I recently read a post over at Lorelle on Wordpress about blog clutter…you know, all that crap bling in our sidebars and any other stuff that isn’t inherently necessary to a blog’s existence.

Apparently, there’s a bit of a trend towards getting rid of all that stuff so that readers can focus on your content.

Content? Content? You mean people don’t care that I think free, unstructured outdoor play is good for kids? Or that I was the Parent Magazine podcast’s blog of the month? Or that Facebook Sucks? Or that Text link Ads can be rather lucrative? Or that we’re all invited to a fun blogger weekend getaway? Get outta here!

But seriously, folks, is the bloggy bling really deserving of the old heave ho? Personally, I have mixed feelings about it because yes, while it can be distracting and perhaps a little hard on the eyes, particularly when something is moving, twinkling or flashing, it can also serve the higher purpose of educating readers.

Yes, blog clutter can be educational in that 1) it helps us get a better sense of who the blogger is and what they’re all about and 2) it can help spread information about various causes, events and things you might actually WANT to know about.

On the other hand, however, having a ton of widgets and linky love things that send people off to other places probably isn’t so good for the blogger but if they don’t care, should we mind?

And then there is the never ending brouhaha over ads. Personally, I don’t mind them so much. Sometimes they’re even interesting but there remains a core of bloggers and readers who think content should be king and that ads have no business in the blogosphere. Bah! Tell that to the people who are known to earn a nice living from ads on their blog. I think it’s safe to say they aren’t going away anytime soon…

But alas, despite anything I’ve offered up in favor of ye olde blog clutter, I still find myself pondering the idea of having nice, soothingly tidy sidebars. In fact, I’m visualizing the sleek, milky white bars pared down to the barest of essentials and it makes me want to do it RIGHT NOW! But I’m awfully attached to my sidebar crap so meh. Maybe next month.

As a blog reader, is bloggy clutter perfectly acceptable, the worst thing since Carrot Top started wearing eyeliner or are you merely indifferent to it? What about on your own blog? Any plans to declutter?

In other news…I’m going on vacation for five days on Friday and I need a blogsitter or three. Anyone interested in writing a compelling, thought-provoking or humorous post (in other words something a tad more interesting than a post about blog clutter?) for me while I’m gone? Drop me an email — izzymom {at} g mail dawt calm.

Crocs, Crocs, Crocs… The ugliest shoes ever created and yet so beloved by my seven year old daughter. Well, actually she doesn’t have THE Crocs™. You know, the name brand ones sold in the same shoes stores where they carry all those other ugly, expensive shoes that are supposed to be so awesome and comfortable (SAS shoes? UGLY!!!).

No, she has whatever you call the ones they sell at Target — the ones that were like $6 instead $30 — and she has been very content with her ugly, plasticky, purple Croc knockoffs.

So yesterday, when I announced that we were going shoe shopping because my two year old needed some shoes he could get wet, as well as put on and take off at will (because he’s forever getting his little suede sneakers wet outside and they’re starting to smell a tad funky and his sandal are totally MIA) my daughter suggested “Crocs” for him. I begrudgingly agreed that they were probably perfect for his needs — easy on and off, closed toe, and water impervious…

However, I also let her know that we wouldn’t be purchasing him the brand-name Crocs from the Ugly Shoe Store at the mall. Why? Because he’s two and he could care less who makes his shoes and his feet grow way too fast.

But then I realized that made it sound like if you were older and more aware, that it was perfectly acceptable to care who made your shoes which was, of course, the exact opposite of what I wanted to convey.

So I launched into lecture mode and, in essence, told her that a lot of luxury, brand-name and “designer” things are kind of silly; that some people use them to elevate how they feel about themselves; that labels don’t make you a better person because who you are comes from the inside, not the outside. You know…all the stuff your parents probably told you, too.

She listened patiently and then, upon conclusion, promptly changed the subject to something more interesting to a seven year old. Still, I hoped what I’d said had some impact or had at least lodged itself in her subconscious, ready to be unleashed should she begin to ever give a crap what name is emblazoned on her stuff and sparkly, girly accoutrements are no longer enough to satisfy.

