Triangle Mamas

Halloween 2009, Triangle Mamas Style

In no particular order, here are some of the adorable children of the Triangle Mamas.

This is Abigail in her mama's German dirndl from when she was two.  NIkki says, "I like to think of this as her dramatic reenactment of Gretl's 'So Long, Farewell' exit in The Sound of Music."

Here are Juni and Pip, Cyndi's little ones. Buzz Lightyear here even had "Andy" written on the bottom of his shoe. Very authentic.

What might have been a dragon on the hanger became a dinosaur on Linus. Abby's little man was rawry scary.

From our newest Triangle Mama, Kelly, whose inaugural post will be live Wednesday, we have Mr. Wyatt.

Little Bird was a Little Bear for the day. Marty and her sewing machine pulled off a handmade Halloween again this year, but only with a couple of hours to spare.

Cindy's little dino was so excited, she had the costume on in Target the day they were picking it out.

 

Ilina had a handmade Halloween too. Here is Super Deal and Ninja Bird in all their glory.

Welcome to fall, y'all. Bring on the turkeys and the trees!

Election Day: Local Elections Matter

I'm going to keep this one short so you can take the time to check out the links here.

This Tuesday, October 6, is election day. Municipal elections don't get much media attention or ad spend, but they are critical to our local way of life. I admittedly bust a move on national elections and can lose sight of what happens in my own backyard. However, now that I am a mother of an elementary age son, I view my world a bit differently. Don't get me wrong, I always vote, no matter how "big" or "small" the race. I love to vote and cherish my right to do so. Since my boys have been born I have taken them with me to the polls, whether nestled into the baby carrier, strapped into the stroller, or walking hand in hand. I even let my then-five-year old fill out the ballot for the presidential election in 2008. Voting is a civic responsibility and honor that won't go unnoticed in my household.

This Tuesday we vote for important local offices. In Wake County we are voting on candidates for school board, mayor of Raleigh, and city council. Cary and Durham have city council races (Primary in Durham with the election November 3). These are the people whose legislation and policies directly affect our lives - schools, zoning, budgets, trash collection, recycling, public transportation, use of public space, green space, parks and recreation, public safety (police and fire) and a whole slew of other responsibilities. In a word, these elected officials matter. To all of us.

And please allow me a sidebar here: Just because I didn't have kids in public school before doesn't mean I didn't vote. All these issues, arguably education especially, affect us all.

So do me, and you, a favor. Please go vote on Tuesday. And have a look at the voter's guide here for more information. Voting is a right we take for granted. Make good use of your right on Tuesday, October 6.

Wake County Voter Information

Durham County Voter Information

And on November 3, there are elections in Durham, Angier, Apex, Fuquay-Varina, Garner, Holly Springs, Knightdale, Morrisville, Rolesville, Wake Forest, Wendell and Zebulon.

As for me, you'll see me at the polls on Tuesday with my two sons in tow. Because I'll be volunteering at the polls all day for Kids Voting, you won't see me in my normal election day partisan attire. But I'll be sporting a Kids Voting T-shirt, proudly supporting an organization that brings our civic process to life in and out of the classroom.

Ilina blogs at Dirt & Noise, where she unleashes her political fury when she's not waxing about her boys' latest mischief or sharing a cocktail recipe on her weekly 5:00 Fridays post.

Intolerance for Raymond Cook's Inebriation

When I was a little girl I had one of those jewelry boxes with a twinkling spinning ballerina inside. I vividly remember the light blue tulle of her tutu and the shimmering tune of Swan Lake playing when I'd wind it up. I never took a dance class in my life but I did daydream about being a ballerina. Didn't every little girl? From when my oldest son Bird could talk he would always tell me that I looked like a ballerina whenever I wore a skirt. Now at age six, he still says it. It's as close to being a ballerina as I ever got. I was not blessed with a lithe body, good posture, discipline, or grace.

But Elena Shapiro was. I swear if you look up "ballerina" in the dictionary Elena's picture was right there. Even her name was fit for a ballerina. Grace embodied.

