Chicago Moms Blog

These are the signs of her love

There were many, many conversations over many, many years when my grandmother -- sports fanatic, homemade noodle maker, quilter and card shark -- would comment on my life through my horoscope. When I was sad about a boy, she would nod in understanding and say something like, "Well, honey, your horoscope's been saying romance is on hold until the next full moon." If it was something at school, she'd say she was sure I'd do well since Aries had a solid 8 for hard work all week. She'd send me a crisp twenty if she noted everyone born in my sign was suffering from financial difficulties or call to see if I'd spoken with my brother since his sign kept mentioning being out of sorts.
 

We're still cool with pink (so far)

It was one of those crazy, playdate dinners with kids running wild, the baby making body art out of organic whole milk yogurt and the parents rushing to put together a dinner while trying to complete sentences, wipe up spills and runny noses, pour beer.

When it came time to fill drinks for Lil E and his best buddy Sam, I saw Sam's dad pause over the big bin full of plastic valves and tops and cups. He held one up, shaking it slowly and asked hesitantly, "Will Lil E drink out of a pink cup?"

My funny, small and frosted Valentine

A lot of people who love me have asked me if I am worried about Valentine's Day and if I am sad not to spend it as I may have expected. The answer is not at all. I am perfectly happy this Valentine's Day.

I don't needed too much to celebrate. My mom makes a big deal of it and I love the pomp and circumstance of balloons and heart-shaped pizzas or pink pancakes and cutesy panties gift-wrapped in metallic red packages. All of these little, personal and quirky touches are more fun to me than roses or big cards decorated with velveteen flowers and calligraphied poems my brother rolls his eyes at and says defiantly, "Too much to read!" I'll pass on the inflated-prixe dinner out or the pressure for an overdone romantic present for something small and sweet.

Oh the snow

In the last nine days, I've shoveled snow 47 times.  Forty-seven times.

OK, maybe eight times. But the days I've been out there twice in one day with my multiple-sized shovels and a bundled up boy and little bowl of salt to sprinkle on the path from the door of the house to the door of the car, are worth at least seven done by snow-blowers.

I've shoveled early in the morning and well after dark. I've done the gangway and the walkway to the back gate where the garbage cans and garage are. I've shoveled out the car and my neighbor's paths and pulled Lil E  from a giant pile of discarded snow.

Oh hell naw: Minivan love in bloom

One of the perks and pains of blogging is the PR push to review products. Sometimes, the ask is as thrilling as trying out a Swiffer, and other times, it's books or make-up or better. A few weeks ago, the CMBers were approached to test drive brand spankin' new cars for a week. Sure, it's a minivan, which I ardently resist in my quest to be just a tad bit hipper or sassier or something than they convey in my over-analysis and my prideful aesthetics that easily conquer mommy pragmatism. But when they surveyed me thoroughly on my work, opinions and weekly activities and then swiftly approving all that, invited me to roll a fully-loaded 2008 Dodge Caravan during a week I'm displaced from my home and normal routine, I was actually excited. They had me at "We think you are one of just 50 socially and professionally influential women in Chicago." My next and clearly logical thought was about my shoes.

Dinners, Dairy and Drinks: A Chicago Moms Blog Night Out

A couple of weeks ago, several of us from Chicago Moms Blog did something radical. We met. In person. For a few glorious hours, we tucked our cell phones and Blackberries into our purses, kept the diaper bags and travel case of wipes and baggies of broken crayons in the car and had real live conversation. Over food. And wine. Oh, and aprons.

Yes, there were aprons. We met up at Super Suppers in Northbrook for an event hosted by 3-A-Day, a part of the National Dairy Council, to assemble and sample dairy-friendly dinners. While I wouldn't have thought getting out of the house for an evening with my friends to still make a dinner (or six) would be so fun and freeing, it was. Here's why:

Project: Life Change...Join Two Moms Today

Calling all "mama friends," especially those of you who do the work-life juggle every day like we do.

Are you tired? Stressed out? Grouchy? Feeling like you are working too much? Missing out on watching your kids grow up? Too busy to participate in the fun parts of family life? Avoiding the pile of laundry in the corner of your bedroom?  Neglecting yourself? Not making time or money for the little luxuries? Feeling isolated from your partner? Overwhelmed with school calendars, activities, and homework? Longing for more time in your day? Feeling out of control and powerless to make a change?