Frankly, the whole thing made me examine my own feelings toward designer and name-brand things. Here I am lecturing to my child about this stuff and I have to wonder if I’m being a hypocrite? Am I practicing the old “Do as I say, not as I do?” when it comes to values?

Well, let’s just say that while I don’t long for one in the least and would never go out and buy an expensive handbag (Coach, Dooney, Louis, Fendi, Gucci etc) I would probably carry one (but only a very tasteful and understated one) if it were to magically fall into my lap because who doesn’t like a nice purse, right? But for me (and not necessarily anyone else), the unconscious subtext of my carrying something so conspicuously expensive is “Hey! This is a very expensive bag and I have one and now I’m cooler and better than I was when I didn’t have it.”

The last time I was in a thrift store (I LOVE thrift stores though I rarely get to go them anymore) I found a brand new navy blue Polo school uniform skirt in my daughter’s size for $4.00. I’m embarrassed to admit that little red polo player on the front made me just the tiniest bit giddy and hello? Polo for FOUR BUCKS! I did, of course, buy the skirt but I still made a point not to mention the designer name to my daughter because I don’t want HER to care about that sort of thing.

I guess I am a hypocrite and I find this very disconcerting. I really don’t want to be brand conscious like that and yet this morning, I found myself cringing inwardly just a little when I was getting into the momvan after dropping my son off at his morning program.

You see, as I was opening my car door, I saw another mom from P’s class parked behind me. She waved and smiled. I waved and smiled back AND took note of her gorgeous black Mercedes.

In front of me? A macked out BMW sport utility…just one of many.

My car? A domestic minivan with the malfunctioning keyless entry computer chip that I may never get fixed ($500+ is the estimate OUCH!).

And in the same moment that I was feeling both dorky and slightly inadequate, I was chastising myself for being exactly how I don’t want my children to be AND concurrently telling myself that if we were some kind of dirt poor hillbillies, we wouldn’t even BE sending P to this school. My inner dialogue is more like a heated group discussion, apparently.

I’m not sure what my point is here except to note that even I, staunch rejector of conspicuous consumption and overpriced designer items, am susceptible to wandering into the keeping-up quicksand that I really want my kids to feel empowered enough to sidestep.

Do I suffer from some kind of unacknowledged middle-class shame for not having the very things I have such contempt for?

And do I have contempt for them because of they clash with my values? Or because we simply can’t afford to live like Oprah and the Donald?

Or am I just a hapless by-product of a covetous consumer culture in which everyone is constantly made to feel inadequate to some degree?

Either way, no matter what the answer is, it seems that there is no shielding your children from the insanity of it all no matter what ‘class” you fall into. Even in schools where the kids clearly come from a lower socioeconomic background, there is still pressure to have expensive designer clothes and accessories.

Though we’re not there yet, I do wonder how to deal with this stuff down the road should my lecturing turn out to be grossly ineffective…

What’s a parent to do? Give in and buy the “right” stuff for your kids, whatever it may be, so they fit in or put your foot down and pray your kid isn’t treated like a total outcast?

See, that’s a tough question because we all remember being kids, right?

There is a period before you discover your individuality where fitting in is THE most important thing ever. Studies show that rejection from whatever peer group a child identifies with, regardless of their standing in said group, does leave a permanent mark on how a child sees him or herself in a social context and that mark is lifelong. Yikes!

Can clothes, shoes and the like really be the deciding factor? I find myself hoping it’s really that simple, despite how much it grates against my seemingly fluid values.

See, I remember begging my mom for Nike sneakers and Levi’s cords when I was about ten. A couple years later it was “earth shoes” and designer jeans a la Jordache, Sergio Valente, Cacharel, Sasson etc. and those suckers were pricey for that time. But I was spoiled AND a child of divorce so I rarely heard the word “no”.

Did having the right attire propel me to the heights of popularity? No, not really.

