my guilt and how do I eradicate it from my life?

Taking care of my needs first, is the equivalent of what the airlines advise in case of emergency.  Parents are advised to put their oxygen masks on first, BECAUSE how can you put on your child’s if you’ve suffocated and are dead?  It’s a simple analogy but powerful, nevertheless.  Yet, even though I know this, I still put myself through the same head-trip from time to time.  And the thing is I know I’m not alone.

I read an article the other day on the content site About.com – my go to for just about everything these days http://workingmoms.about.com/od/todaysworkingmoms/a/workguilt.htm that said “10 percent of mothers working full-time give themselves the highest rating for their parenting and just 24 percent of mothers working part-time give themselves a 10 as a parent, according to a Pew Research Center survey.”

The article, and several others I devoured, all left me with the same obvious conclusion – working mother’s guilt is universal, and maybe one reason is because women, at least women of my generation, were taught we were somehow supposed to be able to have it all – careers, bear children, rear them, manage a household, and be fulfilled with nary a hair out of place.  Anyone with half a brain knows that’s completely unrealistic.  No one can manage two FT careers at the same time.  Ask any CEO.  That’s why they delegate. Which got me thinking about delegation and why it brings up a whole other level of guilt for me.

I’m one of the fortunate women who have a husband who is willing to be the primary parent.  My amazing husband is (and I admit this freely) better suited at parenting than me.  He’s kind, caring and incredibly patient, plus he’s skilled in math (I have a BFA in modern dance and an MFA in theater – which leaves me ill equipped to tackle even our son’s 2^nd grade math homework – there, I’ve outted myself. I suck at math. It’s just not the way my brain works.), plus he’s also funny and has the most wonderful way with people, which comes in handy when navigating the whole social school scene.

Aside from my kick-ass husband, we have a loving PT nanny, so daddy can attend to his needs – writing, gym, running errands, and hustling our son to his after school classes.  There is a system in place in our house that works. Well.  Our kids are happy, thriving, and seem bonded to me in a way that doesn’t scream neglectful mother.

Then why do I still feel such pangs of guilt? 

Is it gender related?

I read in my late night Internet searches (no guilt taking time for yourself when the whole house is asleep) that habitual guilt is more intense in women than in men.  Studies show women tend to be more empathetic than men, and it appears to be genetic. This isn’t to say men don’t feel guilt; they’re just able to shake it off faster, whereas women can’t.

So where does this leave me in my quest for balance?

Nowhere.

This is my life.  Because of the demands of my job, there will be times I can be at the Spring Sing and times I miss the Halloween Carnival.  Times I choose to work on my craft and times I play with my kids (like tonight rolling a ball back and forth with my daughter before putting her down to bed).  There will be times I miss the sweetness of putting the kids to bed and times I don’t.  I just have to deal with it.

So my long-winded conclusion is, there is no solution.  Our mother’s were wrong.  Women can’t have it all.  If I want to be a good mom and productive and fulfilled at work, I have to accept this…

…without guilt. 

Ending A Friendship With Dignity And Grace

I’ve had boyfriends tell me they were only dating me to try and get to my older sister (crushing).

I’ve had friends tell lies behind my back in 2^nd grade (hurtful and confusing).

I’ve had a beloved teacher con me into believing that he had gotten me into a prestigious summer theater program abroad, only to find out he had absconded with all of my money – ripping me off for thousands of dollars (cruel and inexcusable).

But I have never had a friend “drop me” me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had friendships end. Drift away. Outgrow themselves.

It’s only natural as we get older, and the demands on our time get more intricate, that we condense our energy and prioritize.

But this was different. 

There’s a first time for everything, and having this person recently break her year long silence to tell me that yes our friendship was definitely over (something I suspected months ago when emails and phones calls went unreturned) was certainly a first.

Let me preface by explaining that it’s not like this person and I were ever really that close – not like we saw or talked to each other every day or anything like that. Yet even with the recent email admission that what I suspected was true – the friendship was over – I still felt/feel a sense of incompletion.

Is it because I wanted better closure? Because I felt somehow I deserved more respect?

Yup.

I wanted her to have the courage to sit across from me and have an adult conversation about it. If someone wrongs me (or I perceive they’ve wronged me) I confront them. And that’s what I wanted. Honest confrontation, not cowardly ducking.

This is why even after it became obvious she wanted nothing to do with me, I occasionally continued to reach out. I didn't do it because I wanted to be her friend anymore. I wanted an explanation and I wanted it said to my face.

All of this has gotten me thinking about etiquette and what is the proper way to extricate oneself from a friendship that is no longer working/satisfying/a priority.

What I’ve learned is that ignoring the situation doesn’t make it go away and using email to deal with it is even worse than ignoring it. 

If for any reason you are thinking of shedding a friendship my advice is to: 

1.  Evaluate the relationship. If it is no longer working for you for whatever reason…
2. Sit down with the person and tell them how you feel. Do not do this via text or email.
3.  Be prepared for the fallout.
4. When it’s over don't talk shit about the other person or try to force mutual friends to take sides. Be the bigger person. Avoid gossip and move on.

Simple.

Mature.

Advice for an increasingly impersonal world.

The Lasting Effects Of The Mini Family Vacation

Spring Break is officially over. Henry is back at his 3rd week of school and statewide testing is in full swing. Frances turned one on the 23^rd and my mom's 10-day visit ended today. The two weeks H had off seem like a far-off, distant memory and yet the lasting effects of that quality family time spent together are still being felt.

Why?

We got away and took a vacation – our first ever as a foursome.

Don’t get me wrong our family has taken trips before visiting relatives. I say trips because I don’t count those visits as vacations, since there’s always a lap or a shoulder to burp on, an extra hand to change a diaper. And when we’re at my mom’s, forget about seeing Henry. He disappears with his older cousin Joe to play video games, watch movies, and do whatever it is they do for hours on end.

No, we knew this trip would be totally different.