We're Jessica of Sassafrass (and also of Chicago Moms Blog) and Stefania of CityMama (and also of Silicon Valley Moms Blog) and we're right there with you. As much as we love to bitch about how frustrated we are with our current life sitches to anyone who will listen (and you know we can bitch like it's our JOB), we've decided to do something about it.

 

On nightmares and newspapers

If you are in Chicago, take a little peek in today's Sun-Times. If you are elsewhere (and why would you want to be on a sunny, breezy day like today?), take a little peek at the paper online.

Lil E and I are featured in an article on the distress dreams that commonly disrupt the little bits of sleep new moms get. And do be sure to study our own Catherine's smarty pants comments about her own experiences.

I was surprised to learn that many mothers scramble about in the night, searching for their babies in the bed, just as I did for nearly two years. The nightmare sensation -- it even has a term, BiB for (you've got it) Baby in Bed (clever, eh?) -- is thought to borrow stress from a parent's waking life for the dream state.

9/11 and preschool

I was going to post at September 11th today, about the strange mix of fear and calm as I sat in my office downtown. I was going to write about being blocks from the Sears Tower, about the constantly ringing phones that spread from office to office, cubicle to cubicle, as mothers and husbands and boyfriends and friends in other nearby buildings called with concern. Where were we? Would Chicago be next? When would we evacuate? Is it OK to exit the buildings, to board the els and subways, to drive on the expressways through the city?

I was going to write about how I sat on the couch for ten hours with my mother, unable to get stir, my eyes fixed on the chaos and horror and overwhelming sadness of a city and a nation crumbling. I was going to write about attending a memorial service at my church a few days later, of feeling like a hand rested on my shoulder during one hymn, of having a strong sense that my minister grandfather had died only a month earlier with some purpose, of the peace that washed over me when I envisioned him greeting the departed as their spirits ascended into the unknown.

And so the Mommy Cult meetings begin

So last night was the first Mommy Cult co-op parent meeting of the year. All the parents of kids new to the Seventh Circle of Strangeness and Land's End Tote Bags were there, nervously wondering if they'd be able to abide by the supposedly strict "kiss and go" policy on the first day. The returning parents chatted about potty training and summer trips and got shooshed by the director for talking while a new board member (get this) read the bylaws and handbook aloud to the whole room.

What?! We're not trusted to read through or happily ignore these documents in the privacy of our own living rooms?

And as if that wasn't opportunity enough to scribble all the theme-days and future parent meetings in my calendar (and file my nails and wonder who was winning America's Got Talent at that very moment), the director then explained a new incentive raffle we could all enjoy on a monthly basis. As in the past, everyone who arrives at the meetings on time is eligible for a raffle. I've personally taken home a sweet Toys for Tots pocket calendar, you can win a pass on one of your monthly Parent of the Day responsibilities. This year, though,  some months (and get ready for the excitement here, grrrls), parents can be eligible for some drawings if they bring the nifty folder color-coded by classroom and filled with the bylaws, handbook, calendar and other goodies that is supplied to each family at the beginning of the co-op school year.

Why? Good question.

Apparently, this is an ideal place to store co-op info and for that reason, every mama needs to haul it to every meeting along with her calendar, checkbook and Diet Coke.

This is not a snazzy binder nor is it filled with information you really need to have on hand when announcements about when Teddy Bear Day will be held and what each kid should bring along with his sippy cup for Jesus' Birthday Celebration Party. It is a 50-cent folder full of paper that, yes, is helpful, but no, is not necessary to keep copies of in the glove box.

These shooshy, incentivized moments both amuse and irritate me. While I'm OK with my kid being treated like a kid at co-op, I'm just not so keen on being treated that way myself. And while this is a good, safe, nice place that I am very happy for Lil E to be (truly), there are those things that keep me shaking my head every first Wednesday of the month from August through June.

Bruce just laughs when I tell him the stories of taking votes on what color the snot should or shouldn't be in the sick policy. But we have this arrangement -- he works as Parent of the Day for our family every month so I can work.  He reads books, changes diapers, plays trucks and wipes noses of kids with all colors of nastiness coming out of there "illegally at co-op" noses. I sit through hours of culty goodness. If we were to trade (somewhere in the 'burbs, Bruce just cringed while leading some boot camp class through squat thrusts), Bruce would actually get more lauded (More than the title of Baby Whisperer in the nursery room?, you ask...hard to believe but yes) with the little golf clap of encouragement that comes when any man is ever seated at the long line of tables, "It is SO GOOD to see dads in the room! Hooray, Dads!"  (ladies, I know you feel my eye-rollish wonder at how in the hell the last sixty years of feminism has done so much and yet not seemed to penetrate these meetings...and don't get me started on how impossible it is to communicate our different last names to the Powers That Be).