Did they save me from being a complete outcast and cool-kid pincushion? I have no idea and I guess there isn’t any real way to quantify that but I do know that I don’t ever want my kids to be in that position.

Do a parent’s values even matter in an age where we’ve had to invent a new term for a specific kind of bullying that is becoming more and more common — fashion bullying?

Personally, I think buying Dolce & Gabbana for children is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard and any parent who raises the bar to that level for the rest of us should be publicly flogged with a D&G belt — in the middle of a Walmart!

I only found out I was adopted about five years ago and it was completely by accident that I came across the irrefutable evidence scrawled on the back of a photo of my dad and myself (as a baby) where I was referred to as his “adopted” daughter by someone whose handwriting I didn’t recognize.

You could have knocked me over with a feather. There just aren’t words to describe how I felt at that moment. I had looked at these old family photos, given to me by my sister the year before, a dozen times and never had I seen the writing on the back of that picture until I put it face down on my scanner. I was going to use it to make my dad a father’s day card.

Such irony…

I don’t want to start any blasphemous rumors but I think that God has a sick sense of humor and when I die, expect to find him laughing — Depeche Mode

So I confronted my father over the phone and insisted he tell me everything. It was hard for both of us but in the end, I understood why he never told me and why my mom never told me when she was alive and I forgave them.

Of course I still feel very betrayed when I consider that well over a dozen people that were close to me knew this crucial information, including my sister. But I’ve also found peace with it in the ways that really matter.

I found peace because I now know where I come from; because I found my birthparents.

In a nutshell, I contacted the appropriate party in the Department of Vital Statistics to request what’s known as the “non-identifying” information associated with my adoption. This is basically all the information known about my birthparents with anything that would identify them or any details about my adoption stripped out.

I was told the information no longer existed, that the agency had closed and never turned over their records to the state. This information only strengthened my resolve. I flatly refused to accept that this was the end of my search.

After several wrong numbers, three phone calls and exactly one email, I had done what the state couldn’t. I had located the supposedly non-existent records of over one hundred adoptees.

I eventually got my non-identifying information and with one small and seemingly inconsequential nugget of info about my biological grandfather, I was able to locate my birthfather in two phone calls. From him, I acquired my birthmother’s full name and found her on Classmates.com.

After many tense emails with her in which I initially explained that I simply wanted some information, we finally met in person and four years later, I have a pleasant and somewhat close relationship with both birthparents.

But I was extremely lucky.

You see, there are many people out there who have not been able to learn of their parentage, their ancestry, or any of the other elusive information that haunts so many adoptees.

I realize that forty years ago, being pregnant out of wedlock was one of the worst things that could happen to a woman or teenage girl. I’ve read many books and I know the social alienation and ostracization was both systematic and cruel beyond words. I DO understand why adoptions were so secretive.

But what about the adopted children who grow up, both knowing or not knowing of their adoptive status? What about them? What about their rights? What about MY rights?

Doesn’t everyone deserve to know with whom they are forever linked by blood, by shared genes, by shared heredity? Don’t we have a right to know where we come from? To know if we have siblings? Or an important medical history?

As soon as found out I was adopted, so many things started to make sense to me and I quickly developed an insatiable need to know more. When I found out my records were not available, my need only intensified. I had to know who I was. I needed to find my tribe, so to speak.

When I finally did, so many things “fit” and the ability to see that I was like these other two living beings both physically as well as in personality and character brought me a peace I’d been seeking not only since learning of my adoption but really, throughout my life.

The reason I decided to write this because of something I recently read in the NY Times titled “States Urged to Open Adoption Records.” A friend with whom I spoke frequently during my search sent me the link along with a single word… “Finally!”

But there are those who don’t agree, like the American Civil Liberties Union and various anti-abortion groups who feel, despite a lack of supporting data, that women would seek abortions if they couldn’t have closed-record adoptions. I totally disagree with this. You can read why in the comments section where I have responded to a commenter.

Conversely, “States’ experiences in providing this information make clear that there are minimal, if any, negative repercussions,” said the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute. “Outcomes appear to have been overwhelmingly positive for adult adopted persons and birthparents alike.”