I am having a hard time wrapping my head around the recent tragedy of Dr. Raymond Cook killing ballerina Elena Shapiro. The irony of a reckless young doctor stealing the life of a vital young woman is not lost on me.

I heard this news over the weekend before the media extravaganza began. I was reeling then, and the subsequent news reports continue to make me foam at the mouth. Disdain. Disgust. I can't find the right words. A man who committed his life to saving lives took an innocent life in a fleeting, irresponsible moment. We often turn to doctors in the apex of our vulnerability. We don't expect them to heighten our despair; we look to them to give us hope and health. We take faith that they value their oath. First, do no harm. We hope and assume that doctors above all value human life in and out of the hospital, for they have seen the most profound and most remarkable examples of our mortality.

Cook did more than make a grave mistake; he sent an innocent young woman to her grave. This was not a fluke accident for which I can empathize. This was not an it-could-have-happened-to-me moment. If anything, any one of us could have been Elena Shapiro. In fact, just moments after the accident, friends of ours took that very same road en route home, their two children ages 7 and 4 in tow. Sure, before Friday night Raymond Cook was a regular guffawing golfing guy hanging out with his buddies on a deserved afternoon off. Apart from the 300 grand salary, million dollar home, and medical credentials, he could have been my very own husband. He was a husband, father, son, friend; he wasn't a monster. But his actions have made him so. The fact that he has a history of such dangerous reckless behavior makes this case even more reprehensible.

Any one of his choices jeopardized the lives of those who shared the road with him. The combination was deadly. He embarked on this irresponsible escapade knowingly, even turning down an offer to arrange a ride home from the bar manager who refused to serve him. Surely cab fare was not out of his budget. And what responsibility do his golfing buddies share? Is there shame to go around? How many of them drove home drunk themselves? One hell of an I-told-you-so-lesson. This is a 40-something year old man who knows the dangers of drinking and driving. He knows the ramifications of driving nearly twice the speed limit. Even when running late, I don't drive twice the posted speed limit. And the cynic in me says that he wouldn't have been running late if he had just left the bar earlier.

The image of a wealthy, successful young doctor careening down the street in his fancy Mercedes after an afternoon of golfing at the club is even too cliche for a Jodi Piccoult novel. The Dr. 90210 figure of the swashbuckling, entitled plastic surgeon who is above the law fits Dr. Cook to a tee. He's surely not helping the negative stereotypical light cast on his profession. For the record, I have had reconstructive plastic surgery for medical, not cosmetic, reasons. Twice. I am not a naysayer. I am not one who is distrusting of doctors. We have close friends who are physicians, and I would trust them with my life. Had I the muster to get into medical school, medicine would have been my chosen profession too. I revere doctors, which perhaps adds to the bile this case elicits in me. I don't know Raymond Cook personally. I don't really give a damn what kind of man his supporters purport him to be. On Friday, September 11, a date that already has its gruesome share of mind in our collective psyches, Raymond Cook became a different kind of man. He murdered a young woman who posed him no threat. His car his weapon, his disregard for the law and his overindulgence the fuel. The lifetime of shame and pain Cook lives with pales exponentially to that of Elena Shapiro's family. And to think of the future he has laid out for his own family. I shudder.

Think I'm being too hard on the guy? What if Elena were your daughter?

Surely when you look up "hubris" in the dictionary you see Raymond Cook.

Disgrace embodied.

Ilina, a doting mother of two boys, blogs at Dirt & Noise.When she's not busy with her day job in her own marketing consulting business, she manages to inhale books, cook adventurous healthy creations, and window shop on Etsy. Though she posts a cocktail recipe in a weekly feature called 5:00 Fridays, she is a vehement supporter of drinking responsibly. Having lost two friends to a drunk driving accident in college, she has no tolerance for driving while under the influence.

Leave the Road for Cars

I am a big proponent of walking. I have written about it before.  I find it ever so unfortunate to live in a city that is one of the least walkable areas I have ever lived in. Creating a lively, safe, walkable city is not even on the list of criteria for developers and urban planners around these parts. No sirree. We're all about the four-wheeled guzzling monster.  A subdivision north of town welcomes you with a fountain oddly resembling something from an ill-placed resort and signs that boast "26 miles of walking." Um, walking to where exactly? I prefer an organic community with its own pulse, hotspots, and places where you happen upon fellow dwellers in an unstaged, unscheduled manner. And by community, I mean neighborhood, not subdivision, development, planned community. But my beef with the lack of such neighborhoods in Raleigh is for another day.