Traveling with kids, in our case an 8-year-old and a 1-year-old, presents challenges. Frances is a scheduled baby – not something we foisted upon her, it’s just who she happens to be. If she’s not down for her naps and bedtime like clockwork she turns into a shrieking, little, albeit cute, red-faced monster. Also, she’s entered an incredibly annoying I hate being in my car seat phase. This means if she’s not asleep when she's in the car our cute little red-faced monster will undoubtedly make an appearance. Knowing all this sweet hell lay before us, my husband and I decided so what?

We’ll never get this time back.

Go for it.

I have vivid, wonderful memories of traveling with my family as a child. We would drive (all five of us - three little girls and my parents - packed in the car) to Wisconsin from Florida. If my parents survived the chaos of that, then we could manage a two hour drive for a quick two night stay (all I could manage to carve out of my busy schedule).

Oh but all the gear - diapers, stroller, toys, bottles, formula, wipes, jammies, books, and, and, and, and, and...

I confess I have always had a secret mad crush on the nattily dressed families who seem to travel well with multiple kids. In airports, I find myself staring longingly at the fresh faced, relaxed parents, smiling and laughing as their perfectly well behaved children trot behind them, toting their one minimum, snugly packed wheelie bags and small, cheerful candy colored knapsacks filled with what I can only assume are the few carefully chosen toys they’ve been allowed to bring.

These people are not we. We are not they. Nor will we ever be.

We, with our (until recently) one child, have always been the family at the airport with the mismatched, over-packed luggage, rushing through security only to find we packed an errant full bottle of water or giant tube of sunscreen in our carry-on.

How could we ever pull off this mini-vacation with grace, dignity and jocularity?

Easy.

We were, I decided, going to act like adults and suck it up. After all, a vacation is a privilege that I’m grateful we are lucky enough to be able to take.

I'm sharing the discoveries we made in the event some of you might find them helpful when planning a sojourn in the SoCal area.

First on the agenda, where to go? The age spread between the kids is big – seven years. They (understandably) have completely different interests. Frances is a smarty sponge, yet has the attention span of what you’d expect from a fidgety one year-old. Her main interests lately are cruising, banging things together and mouthing everything in sight. At the moment, big boy Henry loves Star Wars, Ninjago and Justice League Unlimited (it’s very important that I make the distinction that JL Unlimited is cool but regular JL is babyish. Got it? Good.) H also has a new obsession, the history of the American Presidents.

Okay, so in order to entertain them both all we needed to find was a child friendly, action packed, history filled destination.

We gave H a few choices and when he heard Legoland (in Carlsbad, CA) http://california.legoland.com/ had just opened a new Star Wars exhibit http://california.legoland.com/explore/rides_and_attractions/miniland_usa/STAR-WARS-Miniland/, the deal was sealed. Good choice. We’d been to Legoland before and knew the variety of attractions would appeal to both kids. Plus, its slow, easy pace and bright, colorful visual stimulation would be perfect for Frances.

Done. Decision made.

Next on the agenda, where to stay? We’ve been to the San Diego area before and bunked at a few very nice hotels. But for this trip we wanted something even more special – not only family friendly, but lovely and laid back. After some research we landed on the historic Hotel Del Coronado in Coronado, CA.

We've heard about the Del for years from friends who rave about it. Perusing their website, http://www.hoteldel.com/ - looking at the beautiful, white, seaside Victorian palace, with its perfectly manicured grounds leading right to the beach - it looked like just the right spot. 

The hotel was built in 1888 and is a National Historic Landmark teeming with history. (Big plus for us with Henry). A host of celebrities and dignitaries have stayed there and even one of my favorite films, “Some Like It Hot,” was shot on premises. Most exciting though, is the resident ghost they boast to have. Henry flipped when he heard about the ghost, but got even more excited when he heard about all the presidents who have been there – including FDR (his number 1 favorite), Benjamin Harrison, William Taft, Lyndon Johnson, James Earl Carter, Jr., & William Jefferson Clinton to name a few. Did I mention the kid’s gone gaga for Presidential history?

The plan was (and I say was because nothing ever goes as planned, right?) to arrive late Monday afternoon and explore Coronado, then eat dinner at the hotel and hit the sack. Tuesday we would eat breakfast at the hotel then onto Legoland. The late afternoon would be spent visiting a dear old friend from grad school and his wife and kids. Dinner that night would be at the hotel again, after which we would fall blissfully into bed and sleep 8 full hours. Wake. Eat breakfast. Stroll on the beach and leave. The drive there and back to LA I would use to prepare for an important upcoming meeting.

I then made a series of lists, determined to pack conservatively. I didn’t want us lugging around our usual unnecessary crap this time, so I charted out the kids outfits for each day, carefully counted out diapers, formula, bottles, snacks – limiting the choice of toys they could take – harder for Henry, easier for Frances. My husband and I threw a few things in our bags (this time I made sure they matched) and off we went.

First glitch.

We left about 3 hrs. later than planned.

I know we’re not the only family who has trouble getting out of the house. Blown out diapers, dilly-dallying. It happens.

On the drive to San Diego baby slept – thankfully – while big brother read books and played games on the iPad, leaving dad some rare brain space for his own thoughts. I wore earplugs and worked the entire way. 

Nice.

My fantasy was materializing. Maybe we weren’t nattily dressed, but we definitely were proving to be a relaxed and happy family.

2 hrs. later, as we drove over the Coronado Bridge, the baby woke up and our little red-faced monster made her 1^st appearance.

H, who has gotten very good at comforting his little sister, held her pudgy hand and kept popping her paci back into her mouth. Somehow, despite her shrill shrieking, we managed to take in the sights. Coronado is the most adorable little beach town – http://www.coronadovisitorcenter.com/CVC/History.html

http://www.coronadovisitorcenter.com/CVC/Photos.html  – and I immediately wished we had booked a longer stay.