As noted, I understand that when closed adoptions were the norm and required by law, it was, out of ignorance, thought to be the best decision for all parties concerned but times have changed. Frankly, I don’t think that it was EVER the best decision for the adoptees. We were just babies. We had nobody to speak for us.

Additionally, adopted people are the only class of Americans not permitted to obtain their real and unaltered birth certificates (yes, the state FAKES your birth certificate when you’re adopted). We don’t have the same rights as every other American and it’s completely unconstitutional.

That said, I strongly disagree that one person’s wish to not know their child or remain anonymous can trump another person’s right to their identity.

If a birthmother gives birth in a closed-records state and doesn’t want to be contacted by her child, she should be able to file a “do not contact” request with the state and be required to routinely re-validate the request (the same right to not be contacted should also be afforded to adoptees who wish to not be contacted) but ALL information should be open and available to any adoptee who wants it or at the VERY least, adoptees should be able to have access to their original birth certificates.

Birthparents who wish to know the fate of their surrendered children should also be able to have access to said records.

The adoption world is entirely too secretive. Exactly what are we trying to hide and why? Are the reasons really compelling enough to deny a consenting adult their own birth certificate? The right to privacy argument is, in my opinion, bullshit and if you’ve ever been involved in the adoption community, you’d see just how many birthmothers never wanted secretive, closed adoptions. The few that do are a very, very small minority.

I guess one way to really know how supposedly awful and terrible open records would be is to survey adoptees and birthparents from states where adoption records have never been sealed (there are a handful) and see what they have to say.

I know this is a hot button issue for a lot of people and I just want to say it’s not my intention to diminish the importance of adoptive parents. You are your child’s parents and you always will be. No birthparent or the knowledge of one can ever change that.

And for anyone who is wondering, though they are no longer with me, I loved my adoptive parents with all my heart. Knowing of my adoption and meeting my birthparents could never change that for me, either.

Edited to add:

You can read some more comments and discourse on this topic here. As per usual, the divisions and opinions are strong but there are some excellent points made in favor of open adoption records. Thanks to Amy for the link.

Despite my somewhat cynical, suspicious nature I’m still, oddly enough, a very optimistic and trusting person.

What this means is sometimes I will pick up on a feeling that someone is not being honest or is just plain full of shit but I brush it off because I WANT to trust them.

However, when the lie comes from my child? I feel compelled to address it because one time it’s a small lie about something minor and before you know it, it’s a lie about going to watch movies at a girlfriend’s house when you’re really going to a party to hang out with your much older friends (and BOYS!) and partake in copious amounts of cheap beer and shwaggy, seedy marijuana.

Not that I would know anything about that sort of thing. Ahem.

So this weekend, when I saw several uneaten apple slices in the sink, presumably intended to be put in the disposal, I wanted to know how they got there.

I wasn’t mad. I just wanted to tell the person who put them down there that they should have just left them on their plate because we ALL like apples and someone else would have eaten them. No biggie.

I asked my daughter, TQ, if she put her apples in the sink.

She says no, just as cool and casual as can be.

“Really?” I say, “Because it wasn’t P. He’s still at the table eating.”

Again, I get the wide-eyed “I have no earthly idea how those got there” look and another denial.

She’s good. VERY convincing. And I really want to believe her.

But I smell bullshit because WHO ELSE’S APPLES WOULD THOSE BE IF NOT HERS?????

I ask again, looking directly into her eyes and again she insists they’re not hers.

I decide a different approach is warranted because now? I’m on a mission.

SOMEBODY is gonna own up to throwing away this fricken apple; this delicious Gala organic apple that I took the time to painstakingly peel and slice! If only you knew how much I loathe all forms of domesticity…

“Well, I’m not upset or anything. I was just going to say to whoever threw this in the sink that your brother or I would have eaten it. You should just tell me if it was you.”

I can see a subtle change come across her case. And she begins to crack.

