Silicon Valley Moms Blog

The Disgruntled Secret Santa

This year my four kids decided to have a Secret Santa gift exchange.  I was very excited that they were wanting to embrace the spirit of giving--they were actually thinking about giving instead of just receiving! But cynically, I did wonder if they were motivated to do this because it would ensure one more gift for each of them under the tree.  I decided to be positive (think Christmas cheer) and agreed that this would be a terrific idea.

After drawing names and making wish lists, we set a spending budget of $15.  The kids were to contribute as much as they could on their own (using their allowance) and my husband and I would make up the difference.  Needless to say, their chores were actually being completed this month. 

I ventured out with the kids---shopping in pairs.  They were very thoughtful and meticulous in picking out their gifts for one another.  Each one wanted to make sure they chose the perfect gift.  

The Joys of Customer Service

Dear DiscoverCard,

The phone rang this morning and the caller ID said it was one of your people. I’m a loyal customer of yours, and you’ve always been good about checking potential fraud alerts, so I take your calls. The voice on the phone said that this was a courtesy call, and could she speak to my husband.

“He’s not here. What is this regarding?”
“When would be a better time to call?”
“What is this regarding?” I repeated.
“I can only speak to him. When would be a better time to call?”

At this point, I was plenty irritated, because it’s not the first call like this. In fact, I’ve had about a dozen vague and increasingly discourteous calls from your agents, or people saying they’re your agents in the last two months. At first, I was concerned there was a problem with our account, so I logged in to your website. Nope, no alerts or issues.

A few days later, there was another call. Again, a refusal to speak to anyone but my husband. He’s the primary cardholder, but I had believed we had equal control over the account, especially since I do most of the management on our day to day accounts. It took a few weeks (and six more DiscoverCard “courtesy calls”) before we managed a time when both my husband and I were at home and able to make a business call without simultaneously extracting small children from sticky trouble.

Confessions of a Grinchly Mom

November ended quietly.  No really, Thanksgiving was quiet, we ate at a buffet.  It was wonderful, and everyone had seconds, and thirds; a few even had more.  The best part was no dishes, no clean up, nothing.  We also had a great time just being together, all 13 of us.  But then, just before us, was December.  December was looming!  I mean really big kind of looming, if that was ever possible.   That Thanksgiving weekend, quickly lead us into the need for a tree, all the decorations, the design phase, the planning phase the doing phase.  Who knows which phase came first with our little 6 year old.  We could not stop the activity if we tried.  And yes, I tried.  This year, I became the Grinch, (please, please do not tell my daughter, who wants a mother for a Grinch?) 

Lies I Have Told on Behalf of Elf on the Shelf

He's upside down, our Elf on the Shelf. His legs jut up into the air, his head buried deep in a pile of folders, hands clasped behind his back. He looks as if he's been pushed off the edge of a cliff, bound and blindfolded. He was pushed alright, but according to our made-up-on-the-fly rules, there was no direct contact, so the push was legal (as was made up by me) and our Elf did not lose his magic. I'm too tired to turn him upright, I'm ready for him to return home. A few more hours, and he'll be back at the North Pole for another year. I'm tired of our Elf, tired of the lies.

Grandma was over last night. She spotted our Elf in a bucket of plastic dinosaurs and she...she...touched him! The kids stopped in their tracks, breathing deeply and staring at grandma.

"Grandma, you touched Elf on the Shelf, " the boys whispered, staring in disbelief. (We did not give him a name, as we were instructed to so he is not Tony or Elfie, he is Elf on the Shelf.)

Grandma stared back, not quite comprehending.

"Yes, Grandma, the Elf loses his magic if we should touch him, " I explained, smiling through clenched teeth.

Grandma squirmed and denied it, "No, I um...I touched the dino---"

"Hat!" I interrupted, "You touched his hat and that's okay because grownups are allowed to touch his clothes," I lied.

Oh, the lies I have told on behalf of Elf on the Shelf.

It’s between me and Santa

There is nothing quite like that magical feeling you get when you walk into your home at night in late December and see that the only lights in the house are those adorning your Christmas tree. Having been out all day caught up in the marketing of the holiday season after numerous forced purchases, I arrived home with both children asleep in the car wondering how I would ever manage to get them into the house and back asleep. As I carried the younger of the two into the house, I had one of the moments reminiscent from my childhood, all was quiet, and for a moment, a very brief moment, I felt as if I was five years old gazing up at the Christmas tree. It was the kind of reflection that enabled me to remove myself from all those things I dislike about the holiday and reflect upon the simple moments of peace, solitude and gratitude. This year has been anything but an easy one and yet we are lucky to have a healthy family and steady work.

Simply seeing these lights helped me to reconnect with the good things around me and to realize that despite the holiday chaos and pressures if you can find the time to stop and engage with your inner child you just might feel that childlike excitement as if sprinkled upon you like a dash of magic ferry dust.  And amidst the holiday season magic there were a few really funny Santa moments (AKA kids say the darndest things):

Technology has made me stupid

What else could I conclude, as I stood crying in a dark parking lot, unable to find my car in a freezing rain on a recent Monday night? 