It seems that others enjoy walking too, whether for exercise, errands, or the whole two birds one stone bit. There are walkers aplenty in a lovely area neighboring my old school neighborhood. I see them everyday, and I know they see me too. I can tell by the glares.

Read on from a letter of complaint I posted to Dirt & Noise.

Dear Walkers of White Oak Road,

Please do not glare at me as I drive along at the posted speed limit. Did I mention that I have never had a speeding ticket, much less a parking ticket, in 25 years of driving? I drive a small SUV, not a Hummer that hogs the road. The lanes are plenty wide for me. The yard services' trucks that regularly line the street consume all the space on the tiny shoulder that is smaller than Tinkerbell's haunches. I don't speed. I don't honk. I don't swerve. I drive to the right of the line and obey the speed limit. Always.

Yet you walk two, three, and even up to five in a row as if you are Queen Bees ruling the high school halls shoulder to shoulder. Plus, you push strollers (double joggers) and have a dog or two on a leash. Your posse literally takes up more space than my Highlander. I might curse you under my breath and keep my middle finger firmly in place on the steering wheel but I never honk or jeer. I do utter in disbelief that you'd be idiotic enough to take up all the room on a road as narrow as a neocon's mind.

But I see you, in your matching tennis skirts and visors, all turn in unison to glare at me as I drive by. Me, the one who's obeying the law of the road. Here's a tip to tuck in your tanned decolletage, don't walk two by two with a stroller and a dog on a road that has no sidewalks. I am all for pedestrian rights and respecting walkers, bikers, and the like. But generally there's mutual respect and a healthy fear of, oh, 3000 pounds of steel coming around a blind curve.

I happen to be a big fan of sidewalks and live in a neighborhood that has them. I walk with my sons in my neighborhood. I pushed their strollers and walked neighbor's dogs on those sidewalks. We decorate those sidewalks with chalk drawings and hopscotch boxes. We never stray from the sidewalks; that is a general tenet of city living. Roads are for cars. Sidewalks are for people. There is no gray area here. One of the earliest lessons we taught our sons was to stay off the road and on the sidewalk. Danger! Danger! Danger!

From the myriad skateboarders, bikers, scooters, and ripsticks I see on White Oak Road (sans helmets!), I guess you are handing down road ownership to the next generation. Is this a symptom of the general sense of entitlement plaguing America these days or are you really that clueless? Let me reiterate, if the road doesn't have a sidewalk, is narrow, and is peppered with blind curves, don't walk on it. If you must walk there, walk against traffic so you can see what's coming and by all means, move to the freaking side when a car passes. That means walk single file, gather your troops, and squeeze in tightly.

You might own one of those big fancy houses but you're a fool if you think you own the road.

Sincerely,

An Irritated Driver Who Doesn't Want to Play Frogger

Ilina walks, but refuses to run. You can find her walking to her favorite coffee shop, where she writes at Dirt & Noise and Foodie Mama when she's not busy being the voice of the consumer for clients of her marketing consulting business.

Rules of Engagement

As a Rule...

I don't get my haircut at places where all the stylists are wearing Crocs.

I don't let anyone who looks like she's wearing make up give me a makeover at the Bobbi Brown counter.

I never dated a guy whose butt was smaller than mine.

I eat dessert every night (after the boys go to bed!).

I don't wear holiday themed sweaters, jewelry, or shoes.

I refuse to carry a diaper bag that looks like one.

I stick to stylish ensembles that work on playdates with the boys' friends or mine.

I make my kids eat food at the table. Water or milk in a lidded cup is the exception.

I consider myself a MILF...if I don't, no one else will.

I drink red or white depending on my mood or what's available, not based on what the wine snoots say.