“I know it was you,” I say, feeling a bit ridiculous for making such a big deal over a stupid apple. But really, it’s not about the apple. She’s LYING to my face! How can I let that go?

And then she finally confesses to the high crime of throwing a her apple slices in the sink; looking a bit sheepish, I assume, for having carried this charade so far.

Then I lower the boom.

“You lied to me, TQ. It’s not about the apple anymore. I gave you numerous chances to tell me the truth but you sat there and lied to me over and over.”

No response — just a lot of fidgeting and two big ol’ eyes looking back at me.

“Why did you lie?”

“I don’t know.”

Now I’m just irritated and disappointed and I start wondering how many other times I’ve taken her word without question and been lied to.

I must CRUSH this lying bidness RIGHT NOW! *shakes fist*

But how???

I say to her, “Go get all your Littlest Pet Shop stuff and bring it to me.”

She does.

I take the box and as I’m leaving the room I say “You can have these back when you prove yourself trustworthy.”

The waterworks come on. The sobbing begins. The throwing of her body onto the floor in a manner that would make Scarlet O’Hara proud. Oy, SUCH drama…

The real kicker is that on Friday, a mere two days before, I let her pick out a new Littlest Pet Shop thingy that she had been bugging me about for a while now. It was her reward for a stellar report card.

Two days later, it’s up in my closet and I feel like a total jerk.

But I’m trying to send her a message that lying, while it’s not an abnormal behavior in seven year olds, is not acceptable. And yet, while I know my intentions are good, I STILL feel like a jerk.

And at what point do I deem her “trustworthy” again?

HOW do I make that determination?

Arrrgghhhhhhh!

One thing I do know?

Don’t be in a hurry for your babies and toddlers to grow up because this parenting gig?

It never gets any easier.

And the problems? They just get bigger and harder.

•••

Over at Props and Pans, we’re giving away a Kodak EasyShare All-in-One printer. It prints, copies and scans and it’s wicked cool! All you have to do to enter is leave a comment telling us how you would use it with your kids. Go!!!!

You know the holidays are coming up, right? And you KNOW what that means, right? Yep, shopping. Lots and lots of shopping. And lots of bags. Paper and plastic.

The paper bags from everyone in America buying groceries for Thanksgiving alone will probably set us back a few frillion trees and a lot of oxygen, ya know?

And then Christmas and Hannukah…more bags. Especially plastic ones from malls, department stores etc.

So I have this idea!

I’m suggesting that instead of, or perhaps in addition to a regular gift, that you give the gift of re-usable bags to your friends, family, kids’ teachers, the mailman, the lawn guy — anyone! Everyone!

I know it sounds super crunchy and not at all glamorous but let me tell you… I never felt so cool as I did the other day when I carried my Green Bags (purchased at my local Publix grocery store for $1.49 each) into Wild Oats and had the guy put my groceries in them when I checked out.

Everyone around me, including the ultra-hippies and greenies, were using paper whereas I saved about FIVE paper bags that day using my awesome, super strong, super sturdy and super cheap Green Bags.

That’s when I decided that at $1.49 a pop, I was going to give my bags away to other people and just buy new ones. And that’s what I did!

And then it occurred to me that those bags (or ANY re-usable bags that are made to last) would make great presents because they’re like a gift that helps someone be green (or greener) and it keeps giving to the environment, too.

Can you tell that I’m excited about this?

Squeeee!!!

My God…does the drama of life ever end? It feels like I’ve been knee deep in it lately. This time, however, it’s not really my drama but it’s still heartbreakingly sad to watch someone slowly die, as my husband has for the past two weeks.

My father-in-law had cancer for four years. He thought he’d beaten it after the first two years until they found it had spread. For the next two years he suffered through chemotherapy and radiation, knowing it would never stop the cancer completely, though it gave him some relief from the terrible pain. He endured all of it because he didn’t want to leave his wife of fifty years. If there were ever an example of true love, my in-laws were it.

My mother-in-law took him to endless and seemingly daily doctor appointments and tried, in the face of futility, to make his discomforts bearable.