Fried from the last few minutes of our drive, with our eardrums bursting, we arrived at The Del and instantly, miraculously F calmed down. Maybe because the lobby has such a dark paneled, welcoming, turn of the century, tranquil vibe. Henry stared wide-eyed with excitement, noting how everything looked like the pictures he’d seen in the history books he’s been reading. And I knew just what he meant. If it weren’t for the luxurious pool, spa and all of the comforts of 21^st century pampering, it would be easy to think you’d stepped back “Somewhere in Time.” Again, I immediately wished we had booked a longer stay. 

Checking in, the staff couldn't have been more lovely and attentive. They even gave Henry a pass to the Kid’s Club – too bad we wouldn’t be there long enough for him to check it out. 

Our initial plan was to have dinner at the hotel with H (we had wanted to eat at their restaurant 1500 but there was no availability so we opted for the more casual Sheerwater. We had reserved a babysitter for the wee one. F is, as I said, super scheduled and we knew taking her to dinner wouldn’t be fair to her. There are a few babysitting services that work with the hotels in the San Diego area. An email exchange with the hotel’s concierge suggested we use http://www.destinationsitters.com/ (they turned out to be excellent, btw – I highly recommend. We will definitely be using them again). While waiting in line to talk to the concierge about our dinner reservation, I overheard him making a reservation for another family at a restaurant called Urban Solace http://www.urbansolace.net/ a casually chic neighborhood place that sounded unbelievably delicious. We are foodies in this house and the description he was giving of some of the menu items had me drooling like a Saint Bernard in the Sahara.

Change of plan. We booked a table at Urban Solace then went to our room to unpack and get settled in. 


The room was beautiful. Simply decorated in an elegant coastal décor. And they had given us a perfect ocean view of the Pacific. What more could we ask for? After the bellman brought up a sweet crib for F, H unpacked his toys, and we got F all cozy, bottled up and ready for bed.

The babysitter arrived – a lovely young woman who immediately put us at ease. The way she and Frances hit it off helped alleviate any worries I had about leaving our precious cargo with her. F was pretty much ready to go down when we left, so we gave kisses and buh byes and pulled ourselves away. She’s a hard one to part with, our blue-eyed beauty.

As we strolled back through the lobby, Henry peppered us with all kinds of questions about the ghost, so we stopped in the gift shop "Est. 1888." We’d been told by the concierge that the ladies who worked in the shop were experts on the hotel’s history, in particular the resident ghost. So we pumped the cashier with questions and found out some interesting details about this famous spectral visitor – Kate Morgan. I have to admit I even got a few spine tingly chills when she told us items have gone flying off the shelves in the store… spooky. http://www.sandiego.org/article/Visitors/1508 http://www.ghost-investigators.com/Stories/view_story.php?story_num=1 

Divine dinner at Urban Solace. Not to be missed if you ever go to San Diego. Must tries are: warm cheese biscuits with honey butter, duckaroni, arugula salad, beef cheeks and the bacon wrapped trout. We ate like piggies, while Henry educated us on obscure facts about our nation’s presidents. I savor this one on one time with him now. He was our only for seven years and has been extremely patient with his new sister, who gets so much attention these days… dinner that night is one I will remember for a long time.

Home – the hotel – we fell into our beds as a snoozing Frances slept soundly in her crib nearby. The room was comfortably dark and after much assurance from us that the ghost would not make a visit, H fell asleep and so did we.

Next morning, we were up bright and early thanks to our new alarm clock, baby F. Everyone was happy and excited about our Legoland adventure. We ordered room service, deciding it would be easier to eat in the room rather than schlep everyone downstairs. When traveling with kids, the less stress the better.

Glitch number two.

The food arrived just as Frances made it known to all that it was time for her morning nap. Solution? Curtains were drawn and lights dimmed. As we ate in silence, shushing Henry’s every utterance, he grumbled: Not fair!

He was right. It sucked eating breakfast in the dark.

I realized, only after it was too late to move her, that our closet was large enough to hold F’s crib. Note to all parents traveling with babes, bathrooms and closets make nice little nurseries. Babies gets the quiet they need and the rest of the family doesn’t have to do so much tip toeing around. IMPORTANT - MAKE SURE IF YOU DO THIS THE AREA YOU CHOOSE IS LARGE AND WELL VENTILATED! We actually kept the door cracked.

As we quietly waited for Frances to wake up, my husband confessed he had had a strange occurrence the night before. He said it was like someone was pouring a glass of water right next to his ear. Henry was convinced it was the ghost of Kate Morgan.

On our way out, we stopped in to see our friend, the concierge Joe, to thank him and tell him how wonderful last night’s dinner had been. We started talking about the hotel’s history and he very kindly arranged for one of the security guards to give us a private tour of the Crown Room – which was closed at the moment.

Apparently, L. Frank Baum, author of "The Wizard of Oz? books and a once frequent guest, had designed the chandeliers. Another history lesson for Henry. What a perk.

Later at Legoland, H (as expected) had a blast at the Star Wars miniland. The models were amazing and H was totally inspired to go home and work on his own.

He also got to see a 3-D Lego Star Wars movie. Don't ask me what it was about... my focus was elsewhere.

Glitch number three.

Frances was in my lap when a few minutes into the movie she started fussing. One thing I know about my kid, she only cries when something’s wrong (or she wakes up in the car), so Nathan grabbed her and made a mad dash for the door before she went all Christian Bale/Mel Gibson on us. Later, when we hooked back up, he told us she had taken a massive poop. (Of course. It’s always poop). Furthermore, when he changed her she proceeded to pee Lake Eerie all over the changing table. Poor daddy in hell. Solution? None. You can’t predict these things. Babies poop when they have to. Pee also.

We spent the rest of the day tooling around the park, checking out the mini Washington DC, the bust of George Washington, Dino Island, and of course there was the obligatory stop at the Lego store where Henry was allowed to choose one small Lego set. And Ninjago it was. He was a happy, happy boy.

Late afternoon was spent with our good friend and his family. As the kids played and we caught up on the years since grad school, who would have thought back then that all of our kids would someday be playing together – while the littlest one gnawed on the coffee table?