I stay far, far away from the Hudson jean wearing, blinged out cell phone chatting, Burberry diaper bag toting, Prada loafer clad moms at the park. Ditto for their uber-smocked children who are still wearing Keds bumpers at age 5.

I read books. Real books. Like the kind without pictures, cardboard pages, or cellophane protective covers.

I serve two servings from the fruit and vegetable food group at dinner every night.

I make sure our family eats dinner together every single day. At the table. With no TV. No toys. No phone. No Crackberry.

I never vote Republican. EVER.

I embrace progressives, but really wish the earthy types would shave their legs and pits and bathe once in a while.

I take unposed photos of my children to document their myriad expressions of pure joy, utter defeat, and brotherly love.

I don't drive a minivan. No MILF does.

I buy myself fresh flowers for no reason. If I don't, only my dad will...twice a year anyway.

I surround myself with people who are smarter, funnier, handier, and kinder than I am.

I don't camp.

I don't like to touch nature. I just like to admire it from a porch with a Mojito in hand.

I don't stay in hotels that don't have internal hallways.

I don't let my boys go to school, or anywhere for that matter, in dirty clothes.

I carry Purell with me everywhere and use it incessantly.

I stash Chapstick in every purse, tote bag, glove compartment, drawer, and pocket I have.

I take Bird and Deal on an adventure of some kind or another every day.

I don't tolerate stupidity. Dumb people ruin everything.

I don't download music unless my friend Tony has endorsed it. Here's where you'll find him: http://www.croutonboy.typepad.com/

I play regular music in the car. I would crash if I had to endure some singalong children's chorus singing Barney faves. I am getting ill just thinking about it. There's no reason the kids can't enjoy Jimmy Buffett (minus "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" of course), the B-52s, and the Beatles.

I don't kiss Mac Daddy if he isn't clean shaven. If I do, I break into massive hives. Trust me on this. Odd but true.

I don't buy shoes or jeans that hurt. Looks above comfort is a crappy way to live.

I slather on sunscreen. On myself. On my kids. Mac Daddy is more resistant to it than a 2-year old, and he's the one who's so white he's clear.

I leave painfully long, blabbering voicemail messages because the machine is a captive audience.

I don't take sleeping aids, though I haven't slept a straight seven hours in about 18 months now.

I have hardwood floors in my house.

I'm going to see my friends Shan and Chris at least once a year. Our boys became fast friends on our last visit to Minneapolis so I can't deny them that. Plus, Chris and Deal share a birthday, and Mac Daddy and Shan share a birthday. Our fates and friendship are inextricably intertwined.

Cross posted at Dirt & Noise.

Sisyphus by Any Other Name

Remember Sisyphus? That cunning heel who was hauled off to Hades for a being a cheating trickster? His punishment was worse than languishing in the August in North Carolina temperatures in Hades. Sisyphus is the guy who worked for eternity pushing a massive boulder up a hill only to watch it roll back down again. Eternity is a long freakin' time. Like in forever. Always. E-T-E-R-N-I-T-Y. Imagine this: Roll the rock. Sweat. Cuss. Growl. Cuss some more. Feel sense of relief upon getting to the top of the hill. Wipe brow. Try to rest on a burned out stump somewhere. Think for a narcissistic moment that your quads and biceps will be chiseled after all this. Bask in glory for a fleeting millisecond. Rock rolls back down the hill. You look after it, feeling forlorn, worn out, pissed. Cuss. Cuss. Cuss. And so it goes on for Sisyphus...

I'm beginning to think that the routine of parenthood is a lot like the life of Sisyphus, minus those nasty images of hell and the punishment, of course. That's not to say that life isn't hellish at times, because it most definitely is. I just feel like as soon as I get the rock to the top of the hill the damn thing rolls back down. Literally two minutes after the cleaning lady has left, the house is a minefield of Matchbox cars and Happy Meal toys. Damn Mac Daddy for getting all those free toys at work and feeling the overwhelming urge to bring them home. I don't even get a chance to breathe in the delicious just-cleaned-smell before I'm busy wiping up spilled milk that Deal literally cries over. He gets further agitated when I laugh at the ridiculousness of it. And for the record, Bird and Deal are not wholly responsible for the mess. I mean, does Mac Daddy not understand what the hooks in the mudroom are for (one specifically for keys)? The back of the kitchen chair and somewhere in the vicinity of the phone are not the appropriate places for storing his coat and keys (especially when the coat is suede and the keys are in tauntingly close reach of a 2-year old). Argh.