She catered to his every need and tried to make life as normal as possible, even when he couldn’t stand to eat because the chemo ruined his sense of taste and when he needed help getting to the bathroom several times a night because he could barely walk anymore.

The level of devotion between these two people was so touching. But it was also sad because we all knew how the story would eventually end.

A couple weeks ago he was hospitalized because, unbeknownst to anyone until then, the cancer had spread to his brain. From there it was a quick spiral downward. He was moved to a hospice where he was heavily medicated for pain and literally slept the entire four days he was there before he passed peacefully in his sleep.

I am relieved that his suffering is over but I am sad that he is gone. I’m sad that my son will never really get to know the man who, always sitting in his same chair, would light up when my little boy would stop running around and play with his grandpa’s shoes or or jibberjabber at him in his toddlerspeak.

I’m also feeling guilty for feeling uncomfortable around my father-in-law as he got sicker and sicker. For not stopping by on a lark with the kids like I used to do. For not reaching out and really letting him know that I cared.

This was not the first time I’ve backed away from someone that was ill. I had a friend from college and after I’d left school, we weren’t quite as close as we’d been. I heard he’d gone home to Maine because he had a brain tumor. I had the phone number where to reach him but I couldn’t bring myself to call. I kept saying to myself I would do it. Tomorrow. But that day never came. When I heard he’d died, I felt horrible.

It’s not that I’m afraid of illness or I think that I’ll catch it or anything ridiculous like that. I just don’t know what to say or do. I can’t sit there and pretend everything is fine when it isn’t. I can’t make pleasant small talk like everything is normal when I know someone is dying. I find great discomfort in discussing anything trivial, which most things are, because it feels like pretending. It feels wrong.

And yet, you can’t walk up to somebody with a terminal illness and just launch into a depressing conversation about their fate, about the unlucky hand they’ve been dealt.

I just don’t know how to act and ultimately I end up avoiding the whole situation.

We would go to my in-laws house for holidays or family get-togethers and I would go in the sunroom where he was always sitting and reading, working on his laptop, watching TV or napping and just hope that I wouldn’t have to converse with him alone for more than a few minutes. My son, an ever curious toddler, made it kind of easy, always giving me cause to get up and run after him in the interest of preventing injury or breakage.

Why couldn’t I just talk to him like everyone else did? Why was it so hard for me to look at his hairless head and shrinking frame? I don’t know.

I did always extend myself to my mother-in-law with offers to help with anything she needed and always sent my well wishes through her and in my prayers. But still… I feel guilt.

The only thing that makes me feel a tiny bit better is that while he was in the hospice, I took a few moments alone to talk to him, hoping he could hear me as he hovered somewhere between life and death.

I told him I was sorry that he had to go out that way. I thanked him for loving my children so much and being a wonderful grandpa to them. I thanked him for being a good father to my husband and in turn teaching him to be a good father to his own children. I asked him to try and wake up one last time to say goodbye to his wife before he let go. And I told him I loved him.

All of this has brought back a flood of memories of my own father’s unexpected death three years ago. Thankfully, my husband’s family is not like mine. We are a blended family and there is nothing simple about it.

When my father died, it seems like everyone (mainly my adopted sister, and stepsiblings) acted like their grief trumped everyone else’s. If someone cried too hard or emoted too loudly, they (including me) were made to feel like they were “carrying on” and that it was not warranted; that they had no right to be that grief-stricken or upset. That their sadness was not as important as someone else’s.

It was a horrible, horrible time and because of their strange sense of possessiveness over grieving, over who had the right to grieve most or be the saddest, my sister and I no longer speak.

I know my dad is watching us and probably cursing both of us for being so hardheaded and childish but we are at an impasse. I can’t overlook how she and her husband treated me in the face of a terrible loss and she can’t overlook a slight that never happened except in her very chip-shouldered imagination.

My husband’s family is the complete opposite. They are warm and kind and loving and supportive and would never in a million years treat each other or my husband that way. He really doesn’t know how lucky he is. Or maybe he does now.