I wouldn't mind working the room. In fact, the few days a year I schedule myself in, I do love to spend the day with Lil E and his buddies, pulling them apart from fighting over the pushy cars and holding a pile of them on my lap as they sing together during all-co-op music time.

For now, it is all fair and fine. But I wonder sometimes if it would be a relief to take ten toddlers to the potty at once every month and whether I'd actually miss all the meeting madness if I renegotiated the co-op contract.

Cross-posted at Sassafrass.

Dear Oprah (again)

Yes, it's us again, the women of Chicago Moms Blog. We're not trying to be pesky or even get on your next Favorite Thing show (although we certainly wouldn't balk at the tix and we'd be happy to share a few fabulous bebe recommendations of our own). We're not trying to snag seats in the Amen Corner and we're not trying to get in good with Bob Greene (although my husband the personal trainer would love to talk shop and it would be fun to get the skinny on the Best Life straight from the source).

We're here because we wanted to let you know that in twelve short days, a gajillion women and a few men will descend upon Chicago with a mighty typing force for BlogHer '07. It will be the biggest blogging conference anywhere and it is happening right here in our beautiful, bustling city. We will basically be talking blogging for three days in your backyard.

I bet you're wondering exactly how much one woman, let alone thousands, can talk about blogging. The answer is: A lot. When we finally get to meet each other face to face after all the screen time we've shared, we will want to talk about the sisterhood among mothers. We'll talk homeschooling and selling our homes, getting away from home with the kids, kids at home and (even better) sending the kids away from home for camp, skate park invasions and more camp.

We will commiserate about paying for the sins of our past in potty training hell and hitting the bar with toddlers (to pee, really...you can even ask Dr. Oz how fast you must act when a kid's gotta go).

After that fab green episode, I'm sure you'll appreciate our conversation about Freecycling (*love*), trying our very best to get even the teensiest bit green and the pleasures and paranoia of turning our kids into eco-snobs.  And ohhhh, the glory and the grrr of the 'burbs.  Grrrlfriend to grrrlfriend, we know you'll appreciate how much we love to go on about Ribfest, kid's menus, milkshakes and super tasting and (ugh) trying to get back in the effing skinny jeans.

And speaking of you, the Chicago Moms Blog community is so Six Degrees of Oprah Winfrey. Catherine M. happily sat in your audience as a Dunstan Baby Language tester and Karen's getting fit with other women (oh so much like you did over Mother's Day with Gayle and many mamas at Canyon Ranch), Wendy was just at the beach and you live just steps away from the beach (coincidence? I think not) Marcie wants to talk about Obama (we all know you love some Barack, my friend) and Meagan's a transplant Chicagoan just like you (spooky, huh?).

And, of course, we will talk and talk and talk some more about mommy blogging. Because it's what we do. It's what we do when we're exhausted and out of breath from carrying the stroller, a diaper bag, four trucks and a doll, our own purse and an off-the-charts toddler up three flights of stairs. It's what we do when take out's on the way and when we're trying to just breathe through those awful cry-it-out afternoons. It's what we do when we feel hilarious and happy and full of it, and what we do when we're overwhelmed and irritated and so over it. It's what we do because it's our career and because we can sneak it in between projects and conference calls at our other jobs (shhh), because we're writers as well as being mothers and wives and partners and professionals and most of all, women together in this little space on our little corner of the internet.

It's what we do and we will keep sharing it with each other, with all the other women about to share our city for a few inspiring days and with you.  Care to join in the conversation, Oprah? I mean, really, darling. How can you possibly resist?

We'll have a cocktail waiting for you. Call us! No, seriously, O. Call me. I mean it. I'll even give you my personal cell number, not my assistant's or even his assistant. OK, who am I kidding? I don't have any people. But I do have a phone line that's way open, so call!

Jessica & the Chicago Moms Blog crew.

Jessica also spouts sassiness daily at Sassafrass.

photo credit: Oprah.com

The Fourth is really the third

Here in Chicago, we celebrate our Fourth on the Third. That's just how we roll, all million of us who unfold our blankets and unpack our coolers and have a picnic downtown while we wait for the festivities to begin. And it is amazing. I've enjoyed fireworks in many other towns and cities, but I've never gasped at the exploding flowers of light, reflecting and echoing on the buildings, like I have here. These moments are Chicago at its best.