A Day in the Life of Sisyphus at Chez Dirt & Noise:

Clean up a poopy mess in Spiderman underwear that are now deemed unsalvagable. Potty training Deal is a whole other blog post that I can't bring myself to deal with. Pardon the pun. Bathe Deal since he is coated in poop. Find change of clothes that fit his ever-growing frame.

Help Bird wipe his bottom and fetch him dingleberry-free change of underwear. At least the Superman ones he had on are salvagable.

Cat throws up in four different places upstairs. It becomes a game to find the Casey puke without stepping in it. Clean it up while keeping kids and cat away from the yuck. (Incidentally, we found another pile of puke weeks, yes weeks, later caked on the floor of the guest room. Don't worry, Mom it wasn't while you were here.

Disinfect tub. Toss in a load of laundry. Throw what was in the dryer onto the pile of laundry the size of Grimace on the guestbed.

Speed shower. Wipe on Lash Exact black mascara (the BEST!) and Smashbox lip gloss so I can feel like a real human being.

Clean up toys that littered my room in the three minutes I was in the shower.

Remake the bed that Bird and Deal were wrestling on after throwing toys on the floor got boring.

Gather the troops to go on an adventure. Get downstairs, put on shoes and coats. Forgot to brush teeth.

Back upstairs.

Brush teeth while wearing shoes and coats despite the boys' lack of mobility bundled up in a down coat.

Trek back downstairs and get the bag of snacks and tricks ready.

Feeling pretty good now, just like Sisyphus must have felt as he approached the top of the hill.

"Moooommmmmm! Casey pooped in the living room! And the playroom! And in another place in the playroom!"

"Change me, Mommy. I'm poopy."

And so it goes, the damn rock rolled back to the bottom.

Cuss. Cuss. Cuss.

Cross posted at Dirt & Noise.

Easter for Boys

 Easter is fast approaching. That means cute (matching, natch) outfits for Bird and Deal. This was an easy task when the boys were gurgling, swaddled infants with rolls galore and delectable chubby cheeks. At 45 and 35 pounds and approaching the limits of the height charts, they no longer look cute in smocked john johns with bunnies and posies embroidered. The whole one piece outfit is no longer an option with the torsos on my kids. Despite their extraordinarily long torsos, there is no way in hell you'd catch me dressing my boys in frou frou garb. They are boys afterall, not babies. And certainly not sissies. ..not that there's anything wrong with that.

There has been a permanent ban on Little Lord Fauntleroy clothing at Chez Dirt & Noise. There comes a time for every mother (I'm not excluding fathers, but let's face it, they would throw the kids in a paper sack with holes cut out for head and arms and call it a day), to come to grips with the fact their boy babies turn into big boys. Rambunctious, rough and tumble, BOYS. Moms need to stop shopping at stores like Mommas Boy Clothing once the kid can feed himself solid food with an utensil of any kind, fingers included. Let's be real, it is highly unlikely that I would ever shop at a store called Mommas Boy Clothing at all. Folks need to quit making this stuff larger than a size 2T, lest those boys get the snot kicked out of them when Momma's watchful eye strays.

Dressing Bird and Deal in traditional Easter attire would just make them look ridiculous, akin to the mother of a high school classmate I recall who wore mini skirts and anklets with spiky heels in 1985 because it was all the rage among teenage girls. She wore such a getup thinking she looked young and hip. In reality, she looked old and dreadful. Costumed, even. I am now as old as she was then, and you wouldn't catch me in any of the crap teenage girls are wearing these days. Another reason I'm glad to have sons! Those of you with daughters have uber fabulous options for Easter attire now, but wait until those girls want bling on their too tight shirts and cutesy words across their bottoms. Will someone please quash this trend?

