Silicon Valley Moms Blog

A Mammogram and a Red Carnation

All the women exiting the door were carrying long-stem red or pink carnations. When the red carnation was pressed into my hand, I'd dismissed it as a cheesy representation of cheap champagne and rented limos. Puh-lease, I thought, exiting the room empty handed.

A few days later, a thin letter arrived in the mail. I knew the drill. A thin letter almost always delivers the very good news that test results were normal. I tore open the letter and had already mentally filed it away when I did a double take. What's this? I held the letter up closer, it said:

Your recent mammogram showed a finding that requires additional imaging studies for a complete evaluation. Most such findings are benign (not cancer). Please call us to schedule an appointment for these tests if you have not already done so. A report of your results was sent to your doctor.

Oh.

Immediately, my hand went to my breasts and then to the keyboard. Google, be my friend, I prayed.

Is Frozen Yogurt Just a Craze?

The first time we went to Yogurtland, it was serendipity.

The second time we went to Yogurtland, it was with preschool friends.

The third time we went to Yogurtland, it wasn't my fault. We were addicted.

That was just the first week. That's right. We went to Yogurtland three times within one week. I think I already need an intervention.

My kids and I cannot go a day without thinking of frozen yogurt, especially now that summertime weather is here. We want our yogurt and we want our toppings! Unless you've been in a cave, it would be hard not to notice the frozen yogurt craze that is sweeping the nation, particularly here in Silicon Valley. Everyone is talking about Pinkberry and Red Mango and up in Palo Alto, there's Pamela's favorite, Fraiche. There's even Tartini, Green Cup, and Orange Tree, all serving up frozen yogurt and a toppings bar. (Potential franchise owners are probably chomping at the bit here.)

Star Wars, 24/7

Tears, again. A boy down, howling in pain.

He hit me in the eye!

By accident, Mom!

And so it goes, this ritual of of confiscating pool noodles come lightsabers because it always ends in a bash-your-brother brawl.

We have rules, of course. No hitting in the face. Stop when your brother says stop. The promises flow. Sure, we'll be careful. Sure, we'll not hurt each other. But they can't help themselves, these 4-year-old Jedi warriors of mine. Whack! It always ends in tears.

I made a mistake. I gave into the Star Wars thing, allowing my thrilled husband to introduce our boys to their first Star Wars film. Star Wars is all the rage among the preschool boys at our school. Kohls, the moms explained, has Star Wars tshirts on sale for seven dollars! I bought two. At Christmas, my boys unwrapped two menacing looking lightsabers which I quickly had to make disappear. Even the grandparents the Easter Bunny caught wind of the Star Wars craze and left a couple of Yodas and R2D2s in my children's Easter basket.

The Tumbler as Urinal

For me, convenience comes by way of a blue plastic tumbler. At first it held ice cubes and water and was set out in the backyard for thirsty, rambunctious little boys at play. Now, it's been demoted a few notches and serves to hold the most lowly of substances, pee. Lowly or not, however, it has brought convenience to our lives, this blue plastic tumbler, come traveling urinal, housed in the middle row cup holder of our mini-van.

When my twin boys were still in diapers, I looked at potty training with trepidation. Potty training meant leaving the convenience of diapers and even pull-ups for germ filled trips to public restrooms and sketchy locations on the side of the road. As potty training moved along, I started carrying a Bjorn Potty Chair in the trunk of my mini van, partially to avoid accidents and partially because I was determined to not find myself battling two squirmy, disobedient toddlers in a public restroom. But my now 4-year-old boys have sort of outgrown the potty chair. They like to pee standing up. Ah, I tell them. Hold on! Pee in the cup!

I like to think I've got my public restroom phobia in check because we do use public restrooms. I use them all the time, in fact. I don't withhold and risk UTIs and things like that. My kids use them; it's just not practical not to. I no more welcome a potty accident than I do a trip to the cringe inducing public restroom.

Spot the Difference

I am not a big fan of those Spot the Difference picture puzzles. You know the kind, two similar looking pictures are shown side by side with subtle differences thrown in for fun. They're usually found at the back of magazines and in children's books. Even Ellen has one on her site. I know a lot of people enjoy hunting around to see what's different in the two photos: The checkered tablecloth is now solid! The glass has disappeared! The dog now has a collar! The only time I'll settle down to play Spot the Difference is when I happen upon it in a magazine I'm leafing through at, say, the dentist's office. I'll spend a few moments hunting in earnest and feeling a bit smug when I've spotted some of the differences. However, I'm a busy mom and playing Spot the Difference is just not how I wish to spend my time.