While neuroscientists and journalists debate whether the Internet is making us stupid, a different kind of technology -- the remote control keychain --  is contributing to my own brain-flabbiness. 

I borrowed my babysitter's car to run some errands and visit my Dad at his nursing home.  The problem: I had been on my cell phone  (hands-free) when I parked the car and walked inside Valley Fair shopping mall, so I didn't pay careful attention to exactly where I parked. In my defense, I was also distracted by my Dad's recent health problems and had been feeling "fuzzy-headed" lately. This tends to happen when I'm in pre-holiday, sick Dad, work deadline- panic mode. But with my own car, technology would have saved me. I can always click the lock button on my keychain and get my car to beep. Much of the time, that's how I find it. 

My sitter's car doesn't have this handy feature so I had to find my car the old-fashioned way. By remembering where I had parked it. Uh-oh. So what happens when you don't bother to memorize where you parked? And then the sky turns black and freezing rain drops pelt you? Miserable, scared and walking in circles, a strange man calls you "Sweetie" and offers to help you find your car. "No thanks! I've got it," you say with greater confidence than you feel. And then you get out your cell phone and call your husband and your Mom and make one of them come help you. Technology, and a loving family, to the rescue again. 

The Money Machine

Oh, to have a money machine! Anytime you need cash, you just push a button and voila - instant money. Talk about having enough cash to buy whatever you want - new shoes, clothes, iPods and HD TVs. Expensive restaurants in San Francisco, Broadway shows in New York. Fancy vacations to Greece, Sweden, Samoa, the South Pole (before it melts!) And gifts for everyone!! (Did I mention I'd like a new cycling jersey?)

Heck, in these economic times, a money machine could make the difference between meeting or missing a mortgage payment.

A money machine is a dream that's even better than a money tree. With a money tree, you have to water it, make sure it gets sunlight, protect it from frost, and harvest the bills before they're gobbled up by squirrels and birds. (Or does a money tree grow coins, sort of like cherries and acorns? I forget)

Okay, so I'm making it all up about this money machine. Right? Er... not exactly. I was at the grocery shopping for chicken and dumplings recipe ingredients (and maybe some tequila for my best margarita recipe. Shhh, don't tell..) when I came  across a woman with small kids - and they reminded me that the money machine is all too real.

Kids, iPod Touch/iPhone and YouTube

 Our oldest (not yet 10) received an iPhone, a much drooled-upon and expensive toy, a few months ago when my husband upgraded to the new 3G iPhone.  Since then, I've been very vigilant about his time and usage of this iPhone, and the interactions he has with it, including checking on what kind of YouTube videos he has been watching.  It's been an interesting struggle for both of us.  He loves interacting with the iPhone (Duck, Water, you know) while I want him to spend less time on his own in his room playing iPhone games, watching YouTube videos, emailing with his friends, etc.  I end up telling him to read (books) more, practice his Viola, clean his room, etc. when I see him starting into the iPhone.  Why not just take away the iPhone from him?  Well, I would rather teach him about discipline now while he's more receptive to my meddling than ... later, when he becomes that much maligned creature called a "Teenager".

So it was huge wake up call for me when a friend related to me how she was asked by her 8-year old daughter to remove a video clip of what she (the mother) thought was a "lesbian sex" video clip from her daughter's YouTube Favorites list.   Go ahead and breathe, then read that last sentence again.  Thank goodness her daughter found the clip "weird and not that fun" and talked to her mom about it.  After I picked up my jaw from the dining room floor, I told her about my weekly check of our son's YouTube "history" files.  Even while I was talking to her, I realized that I did not know if there was anyway for me to control or limit YouTube content on our son's iPhone. 

It doesn't matter how good you've been, you're not getting it kid

When I attended his class Holiday Party, I moved around the room to see all the work displayed from floor to ceiling.  There were glittery poinsettias, construction paper dreidels, and reindeer’s antlers made from their own hands.  And tucked away into the far side of the room, where most parents still hadn’t ventured, was handwritten letters to Santa.  All of the letters started the same way, “Dear Santa, I’ve been a very good boy/girl.”  I’m guessing the teachers gave the children some examples of what to write next.  Some said they were nice to their little brother or sister.  Some said they picked up their toys. Others said they listened to their parents. But that was the end of the similarity.  What came after was the wish list. After all, one doesn’t write to Santa to ask for World Peace. It’s all about the toys.

I was getting quite a chuckle from the list of toys requested by the class. There were dolls, what I think was supposed to be a zhu zhu pet, superheroes, and even a request for a new bike.  But then I came to my son’s paper.  Darius wrote, clear as day, “I want a DS.” As in a Nintendo DS. 