This evening, we will pack the wagon and take the el toward Grant Park, casting aside the boy's bedtime and the chaos of the crowds and the concern that a potty will be close enough. We will just go, just to introduce Lil E to the whole scene, to these little bits of spirit and energy and magic bursting open. I hope he finds that with me.

So we'll be spending the Third celebrating like it is the Fourth of July, watching fireworks on the lake front with my family, with my boy on my lap and all the grandeur of the city lighting up the night sky.

Happy holiday, wherever the fireworks are reaching out to you.

Cross-posted at: Sassafrass.

Photo credit: EnjoyIllinois.com

Dear Oprah

We decided to repost "Dear Oprah".  Written by Jessica Ashley on 5/30/07, we wanted to remind Oprah that we are here!

A few weeks ago, I heard a woman sing a song to you on your stage with that title: "Dear Oprah." She was all backlit and beautiful, singing from the heart about her struggle to break free from the religious cult where she was raised, to make it in New York, to go from singing to subway commuters to glorious, shining, iconic you.

I was incredibly moved. Her song was crafted from a letter she wrote to you in a very dark hour but never sent. Her story of transformation and surivorship and self-reliance was empowering and it made feel hopeful and humbled.

I am sure in the weeks since that show aired, you've been besieged with letters from girls and women from across the globe pleading to you from their own pens. And while you have, I've been busy singing that woman's song. I've virtually banished the Elmo theme from my brain (a minor miracle, ask Gayle) with the one Deeeaaaar Oprah line I picked up from performance.

I've heard you directly address the women who watch your show, the women folding laundry on the couch while you speak into the camera. I've heard you say that mothers are to be honored for their hard work at raising kids. And now, dear Oprah, I'd like to introduce you to the mamas who are watching, working, raising kids and then sitting down to blog about it all.

We are the Chicago Moms Blog. Some of us have our own stories of survival that range from serious stuff to the everyday ways we operate with small children, just trying to make it through without too much poop, puke or yogurt on our yoga pants (I mean, tailored jeans and urban sneaks).  We are  a group of kickass blogging mamas just a few exits away and who are making our own paths through the interwebs, the office, the P-freaking-TA, this city and the world and we always, always, always have a comment to share.

The oh-so-ovah-darling Mommy Wars? We'll talk about it.  Great book club reads you can sneak in during naps, conference calls and Idol commercials? We know them. Boogers, boobs and the many Dr. Oz-able bodily functions that make kids squeal and parents cringe? Clearly. The sacrifices we happily make to sit around stuck in the blogosphere? Yes.  Great eats in the Chi? Indeed. Porn? MILFs?Pssh..yeah! The lure of the old-fashioned or being an uber-hip grupped out alternaparent?  Of course.
Celebabies? Mama chic? Slinging the wee one? Swingset bullying? Oh  hell  yes.

We know you are busy with your magazine and girls leadership academy and talk show and Angel Network enterprises. We feel your schedule. Believe us. We imagine Stedman needs your attention just as badly as our partners need ours and that you accumulate towels and  trash and shoes the way we do too.  But if you have a tiny moment, we'd be quite happy to share some of our blogging goodness with you. In the meantime, we will be the ones in the corner crooning along (at least to the chorus) of your song. Deeaaaaar Oprah.

Air kisses and high fives,

Jessica & the mamas of the new and city-loving, kiddo-toting, savvy, sassy, grrrlfriend-a-URL-away
Chicago Moms Blog.

Do we have a new President yet? and other questions I asked while potty training this weekend

It has been a long time since I've posted here. Too long. It has been at the top of my to-do list, but has fallen down in the midst of changes in my work schedule, wrapping up the co-op year, gearing up for all kinds of summer activities for an energetic toddler, doing the childcare scramble and then finally, with some pleading, mercy and grace of an in-home daycare provider down the street, getting everything in order.

And then, because I was under the impression that I was in a good place and my son was ready and the timing was as good as ever, we took the plunge into potty training. My husband and I researched and read, talked to parents, gathered advice, stocked up on stickers and M&Ms and DVDs and anything else that might turn the whole she-bang into a party, and we went for it. We dove into full-immersion potty training with our boy who is happy and adventurous and has independently taken many turns on the potty for over a year.

We put away our to-do lists, turned down an invitation to go out of town and another to attend a much-coveted party with plenty of booze and adult conversation with no mention of the words poop or pee or periodic dousing with carpet cleaner and baby wipes. I logged out of my email and vowed not to work, we turned off the ringer on the phone and decided only to turn on the TV when it would support our bribery efforts. We blew up balloons, decorated potty posters, wrapped little presents, put on the hype.