Exhausted, we decided not to go out for dinner as planned, but to bring in some local pizza at the hotel and chill.

Best idea ever.

It wasn’t part of the plan, but I was learning fast that this traveling well with multiple kids thing required throwing out the schedule and winging it. It’s all about feeling out who needs what when.

This was probably the most important thing I learned on this trip.

Our last day came way too fast. We enjoyed breakfast in the room as Frances slept cozily in the closet – the image of her cherubic little body, all rosy and snug – I’m kicking myself for not taking a picture.

Panic from inside the room. Shh. Baby's sleeping! But it didn't matter. Henry had lost one of his Ninjago snake Legos - the green one - and was totally despondent. We tore the hotel room apart, top to bottom, but never found it. Henry is still convinced Kate Morgan was behind its mysterious disappearance.

After we checked out, at Henry’s bidding, we went on the hunt for poor Kate Morgan’s ghost. As we morbidly traipsed the hallways and stairwells, retracing her fatal steps, trying to feel any sense of her vibration, I soaked in the moment. Our little family was on a ghost hunt that soon would become a memory.

I felt a twinge of nostalgia. I hate when people tell you childhood goes by too fast. The minute your kid is born well-meaning people are always right there to tell you - Take it in. Savor every moment. It've over before you know it.


I know. 


We all know. 

Our ghost hunt morphed into a wandering, meandering tour of the hotel. We happened upon the hotel’s museum - an area off the lobby with a few glass cases filled with historical artifacts - where we learned more about the hotel’s prestigious past. Henry was particularly excited by the presidential memorabilia. God, do I love how much my kid loves history. We explored a few more shops and peeked inside The Sheerwater restaurant, the one we never made it to. What a shame. It had the most spectacular ocean view and the food looked/smelled wonderful.

We then made a pit stop to the hotel's charming candy shop, looked in on the ice cream parlor, and then walked out to the beach for our last photo ops.

Bad call (bad mommy) trying to get the kids to pose for pictures. By that time they had both had enough and proceeded to melt down.

But that wasn't the last glitch of the trip.

No. The very last glitch happened a few blocks from the hotel. We were finally on our way back home when Frances started fussing. 


Uh-oh. 


Her fussing turned into crying. Soon it would be all out monster time.

What on earth, we thought?

Then we smelled it.

Poop.

It’s always poop.

Mostly always anyways.

A heated debate ensued, whether to stop at the public library to change her, or head back to The Del, where we knew they were equipped to deal with such emergencies. And we were so close, why risk an unknown bathroom?


Back to The Del it was.

I grabbed a diaper, some wipes, yanked her out of her car seat and snaked my way through the quickly growing lunch crowd towards the ladies room.

Changing her, she peed Lake Eerie. Now it was poor Mommy hell. I was screwed. I hadn’t brought enough wipes, nor a change of clothes. But thankfully, I did bring a blanket.

Solution? Always bring the diaper bag when changing the baby. No matter where you are. Bring it. That’s a mistake I won’t make again.

The drive home was pretty much the same as the drive there.

Pulling into the driveway, Frances asleep, Henry nose in the iPad, it was hard to believe we’d only been away for two days. It felt like we’d been gone for weeks and who knows? After the success of this mini vacation, maybe next time we will.

Why It's Important To Have Younger Friends

So many women I know (and women I don’t know – Hollywood stars mainly) are obsessed with looking younger. How can you blame them? Our society is youth-obsessed. The media bombards us with sexy images of slinky, young women with gorgeous bodies that I promise you have never had an 11 ½ lb. baby pass through (that was my son’s birth weight – honest to God truth – delivered by c-section after a 30 hour labor).

It’s this mindset, this pressure to remain forever young that engenders women to go to great lengths to erase any outward signs of aging, lest God forbid, someone know their real age.

Usually, this subject has me up in arms. What’s wrong with aging? People pay exorbitant amounts of money for wine that is aged because older vines make better wines. 

But recently, I met a young woman that has me jumping on the, younger is better bandwagon.

Through my volunteer work with the Somaly Mam Foundation – http://www.somaly.org/ – a 501(c)3 nonprofit public charity committed to ending slavery, founded by the world renowned Cambodian activist and former sex slave, Somaly Mam – I’ve had the good fortune to meet an extremely bright and inspiring young woman – I say young because she’s 22.

I say young, because I’m not 22.

She’s a graduate of UCLA and currently works as a research associate at the UCLA Developmental Neuroscience Lab. This girl has oodles of boundless energy. Drives a scooter everywhere and recently texted me to say she was running an hour early for our meeting.

I have to confess I was dragging my sorry ass out of bed when she called – having stayed up much too late writing. She arrived minutes later (I, of course, told her it was fine to come by), looking vibrant holding two lattes from Starbucks and her kicky motorcycle helmet. I was curious to see that she was wearing flip-flops. I can’t even drive in a pair of flip-flops let alone imagine myself zipping through traffic on a two-wheeled motorized vehicle.

She apologized if she seemed kind of out of it, explaining she was only working on 1 hour of sleep. I’d had maybe 4 hours and can assure you I looked like it. Thank God, she brought coffee. Why was it, that she seemed so fresh and alert, while I was cranky and tired? Because there are some things you can do at 22 that you can’t get away with when you’re older – and sleep deprivation is definitely at the top of that list.

I never would have known she had pulled an all-nighter. Her glowing eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. She has such passion for Somaly’s cause. She traveled to Cambodia last year where she met Somaly and visited the recovery centers. It was a life-changing event for her.  As we riffed on our fundraising ideas, she took notes. I marveled as her fingers flew over the keys with the alacrity of a court reporter that had had at least 22 cups of coffee… if not more.

Being around her is a delight. Her eagerness and zeal for life reminds me of someone I used to know…

Me.

Not that I’m uninspired by any stretch, nor am I dispassionate or void of excitement. Au contraire. This is one of the most fulfilling times in my life. We finally have our baby girl. Our son is mostly thriving in school (he hates homework, well, all school work in general, even so he’s doing great) and I’m being extremely prolific with my work – enjoying pushing the boundaries of my writing – exploring new areas.