It shouldn’t surprise me that he went big this year with the list.  After all, Santa has always brought him what he wanted. But those wants then weren’t as expensive as the wants of today.  Then it was a football helmet or a Lego Star Wars set.  It wasn’t a toy that costs over $150. This year he had originally told me that he was asking Santa for Bakugans.  And you know Santa already finished his shopping and bought those darn plastic thingamabobs and has them well hidden at the top of the closet waiting for Christmas morning. Santa isn’t buying a DS.  No way in hell.

One Child Left Behind

It was bound to happen.  My schedule changes so frequently.  Working three days of the week, son in kindergarten then off to afternoon care, daughter in daycare.  Two days a week I am home: toting the boy to school, caring for the baby girl, then back to school mid-day to pick the boy up.  Add to this that my husband, who works as a cameraman and TV editor, is frequently traveling, and also has a schedule that changes day to day - and let's just say if we didn't have a giant white board telling us what to do next...we'd forget what to do next.

And so it was inevitable that the moment I would find a free minute to spare for myself, something would go dreadfully wrong.

I spent that minute checking in on my garden. Cool season vegetables can be so finicky. You really need to keep an eye on them.  My 9 month-old daughter was in a happy place and willing to play in her exersaucer in the backyard with me.  The alternating hot and cold weather and the constant threat of snails were worrying me. Would the weather cause my broccoli to bolt and produce flowers instead of veggie? Would the rain bring the snails to feast on my cauliflower? Besides my children, these are the thoughts that keep me up at night. But suddenly another thought: what time is it? I ran past my daughter, into the kitchen, and there it was - staring me in the face: 12:00pm.  The exact time my son gets out of school.

All I want for Christmas is... time.

I can feel it coming. The email. The one that comes every year a week or so before Christmas, sometimes earlier.

"What do you want for Christmas this year?"

It'll come from one sister, the other will be CCd, and I'll let it sit there for a moment before I click Reply All.

In the past my reply would have been filled with a variety of things that could easily be found online or in stores. This year though, I think my sisters might have a bit more trouble with my list.

Here's what I want for Christmas.

Pre-Travel Stress Syndrome

Traveling with your family can be fun.  Traveling with your family during the holidays can be fun, but a bit hectic.  Traveling with your family during the holidays to stay with relatives for three weeks is fun and hectic, but keeping everyone entertained and happy requires a lot of advance planning and scheduling of the part of the grownups.  Throw in a 14-hour flight, 16-hour time difference and 25-degree temperature difference and it can feel like you're embarking on a major lifestyle change!  Which is why, for the past five days, I've found myself wide awake and alert by 6:30AM, itching to get up, with "What should I be doing today?" thoughts racing through my head. I've come down with PTSS -- Pre Travel Stress Syndrome.

If you think PTSS doesn't exist, just take a look at the photo.  The person bending over ungracefully on the far right is me.  Only a person suffering from PTSS would allow her ass to be photographed that way.

Silicon Valley, Lego land

Credit where credit is due. After complaining the other week about the bizarre inability of so many Silicon Valley parents to allow their kids time to just tinker around with stuff, I was happy to find myself at an event this last weekend positively swarming with would-be tinkerers, young and old.

The occasion was the sixth annual holiday Lego exhibition at Palo Alto's Museum of American Heritage. Checking out this show of generally stunning inventiveness (put on by the Bay Area Lego Users Group and the Bay Area LEGO Train Club) has become an annual tradition for our family -- and many others, too, judging by the crowd that had ditched their usual weekend routines to turn up last Sunday morning.

This time I was there with just my son, which put us in the majority family grouping. I don't remember ever seeing as many young boys and their fathers all in one place and so completely in mutual agreement that what was in front of them was absolutely, unarguably super-cool. The boys were mostly elementary school kids. The dads, I'd guess, were mostly engineers and entrepreneurs -- the sort of people most responsible for the Valley's distinctive culture.  

Why I'm dumping George Clooney

What’s not to love?

He has it all.   He’s politically correct, witty, speaks Italian, beloved by Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts and all the women I know—who would line up to give him their hand in marriage or their vote for president or their firstborn child.

I was always at the front of that line—and I’ll line up to see Up in the Air.   But our personal relationship has run its course.

The break up isn’t what you think—-though I admit that goat movie didn’t help.

And it’s not sour grapes because a woman named Amy Ferris wrote a wonderful book I wish I wrote called Marrying George Clooney. It’s not even sour grapes that Marrying George Clooney might  actually happen to that Italian beauty he’s dating.    If he does marry her,  I hope she gets fat I wish them lots of happiness.

But we’re officially over— due to the oldest reason in the book:  I’m dumping him for someone else.

My change of heart has been coming for a long time.  And it hasn’t been an easy decision; it’s taken soul searching—and even overcoming some Freudian issues— because George looks like a hip version of my father at that age.   And maybe age is the key word here:  mine.   At this age—and this stage—- I’m all over George— and I’m all about Alec Baldwin.