And then, time stopped.

I looked across the lunch table in the midst of the mayhem and asked Bruce what time it was.

"There is no time," he said. "Time has completely stopped."

I nodded. "We are caught in a pocket of the universe where there is a lot of enthusiasm and absolutely nothing happens."

We knew where we were. We were sitting with Elmo and our son, right in the middle of potty training hell. Babies were being born, old people were passing on. Seasons were changing, movies were premiering, books were being published. Time was marching on and we were in the same position, consumed with unmet anticipation, endlessly perched over an empty potty.

Perhaps it would not have been hell, perhaps it would have been just the threshold to Satan's fiery home or (if you will) the back deck where you can see the flames engulfing well-intentioned parents desperate for their child to get into preschools with the no-diaper policies, except for one small thing: Our son was not going. At all.

Sure, he'd sit on the potty, even get excited about pooping and peeing there. But really, it was just a rouse. He wasn't having accidents or near-misses or anything at all. The kid didn't go at all for 8-1/2 hours.

8-1/2 hours, people! Complete and willful dryness all day, after countless sippy cups of pink lemonade, apple juice and other high fructose-filled liquid treats. After many, many trips and many reads through the golf magazines and books of his choice while "trying." After Bruce and I, in an attempt to model, peed ten or more times each. Nothing. Noth.ing. Nothing.

No accidents, no bloops, no teensy tinkles. Nada. Zip. Zero. Nothing.

Well, nothing until it was just past his bedtime and we were in the car on the way home from a special trip to play miniature golf.  Until his weary little toddler body couldn't handle the pressure anymore. Then came the wetting and the tears and the complete meltdown with screams of agony for a diaper and "pants to keep me safe." It was an agonizing end to an intense day. Thirteen hours later, and there we all were, still sitting in hell.

I know, I know. It will click. The kid will eventually decide he can and will do it. The world will spin once again. But for now, I am exhausted. I am too preoccupied to work. And I am very ready for a very cold day down here next to the potty chair.

Join Jessica for more fascinating potty talk on her personal blog, Sassafrass.

So many daycares. So few choices.

We're in a daycare dilemma. Slowly, slowly, over the past few weeks, I've been working out the details of babysitters, touring preschools and doing way too much internet research. The stress of it all is unbelievable.

I'd like to focus on the good part of my daycare dilemma, that I'm working more and loving my work and really, truly validating that I am a working mom rather than pretending that I am a stay-at-home mom who squeezes in a career when the late-night news begins.  But I am tired and I am worried about finding the right place for my son, let alone a place that has open spots, is affordable and close to home.

I've interviewed home daycare providers over the phone and followed up on leads passed on from many friends and people in our neighborhood. I've even pulled out the behemoth phone book to find answers to the nagging question, "Who will care for my boy?"

We've seen some great places and met some teachers who seem like they are doing wonderful things in classrooms. We loved the high energy and smiling faces at Fairyland Nursery School and that the kids are journaling and having scheduled gym classes at KidWatch. One place was so close to our house that my worries about taking the bus or riding a bike dissipated. Another place is where several of my son's friends happily play everyday. The Irving Park YMCA program was highly recommended for their in-house summer "field trips" and caring staff. But for some reason -- prohibitive tuition costs (that cancel out any financial benefit of my income), concerns about homework for three-year olds (really?), a waiting list well into next year, a commute best handled by a car (that I don't have),  disciplinary methods that raise red flags,  or just a gut feeling that the place is not quite right for us -- nothing's worked out just yet.

Just yet. I keep thinking if I look harder, ask more people, keep at it, we will find the right place. A place that is safe and bright and happy and inspiring. In the meantime, all this frustrating research has served a very important purpose in refining my expectations and helping my husband and I clarify what is important for us and for our boy in a daycare. We've learned that our priorities are:

• Enough eyes to keep watch on the kids and enough hands to keep them close, to hug them, help peel back the lids on applesauce at lunchtime, make block towers and zip up coats.

• Compassion to help our boy (and us) through potty training, the transition to a new environment, crazy toddler fears of foam balls and rain, pickiness at lunch time and squirminess at nap time.

• Excitement in discovering who each child is and how they are similar and different from other kids in the class. I'd like to see a little bit of joy, even in the form of Play-Doh in the hair.

• Willingness to answer our boy's many, many, many questions and to not talk down to children who are developing their vocabulary and grasp on describing the world around them.