And now you know that my sister and I don’t speak anymore, that I have issues with terminal illness and why I haven’t posted in a week.

If I owe you an email or said I would do something and didn’t do it, you also now know the reason.

I’m doing the best I can to catch up now that the funeral is behind us.

I want nothing more than to get back to our routine and resume my regular, boring old life with no more sadness and no more drama. PLEASE.

No, no, it’s not what you think. Though some would probably cheer me on if I was out looking for a new man, that’s not quite the case.

I’m actually looking for moms to date. Well, not to date exactly but something like that. I want to meet them for kid playdates during the day and for grown-up playdates at night.

I’ve decided that I need to find some local friends as cool as the ones in the little white box on my desk (uh…that would be you guys). My closest IRL friends live in other states and my friendships here with other moms are mostly based on the friendships shared by our kids.

It’s not that they aren’t nice people because they are but I’m not sure I can spend one more afternoon with someone who doesn’t get my sense of humor or weird pop culture references, who doesn’t understand irony or someone who doesn’t appreciate or utilize sarcasm from time to time. Am I shallow or narcissistic because I want to be with people who are more like me?

I just know my tribe is out there somewhere so, at the recommendation of a very lame local mom website, I’ve started perusing Meetup.com and looking for moms or mom groups in my city that sound like my kind of people. This is where it starts to feel like dating.

Let’s see…there are the working moms groups, the homeschooling moms groups, the moms groups identified by their locale, the Christian moms groups, the “Chic Moms” group and the “MILF” moms group, just to name a few.

I’m not sure I fit with most of the aforementioned but I’m intrigued by the MILF group because I’m curious to know what women who identify themselves as such are like. Are they wild and crazy? Fun loving? Exceedingly attractive? I have no idea but I’m betting they’re not gonna be scrapbooking or playing Bunco on Friday nights and that’s a pretty big plus in my book.

The “Chic Moms” are probably not my type at all. I may not be trouncing around in mom jeans or holiday-themed sweatshirts but I don’t own any pricey handbags and I don’t buy trendy, expensive, designer clothing because I’d rather have something like an iPhone or a lot of massages or Thai every Friday night. So yeah…my lack of “chic” might be a turn off for them and probably not lead to second date.

And there’s always The MOMS Club. Nothing against TMC as I used to belong to one and even founded a chapter, but I’m just so tired of everyone putting their Perfect Mommy masks on and never taking them off.

It may not be like that everywhere but here? Those mommy masks are welded on pretty damn tight and I just can’t hang out with people who won’t admit that parenthood is hard and sometimes isolating and frequently all-consuming.

I can’t hang out with people who never swear and never lose their tempers and won’t admit that they look forward to bedtime. Their kids bedtime.

I just can’t.

Is it me? Am I being too picky? Is it wrong to not want to compromise anymore?

When the hell did making friends get so hard and so farking complicated?

•••••••• On a completely different note, I’d like to make a little announcement about Moms Speak Up, a group blog and labor of love for myself and several other amazing, passionate women who have things to say about the state of the world in which we live and the things we want to change.Come by and check us out. New contributors are always welcome!

Normally, I wouldn’t devote a blog post to my birthday but dudes — it’s the big 4-0!

I feel almost obligated to note the day even though I don’t feel any older than I did last week or even last year (and in some ways, I actually feel better).

“WHAT??? How can that be?” you say! Has she lost her mind?

It’s true, though.

Recent unpleasant circumstances notwithstanding, I feel more confident in who I am now than I did when I was thirty.

I feel more free to speak my mind and I also find it easier to not sweat the small stuff and I feel like I have a much better grasp on what’s truly important in life.

And? I don’t care about cellulite so much anymore. I know…total bonus, right?

Also, please correct me if if I’m wrong, all you forty plus ladies out there, but isn’t this supposed to be about the time we start hitting our sexual peak?

DO TELL

Inquiring forty and almost forty year old minds want to know!

A great big thank you to my friend Shannon of Believer in Balance for giving me a Perfect Post Award for “How I wish.” This is turning out to be a pretty good day after all :)