It’s all good.

Still, why is it every time she beams her wide grin at me, I feel a certain nostalgia? Like I’m watching an old video of myself.  Because, there was a time when I was absolutely that same bright-eyed, exuberant girl. When everything I experienced was new. And that’s the difference between us…

Experience.

It’s not like I want to turn back the clock and relive my life. Believe me, there is a lot of stuff that happened in my 20s that I’d just as soon forget.

But I’ll be honest. I love the way I feel when I’m around this girl’s energy. It’s infectious. It kicks me up a notch or 10. Seriously, after she left I had the most productive day, despite the 4 hours of sleep.

So how can I capture this feeling and use it to up my productivity, because I am all about eking out as much efficiency out of my day as possible.

To sum up (and I’m no authority) what this has made me realize, is that if I want to feel 22 again, I need to keep hanging out with my new 22 year-old friend.

Because clearly being around her has had a very positive effect on me.

What I Learned From Dance

Today I was sitting in our home on a rainy, rainy, cold, grey Sunday feeding our daughter a bottle of breast milk procured from a FT working, single mom who is in our Mommy & Me class. This lovely woman, whom I barely know, was kind enough to drive over a shopping bag filled with 5 oz. frozen bags of milk in the pouring rain because Frances is sick and she wanted to help. And this from a woman who has a very stressful, high-powered job.

Talk about kindness.

Last night the baby had us up all night with her 101.5 fever, completely stopped up nose, wet, sputtering, cough and howling, pitiful cries. At one point she projectile vomited all over my husband. Anyone who is a parent knows what that moment feels like – time stands still and all of your needs go out the window.

You are reduced to being at the mercy of the helpless babe in front of you.

I happen to have a nasty cold myself (thought it was allergies, but nope it's a cold) and my husband had barely 4 hrs of sleep the night before because he was up and down with Frances (which must have been a precursor to this new virus – she catches everything this little one).

But all of that took a backseat to our sweet, 11 month-old, blue-eyed beauty who could do nothing in that moment to comfort herself and relieve her distress.

She needed us and there we were by here side to do whatever we could, which wasn’t much.

She slept in fits and starts and thankfully the fever broke around 5 a.m.

Long night.

She is still sick today, but it’s uphill from here – now that I have mommy antibiotic milk to give her.

Back in our living room on this dreary Sunday, holding her chubby, little, nascent body and listening to the gorgeous Adagietto from Mahler’s 5^th Symphony No. 5 in C Sharp Minor I was transported back to my dancing days when I was a teenager and a modern dance major at the North Carolina School of the Arts (an arts school that trains both high school and college students) I performed in a faculty piece (quite an honor) to the Adagietto. It was perhaps the hardest dance I ever performed and taught me more about myself as a dancer than any experience outside of a workshop with the Lar Lubovitch Company the summer of that same year. The piece was achingly slow, tremendously lyrical, and required intense strength and total ensemble focus.

I am not someone who generally looks back. I rarely sit and relive my life experiences. But listening to this particular piece of music brought this memory flooding back to me in great detail.

The piece started with a group of dancers on an almost pitch black stage lying flat on our backs. Were there 10 of us? 8? The details on that part are fuzzy. We began with the floating up of a single arm. Deliberately. Slowly. With an intense, yet delicate precision. None of us could see one another – we had to sense our timing. Each other. This requires stilling all thoughts in your brain until you are nothing but living, breathing in that moment. Hearing the breath of others. Sensing with every pore of your body all that is happening around you. It was excruciating. Interminable. Our movements progressed at a snail’s pace until we were all standing on one leg in an arabesque (for non-dancers this means one leg stretched behind you completely straight in what should be a beautiful line ending in an equally beautiful pointed foot). Our backs were completely flat, parallel facing the floor, which means our heads were facing the floor too, which means our eyes were focused not on one another but on the floor! To execute this as an ensemble in the dark without the benefit of even peripheral vision is nothing short of impossible.

To do it as a teenager is a life changing experience.

From the moment we stood up, it never got easier, because we spent a good chunk of the piece dancing on that same one leg on that same darkened stage. For anyone who has ever done danced adagio movement on one leg, then you know the balance required… intense focus… the zen of being nowhere else but in the moment. One slight shift and you wobble or worse…

…you fall.

The dread I felt about performing this piece was paralyzing. I had to dig inside myself to find the strength to get through rehearsals let alone contemplate performing it on stage. Because when you are dancing in an ensemble piece the greatest fear you have is that you will let the others in the group down. You’re creating something together. Each individual’s contribution is as important as the next. You cannot, not, not fail the group. The audience.

Yourself.

On opening night I can remember warming up in my dorm room. As I was stretching and going through the piece in my head, terror struck and I completely lost it. 

The magnitude of finally being at the point where I would actually be performing this piece live before a paying audience hit me – hard. We had only done technical lighting rehearsals up to this point and not even a complete dress rehearsal – run-through – for an invited audience of our peers. Adding to my stress was that the choreographer, our beloved teacher and mentor, the God we all worshipped, had stormed out in a rage after a lighting run-through a few days earlier, telling us he was through. That we all basically sucked and we were now on our OWN with this piece. This means we had to finish rehearsing an 11 some odd minute piece for this asshole for his faculty concert with no help from anyone but ourselves. Remember, we were in high school. To top it off we were to be reviewed by the local press. As an adult looking back on this event, the reality of what this teacher did to us seems truly Machiavellian and yet he had a master plan. He knew that by abandoning us we would come together.


And we did. We finished our scheduled rehearsals – prepared ourselves for the upcoming performance. Bonding together in a completely democratic way that I have rarely experienced since. No egos. Just working for the good of the whole. Trying to get that Goddamn piece off the ground, despite the brewng hatred we had for man we all considered an asshole.


Back in my dorm room, I broke down and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until my diaphragm was in spasms – until there were no more tears left in me. It was all too much. I couldn't handle the pressure.