• An investment. In knowing about our family. I loved that one teacher who gave us a tour asked about our son by name and that another facility's director said it was of great importance to her to know that parents weren't just dropping kids off and wandering the city, that she sought out more involved parents than that. I'm very aware now when a provider doesn't give any information about their own background or passion for kids or why they are there. I want to see an interest in sharing their experience as well.

• Diversity. We live in a neighborhood where almost everyone is white and very secure financially. We believe strongly that one of the gifts of living in the city is meeting, knowing, getting people from other cultures, ways of living and experiences. We want that to be very normal for our boy very early on.

• Safety. That means no kids running crazy with knives or scissors or a clump of someone's hair in their hand. It also means teachers tuned in and information on the ready about where our child would be ambulanced off to in an emergency and how recently the staff was CPR trained. Oh, and no open outlets or unopened bottles of hand sanitizer.

• Creativity and pride in the beautiful and gloopy art work the kids making with glue and glitter and foamy stickers. I want to see it on the walls. I want my boy to be able to point out what he did during the day in all of its still-wet, bubbled-up, all-over-his-pants fabulousness.

It is a lot to ask, I know. Especially when paired with our financial, proximal and availability needs. In the end, I am sure we will go with a place that doesn't meet all of our hopes but meets most of them. After all, this is the place our boy will be when he is not at home, and it is not just for today or next week. It is preparation for schools with big potties and sleep-over camp and senior trips and college. And it is for now, a place waiting for us -- and for our boy, his lunch box and sippy cup and change of clothes --  to find.

Not Exactly the Joneses

We're one of those families. You know, the kind where everyone has a different last name. The names my husband and I have kept and the combination we chose for our son are connecting and confusing and we love it.

It all began a long, long time ago when I was a little girl who had notebooks full of curly-Q cursive doodles bearing the name I would take when I married my grammar school crush. Mrs. Jessica Main. I wrote it out over and over. Sometimes it would be Ms. Jessica Ashley Main or Mrs. J.A. Main, but his name was always in there somewhere. The little feminist flashes went off when I was in my early teens and received a note from a lady at church. There, printed on the embossed card was her name. And it was altogether different from her husband's and children's last name. Oh, I thought, you can do that.

Close to that time, my grandfather made a casual remark at a holiday dinner about how my brother would be the only one who could carry on the family name. Without skipping a beat, I spoke up. I will carry on the family name, too, I said.

My grandfather blinked for a long time and then smiled at me and knew that even if he wasn't sure what to think of that, I was. And I knew then that I wouldn't ever really be Mrs. anybody. I would always be called what I'd always been called.

I knew that to my core for so long before I met the man who would become my husband that it didn't occur to me to discuss it. Until we got engaged, that is, and everyone we knew began asking -- assuming since they knew my independence -- if I'd be hyphenating or taking his last name. Neither, I'd say, I will still be Jessica Ashley.

How will that work? What will your kids be called? Won't that be confusing? There were always the follow-up questions. But I shrugged it off. It'll all work out just fine, I said. I was sure of it.

And it has. It has because we believe in our choice to keep our names. And we have a sense of humor about how other people perceive it and who we end up being to them in the process. All of Bruce's shirts from the dry-cleaner say Mr. Ashley on the inside and I smile to myself every time a solicitor calls and I stop their schpiel by saying, I am the lady of the house but I am not Mrs. Anyone -- a little name game that often works better than grousing that we're on the Do Not Call Registry.

Many members of my family, my own grandmother included, still don't get or refuse to admit that there's none of his name in mine. Anywhere.  Honestly, it really doesn't matter to me. I know who I am, Bruce knows who he is and we like our names just the way they are.

When we had our son, there was no pause in deciding he'd be hyphenated. We know he's smart enough and thoughtful enough to choose how to proceed with whatever name or names he chooses when he's involved in a marriage or partnership or has children. In the meantime, we're teaching him that he has more letters to write, but that having two names is special. It is a bit from Mommy and a bit from Daddy and a name that's all his own. For now, because he doesn't know yet that most other kids don't share this hyphenation situation, he's good with that.

It's not perfect. His whole name doesn't fit on the monogrammed stickers I bought for his lunch box and sippy cups. And people still shake their head in puzzlement when I correct them in how they call us. Sometimes, friends assume I will judge them for taking their new husband's last name or something ridiculous like that. This was and is the right choice for me and for us because it was our choice. We're that family, the one you can't put just one name on.

Cross Posted on Silicon Valley Moms Blog (sister site of Chicago Moms Blog)