Now the quandary is how to dress the boys appropriately for Easter photos without knee socks, saddle shoes, and a peter pan collar? Last year was freezing so we made do with madras pants and sweaters...I couldn't wrangle them into the white bucks I bought so those still sit anew in the closet. I'm going to cram their little (or not so little) feet into those shoes for a photo opp this year. At this rate, it might be the only Easter garb they wear.

Walk This Way

I live in a city that forces us to drive. Based on recent real estate developments you would think that the auto and gas industries are bankrolling city projects. Not only is walking not possible in most areas, it is down right discouraged. Take for example, the place I frequent for shopping and errands. The place I go to load up on groceries, take the kids to the library, grab lunch with my son, order monogrammed stationery, treat my boys to an ice cream cone, pick up adult beverages for my weekly 5:00 Fridays post, buy birthday presents, rent Wii games, browse antique store aisles, sip coffee and nosh sweet potato biscuits with my family, splurge on a pedicure, ship Amazon.com returns, enjoy bloody marys while watching ACC basketball, and window shop at the amazing boutiques. Cameron Village .

Don't get me wrong, I love Cameron Village. I go there about five times a week. But there is nothing village-like about it. The developers claim that Cameron Village takes its patrons back to a simpler time of tree-lined walks and village treasures. Sure, it's loaded with unique stores and tasty culinary treats. It's also home to a couple grocery stores, a great brand new public library, toy store, pharmacy, coffee shops, and a diverse array of shops. In short, it is a hub of shopping, dining, browsing, and living. It's a fine place to hang out with my kids and husband on the rare day we have time to graze. The village is split up into four quadrants with parking lots and busy streets cutting through the middle of it all, making it completely un-walkable. It would be a traffic nuisance and a dangerous stroll to even attempt walking around Cameron Village with my sons, ages five and three. Being loaded down with shopping bags would make the situation all the worse. Call me crazy, but I'm not that keen on subjecting my kids to danger just to try to force walkability into a place that clearly discourages it; their little frames would be even more difficult for drivers to see than my own five foot stature. In theory Cameron Village should be a pedestrian paradise. A place to take visitors to wile away an afternoon, stroll with your family on a spring evening, or splurge on a girls night out. Instead it is a veritable game of Frogger , discouraging walking, dawdling, browsing. In essence, all the driving ridiculously short distances to and fro makes consumers miss the little things, the treasures of happenstance and serendipity that pepper a true village.

And let's consider where I live . An old neighborhood of bungalows and front porched homes with tree-canpoied streets, sidewalks, and a neighborhood elementary school. We can walk to a fantastic indie movie theater, a family-owned pharmacy, local restaurants, galleries, antique stores, boutiques, coffee shop, restaurants, post office, parks, and biking trails. We have to cross a very busy road to get to the goods, and the crossing signal is not long enough for a family with a leashed dog, stroller, or toddler to make it across on time. Nevermind those in a wheelchair or using a walker or crutches for help. Nevermind the elderly or ladies in heels. Pretty much just the joggers make it across before the red Don't Walk signal blinks. Walking is hazardous, while driving is not necessary or convenient. It's nonetheless a wonderful community that has grown organically. No cul de sacs or faux neighborhood facades. It is a sense of community rather than an artificial community center replete with resort-like fountains and clubhouse. It seems that such organic neighborhoods are teetering on the verge of extinction where I live.

Grand homes on streets with saplings and no sidewalks crop up at every turn. Independent shops and restaurants make way for big box strip malls and apostrophe restaurants (you know, Chili's, TGIFriday's, and others in their ilk). It's endemic everywhere I imagine. In this day of increased childhood obesity, heart disease, diabetes and the like, shouldn't we be taking a closer look at how and where we live? Shouldn't we consider the simple benefits of taking a few steps and enjoying our community? Perhaps Nancy Sinatra's ditty needs to be blasted from loud speakers across town: These boots were made for walking!

Reposted from an original Deep South Moms Blog post.

Ilina walks, but refuses to run. You can find her walking to her favorite coffee shop, where she writes at Dirt & Noise and Foodie Mama when she's not busy being the voice of the consumer for clients of her marketing consulting business.