I was completely convinced I couldn’t do it. 


How I got myself to the theater that night I’ll never know. But somehow I pulled it together – never telling any of the other dancers what I'd just been through and how petrified I was. I'm sure I was not the only one.

In the dressing room, I quietly put on my kabuki make-up. We called it that because the stage was so dark we had to devise a way to lighten our faces in order for our features to be seen.

As I prepared myself, I was shaky, exhausted from my breakdown and unsure whether I even had the strength to get through the piece. Yet, when I put on my costume something hit me.

So what? 

If I fell off my leg, I fell. If I made a fool of myself, so be it. What was the worst that could happen? I'd already experienced such gut wrenching emotions... At some point all that fear burned into fuel and I faced my demons head on, realizing that I could only be as good a dancer as I was in that moment and that would just have to do.

Talk about life lessons.

When I got out on stage and took my place and the music started, I was so focused (worn out and fatigued I had no other choice but to let go and be in the moment), I simply listened to the music and allowed it to take me through the piece and in doing so trusted myself in a way I hadn't fully done before. I trusted that I knew the piece well enough that my body, mind and spirit would not, could not fail me, or the other dancers.

And it didn’t.

I gave the best performance I had ever done of the piece. WE the ensemble gave the best performance we had ever done. We had bonded during the process (ordeal) to the point that we were one living, breathing entity.

I know (and knew then) I wasn’t the best dancer in the piece. I was really, very good, don’t get me wrong, but I was not the best. And yet, somehow I triumphed over what only hours before had seemed like an insurmountable odd.

Today, as I held our daughter, staring into her wonder filled face – her sickly glazed eyes and runny nose, I was filled with such intense emotion for the teenage girl I once was. How could I know then the woman I would become? All the obstacles that still lay ahead? Heartaches and triumphs.

I still don’t know what life has in store for me. But that performance was my first real life hurdle and despite the ensemble nature of dancer's life, I felt utterly alone.  (Btw, I don’t believe I’ve ever shared this story with anyone in my family – not even my friends.)

Daubing milk from tiny, pink cheeks all I could think was, what trials will Frances face? What roads will her life take her down? How will she handle herself? And will she share her fears and failings with me or will she keep them buried all to herself, just as I did these many years?

More important than any of that, is how can I help her be self-sufficient and strong? This goes for Henry too. How do I teach my children to face difficulties and have the wherewithal to persevere?

Yesterday, in Mommy & Me class http://www.pumpstation.com/pumpstation/dept.asp?s_id=0&dept_id=3497 we discussed the Po Bronson New York Magazine article: How Not To Talk To Your Kids – The inverse power of praise. http://nymag.com/news/features/27840/  It’s interesting and speaks directly to this subject. It created quite a stimulating discussion that obviously has me still thinking about it.

As hard as that performance experience was, I did manage to get myself through it. 


My parents did something right.

Somehow they raised me to persist... 

I know I can’t protect my children from everything, but I can help them develop coping skills.

Right now, I am trying to help an 11 month-old cope with constipation and feeling really crappy.

And for today that’s enough.

He Wasn’t Bad Just Unwell

The other night I was heading out to make a quick library run. I needed to pick up some books for research and, of course, once Henry heard where I was going he clambered to come along to get a few Star Wars books. Even though it was 7:30pm and he hadn’t had dinner yet, how could I refuse? As a working mom I’ve missed out on so much of his young life. Dinner could wait tonight.

The excursion began on a sweet note. H is really into American presidential history right now, which made for wonderful car conversation. FDR, JFK, Jimmy Carter, Lincoln, Jefferson, Barack are all his new heroes. I love how fast my son’s brain works. How much he can absorb. Everyday brings an amazing wealth of new information.

First complication.

I asked if we could make a quick stop by the dumpster, because yes I’m still rescuing plants and I wanted to hit it before dark. I’ve tried to make a point of not going at night anymore because my poor mother worries about my safety and has made me promise to never go after dark. And even though I’m an adult and live across country and she has no idea what I do or when I do it, I still value her wise opinion and do what she says, which I know makes her happy from afar.

Good daughter.

Plus, I had a child in the car who was grumbling about my planned detour but agreed to let me go, because he would rather help rescue dying plants than think about them languishing in a landfill.

He is my son after all…

So off we went. The pickings were slim. Even so, in the waning light, I was able to retrieve 3 delicate indoor ferns. It took all of 4 minutes to grab them and throw them in the back of the car and we were on our way again.

More talk of presidential history on the ride down Wilshire Boulevard. This time about Garfield and the fact that the gunshot wound didn’t actually kill him, the infection did.

We hung a fast left on 6^th street. But time was ticking away, so I took a short cut and made a wrong turn down a one-way entry into the library parking lot rather than drive around the block to enter it properly. Henry was not happy about this and made me promise to never EVER do it again. I promised I would not.

I seem to be making a lot of promises these days.

Nevertheless, we made it to the library in the nick of time, however the parking meeting was busted so we couldn’t pay. Another thing that bothered H.

He is not a rule breaker my son.

Quick, quick, quick we ran to the library entrance. And as H struggled to open the big, heavy, glass, door for me – something he loves to do to prove his 8 year-old prowess – our paths crossed a gnarly, young homeless man who was exiting the building. The guy was typical. Nothing about him set off any red flags for me, his sunglasses maybe (it was dark by now) but the truth is, I barely registered his presence. Having lived in NYC most of my adult life I’ve sadly become inured to the homeless – the smells, raggedy hair, large pants cinched in by the obligatory cracked leather belt, the low, incessant mutterings. None of this guy’s stuff fazed me, until I realized the bespectacled boy by my side was frozen stiff with fear.