So why do packaging designers force me to play this game even at the grocery store? Oftentimes, I rush through my morning Target run, tossing the things I need into my basket while navigating the store aisles by heart. Shampoo and conditioner? Check, check. Instant oatmeal? Check. Handwash? Check. I leave thinking I've got everything I need.

Drop-off Playdate for Twins?

Our first drop-off playdate came as a surprise. Last week, a mom at our preschool approached me and offered to drive just one of my twins, Cheese Boy, to her home for an afternoon of post-preschool play. Cheese Boy, age 4, looked pleased. A playdate! We set the date for a few days later.

Meanwhile, his brother Chalk Boy orbited around us, lost in play, unaware of the deal that had just transpired on behalf of his twin brother and one of their preschool classmates. Chalk Boy, more moody and not part of the gang of boys, had not been invited.

So it has come, I thought to myself, the mythical drop-off playdate. As a mom of twins, I'm thinking this must be as good as it gets. How on earth would I ever expect another mom to take on my two? And how on earth would I ever be able to reciprocate something like that? One of the challenges in raising twins, especially same gender or identical twins, is in promoting each child's sense of uniqueness. As my children have grown older, they've started to cultivate different interests and more recently, different circles of friends.

But separate playdates?

To the Kiosk Vendors of Valley Fair

They see me coming. I'm the target. I know it. I brace myself. Here it comes, here it comes...

"Can I talk to you for just one moment?"

"Hello, I have some nice organic soap for you..."

"Miss! Miss! MISS!"

I whisk my cell phone out of my pocket and pretend to talk, ignoring the pleas for my attention.

I will not talk to you for a moment.
I do not want to buy some nice organic soap.
I will not look your way, but thank you for calling me Miss!

To the kiosk vendors of Valley Fair:  Please let me be!

Farewell My Inner Mervyns Mom

I never wanted to be a Mervyns mom. My mom is a Mervyn's mom. I like to think of myself as an Anthropologie sale rack kind of gal. Growing up, my mom used to take us to Mervyns as part of the whole back-to-school clothes shopping spree which also included stops at Macy's and The Emporium. My brother's back to school outfits from Mervyns used to include the Garanimals line, a collection of mix and match separates which children could easily coordinate on their own by matching up the animals tags. Garanimals and Toughskins made up the wardrobe of my physically active younger brother.

I never really liked Mervyns except for, perhaps, the towels and bras without underwire. Certainly, budget wise, I should have been shopping at Mervyns more often than I did, but I just couldn't do it. Walking through the doors of Mervyns, I always felt as if I were caught in a time warp. The place just seems dated. Same doors, same floors, same planters in the parking lot for years. Everything is just so...brown. Eighties brown. Yech. The place kind of reminds me of our local Toys R Us store where the pebbled trash cans out front sport decades old wads of gum.

Thank You for Thanking Me

I forgot to thank my grandma for the thank you card. My mom passed along the inquiry, "If you received it, Akemi, please just call her and tell her you received it."

"But Mom!" I want to whine, but I suppress the adolescent in me and say instead, "OK, sure."

Since my grandma is thanking me for a gift I gave to her, it's sort of like I'm thanking her for thanking me. My mother and grandmother are caught in an unending circle of politesse. I do get it - my very sweet grandma just wants to know if her handwritten thank you note has made it safely into my mail box, and then into my hands. I know I should make the courtesy call, but sometimes, especially now that I have kids, I forget.

I make the call.

"Thank you for the thank you card,"  I gush to my delighted grandma.

Here is the Church, Here is the Steeple

Here is the church,

Here is the steeple.

Open the doors,

And see the dead people!

Ok, so my preschool age boys didn't exactly utter this twist on the traditional fingerplay game, but it's probably close to their perception of what they think happens in a church. When my mother-in-law passed away about a year ago, my then almost 3-year-old boys were just starting to grasp the concept of death. Within the scope of their limited experience, only bugs died. But when their beloved Grammy died, my boys had an "aha" moment. People, they realized, die, too.

When Grammy passed away unexpectedly, I found myself in the unenviable position of having to explain what had happened in a way they could understand. I didn't have time to query friends or search the Internet for recommended ways in which to explain death to children, so I kept my explanation simple and rooted in reality, avoiding metaphors about angels or butterflies or extended vacations.