His taut, little fingers slipped tightly into mine. He gripped my hand and asked: Is he a bad guy? I bent down and whispered no, honey, he’s just a homeless man –

But no sooner had the words left my lips, than the low mutterings turned into loud, angry ranting. We had lingered just a bit too long I guess, because the man was engaged now. I hurried to pull my boy inside but it was too late. The angry man’s vitriolic words fell on my child’s chaste ears: You know what they do to little children?! They cut them up and eat them and then they—

Swift yank and we were safely inside on the other side of the glass door, hurrying away from the rest of that sentence.

But the damage was done. H had heard it all and was processing. He gripped my hand even harder and said: He is a bad guy. I saw my first real bad guy.

I said he’s not bad he’s just unwell.

H turned back briefly to stare at the now wildly gesticulating man pacing outside – an image I hope he can someday erase from his super absorbent sponge-like brain – What’s wrong with him he asked perplexed?

His brain doesn’t work right.

Why not?

Because some people get sick and this is what happens to them.

Why?

I don’t know…

Come on; let’s get out of here H said. And he pulled me inside the 2^nd set of glass doors into the library.

My heart went out to that poor man outside, even though I was pissed at him for scaring the shit out of my son. Whether he was schizophrenic, psychopathic or just plain high as a kite, what a miserable existence. Wandering around with no place to call home. Synapses misfiring. Incoming information being misinterpreted. But none of that mattered in that moment. The only thing I cared about was consoling my still frightened son.

As we made our way deeper into the safety of the library, the questions kept circling. Why did he say he wanted to eat children, mommy? Because he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Why? Because he’s sick. Why? Because some people’s brains get sick. Why? I don’t know, honey, they just do. I kept it simple and repetitive.

H was worried the man was going to come after us and hurt him.

I told him he was safe and that I would always protect him. He didn’t seem too impressed by my offer. I wish dad were here, he said. I want dad. I know, honey, but Mommy’s here. You’re safe. I hugged him tight. And for a moment I thought the incident would pass. But then he looked for a security guard. He wanted to tell him about the bad guy, but there wasn’t one to be found. He toyed with the idea of telling a librarian, but the checkout lines were too long and anyways, he decided the security guard was the person who really needed to be told about this.

We discussed ditching the library and going home, but H pointed out that if we left now we might have to walk by the crazy man again. Good point I told him. We agreed to grab my books first and then get his and by the time we wanted to leave the guy would probably be gone. Tiny fingers once again gripped my hand as we walked upstairs to find my books.

H was unusually silent. Gone was his playful, chattering self. He was serious. All business. On the alert for more bad guys.

Suddenly the library, his library, a place that has always been full of wonder and magic for him was freaking him out. Every person we passed made him shudder. Is that a bad man? No, honey, no. How do you know? Because not everyone is bad. How do you know? Because I can tell. Is she bad? No. How do you know? I just get a sense about people. You can tell when they're tricky.I learned about tricky people at school, he said.

It broke my heart hearing my baby trying to process all of this.

Walking through the stacks, his hand firmly clenched in mine, I told him again that he was safe with me. That I would never let anyone hurt him, even though deep down I knew I could never really keep that promise. How could I make a promise like that knowing that 6 years ago a stranger had murdered my best friend in an unprovoked attack? Henry knows what happened, even though he was only just turning 3 at the time. He has memories of something. Witnessing our intense sadness. He knows a bad man killed Adrienne.

But this was his first encounter with that kind of energy up close and personal.

I quickly found my books and then, hand still gripped in mine, we made our way downstairs to the children’s section. The whole time H was still obsessed with the man outside. Obsessed that everyone around us now had the potential to hurt him. He made a plan. He would look for a security guard on the way out and ask him to walk us to our car. That way, he said, we’d be safe. I told him that was a good plan, although I reassured him the guy was probably long gone, but if he wanted an escort, we would do it. His book found, we checked out and asked the librarian for a security guard to walk us to our car.

The homeless guy had, as I suspected, moved on. Nevertheless, the security guard, who couldn’t have been nicer, walked us the car and made sure Henry was buckled safely in his car seat. He told Henry that he had done the right thing. That anytime he needed assistance, just ask.

Henry was relieved he didn’t have to see the man again, but he did say he never wanted to come to the library again.

I told him I was sure we would never see that man again, but we could go to the little library on Montana Avenue if he wanted. It’s small and where he used to do story book time as a toddler. That seemed to calm him.

Home, we relayed the harrowing tale to daddy, who said he would’ve have punched the guy in the nose if he laid a hand on us. No wonder Henry prefers dad’s protection to mine.

Dinner followed by a warm bath. Jammies. Daddy read to H as he snuggled warmly under the layered covers of our family bed.

We were home.

Safe.

As I stroked his hair H asked sleepily:

Why don’t people have homes?

Because they probably don’t have a job to pay their rent.

Why?

Because maybe they’re not well enough to work.

Why?

Because the world isn’t always fair and bad things happen to good people.

Why, mommy?

I kissed his head and stroked his back.

That question I’ll have to answer another day.

When To Ditch Your To Do List

My expectation of what I can get done in a day is unrealistic, and yet that doesn't stop me from continuing to add to my never ending 'To Do' list. My husband has been telling me for years, "normal people relax at some point." He isn't being mean. It's clear he thinks my behavior is abnormal in a good I like to push myself kind of way.  Still, he's right, there's no way I can possibly accomplish everything I want to get done in a day. That doesn't keep me from trying. 

I'm a list maker. I always have been. Probably because I'm a visual learner, it's easier for me to organize/keep track of all the different areas of my life if I can see them. I currently have 3 different to do lists on my computer right now. 1 for work projects, 1 for home/household stuff and 1 that I call my Master To Do List - which is a catch all for everything I need to do. At the top of the page is my daily log that I add to and delete as needed. Whenever I finish a task or realize something needs to get done that day it moves up to the daily slot. On my master list I have different colored categories for various things like work, events, kids, organizing, health, garden, to read, to watch etc. Why, you might ask, don't I use a calendar for all this? I do. I have one on my computer that I sync to my iPad and it's amazing. Using my lists and my calendar keeps me in a very productive space.

But there are days - sometime weeks - when I just have to ditch it all - chuck the never ending to do list - and play everything by ear. The past couple of weeks are a great example. H has been sick, sick, sick - out of school for almost 2 weeks. 1st it was the hip - synovitis - see http://andthencamehenry.blogspot.com/2012/02/star-wars-vs-me-time.html (he preferred to call it synovirus - cutie), then it was the stomach flu. Now my husband has it. Not the stomach flu, but a flu that has wracked his body with so much pain he's been flat on his back for 3 full days. Add to that two different sets of dear old, wonder friends visiting from out of town. Trips planned well before any of these illnesses were ever on the horizon. At one point last week we had 5 extra people living with us. No complaints. We love our friends and even with sick people around, we much prefer they stay with us when visiting rather than bunk at a hotel or with other friends across town in West Hollywood or God forbid as far east as Echo Park where we would never see them.

I guess the point of all this is that I've learned when there's no time to cross reference a list - when you're caring for a sick household, entertaining friends and basically on call 24/7 - you just have to do the essentials (by all means get your work done) and know that you'll get back to the other things on your lists at some point. And, in the meantime, try to catch whatever free moments you have to take a deep breath and relax. Yes, that's what ditching a to do list can do for you. For me anyway. It has forced me to take breaks to do nothing. It's a valuable lesson and something I need to remind myself to do more often.

I Have SelfControl

If you’re like me, mindless Internet surfing – checking my email and social media sites – has become something of an habitual behavior. 

Who am I kidding? It’s not “something of—” It is. 

ha·bit·u·al adjective \həˈbiCHo͞oəl\ Done as a habit. 

hab·it noun \ˈha-bət\ An acquired mode of behavior that has become nearly or completely involuntary.

Yes, I freely admit it. I have an Internet addiction. There, now that I’ve outed myself to whomever you are reading this, I feel much better. 

But my addiction is not really that bad. It’s certainly not nearly as all encompassing as Kord Campbell’s, the dude featured in the NY Times article I read yesterday: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/07/technology/07brain.html?src=tp&smid=fb-share

Kord is truly an addict – no offense intended – but this guy makes my puny Internet addiction look irrelevant by comparison.  You see my addiction (now that I’ve let the cat out of the bag I can’t seem to stop saying it) doesn’t involve games or an iPhone. I don’t even own an iPhone for precisely the same reason I don’t have an Internet plan on my iPad, because I don’t want to be held hostage to an electronic device.  

For as long as I can remember I have been obsessed with productivity. Even as a child I was aware of the passage of time and the feeling like there just weren’t enough hours in the day to do all the things I wanted to. Maybe because I wanted to be a dancer, and as everyone knows a professional dancer’s career is fleeting – if you want to be a one you have to start when you’re young. In any case, this sensation of the importance of utilizing my time efficiently has only increased with age. Magnify it with the scheduling complications that adding a spouse and children to your life brings and what was once a mild obsession becomes even greater. 

Enter the Internet. A wonderful tool for work – I use it constantly for research – and an even more wonderful way to stay in touch with family and friends – yet an insidious time suck that threatens to take away the precious moments of not only my life but the memories I have of my family and friends as well. Sounds dramatic I know, but if you really think about it, it’s true, isn’t it? I mean we can rationalize all we want about how great technology has made our lives – and don’t get me wrong it has – I am in love with internet streaming on my TV – but do I really want to remember my children’s childhood as the time I sat nosed into my glowing computer reading Huffington Post or, God forbid, Deadline.com?  

During one of my recent late night web surfs I decided to investigate how computer scientists deal with productivity. Don’t ask me why, I just had a hunch that the guy’s who are bringing us this wonderful technology might have some cool tips for us greenhorns. Well, I was right. I found a terrific site: Study Hacks – http://calnewport.com/blog/ created by Cal Newport a former MIT computer science PhD candidate and now professor at Georgetown, whose blog is devoted to decoding underlying patterns of success. I love, love, love this guy. He has so many great tips for maximizing human potential. Once I started reading his blogs, I couldn’t stop – talk about a time suck. But one thing he mentioned that stuck with me that night and into the next day was an app called Freedom – http://macfreedom.com/, that apparently locks you away from the internet for up to eight hours at a time. I checked the site and was intrigued by the testimonials I read from such writers as Nora Ephron, Nick Hornsby, Dave Eggers, and Seth Godin (a virtual God of marketing). Days went by and I did nothing about it, still the thought of installing the program lurked in the back of my mind. 

Cut to a few days ago. I decided to do a global search to see if there were other websites that blocked the internet that were equally as compelling as Freedom.  Guess what? There are. Plenty. Not only is there Freedom, but there’s Vitamin Space – http://www.publicspace.net/Vitamin-R/, Concentrate – http://getconcentrating.com/, RescueTime – http://www.rescuetime.com/, and FlexTime – http://www.red-sweater.com/flextime/ – to name just a few. There’s also a free site called SelfControl -- http://visitsteve.com/made/selfcontrol/. After some deliberation, I decided to download SelfControl and try it, because A) I liked the name and B) I liked the price – free. And C) when I read about the artist, Steve Lambert, who had a programmer create the site to help him focus, I liked it even more. I also liked the fact that you could black list the sites you want to block. When I’m writing I sometimes need to do a quick fact check, so blocking the Internet completely doesn’t make sense at the moment. Maybe someday it will…

Well, I'm happy to report yesterday I installed it and gave it a 2-hour test run. Once launched, I felt a surge of relief just knowing I wouldn’t be able to access my favorite time suck websites. Before I knew it 2 hours had passed and I had written non-stop. Today I ran the application for 6 hours and was amazed as the time flew by. When it was over and the little ding chimed (another feature I love btw), I immediately went to my favorite sites to see what I had missed in my 6-hour absence. You know what I found out? I hadn’t missed a thing – nothing that couldn’t wait 6 hours anyway.

Does this signal a new wave of productivity for me and greater degree of focused, quality time with my family? If today’s output is any indication, I am extremely optimistic.