Naming Names

TODAY'S THE BIG DAY!!! Come here to see us talk live with Ayelet Waldman, author of Bad Mother, at Noon EST.

Those of you who have followed my journey here this year will know the name Ayelet Waldman. You'll know how I wrote about her controversial essay in the New York Times that landed her on Oprah. You'll know how we corresponded and that she was generous enough to send me an advance copy of her new book, Bad Mother. You may even have seen me read from it in my film, The Lark.




Well Bad Mother is back on my radar. It hits shelves and virtual shopping carts May 5th, and I can't wait to start talking about it with all of you.

I pulled it off my own shelf and started reading it again. It's A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace. It's about how we talk about moms, with names like good mother and bad mother. It's about how when we describe a good father, the discourse is sparse. The archetypes few. But when we talk about good mothers, omigod do we have thoughts, and more importantly, names for what she should be.

It's about why that may be the case, and becomes increasingly more the case every day. It's about lots of interesting things like how we use spectacle and "bad moms" like Britney Spears and Andrea Yates to soothe our private fears of bad mothering.

It's about, mom-on-mom crime and how grown women are also guilty of playground bullying. It's about how flipping the paradigm and becoming an openly bad mom, a confessaholic one might say, isn't quite the answer, either. Though it's fun, and you've all seen me do it here and on Twitter often, and you KNOW how I love me some Bombeck, as Waldman says "there is no inherent nutritional value in the antidote to poison." God, I love this woman. One smart cookie.

Most importantly, it's about understanding that in the daily question of Am I a bad or a good mother? Is she a bad or a good mother?, we are wasting precious time looking inward, that could be spent watching our children, and just being curious about them.

This book will make you think about the way you think. And then guess what happens to all the names you've given yourself and all the selves you've become to different people at different times, and to all the names they've given you?

They . . . fall . . . away.

And you can just stand there, and say what you think. Ophelia wades out of the water. The fractured girl collects her parts—the daughter, the sister, the mother, the wife, the reader, the writer, the good mommy on the playground, the bad or sad mommy alone in her home. She gathers them all together, finds where they overlap, and says, "Yes, I like HER. Whatever her name is." And furthermore, I want my children to meet HER.

And I want to talk about that with all of you. So please, say something. Ayelet Waldman is saying something. ModernSingleMomma is saying something. Ria Sharon is saying something. Suzanne Tucker, ZenMommy, is saying something. Leigh Caraccioli, Fleurdeleigh, is saying something. Many of you are saying something on Twitter, by adding #badmother to your thoughts. You can join any of us on Twitter, by finding our Twitter links on our sites. Please keep talking.

I want to hear you say something here, too. But no name calling. Okay?

And if you want to hear us say something live, with Ayelet Waldman on Monday, May 11th, Noon EST, pop in here and watch.
Sign up below and we'll remind you that day, and send you the first chapter of Bad Mother immediately, so you can join the conversation. I can't wait to hear.

That's a Wrap

Come see us on Peterman's Eye tomorrow, March 26. Do it. And say hello when you get there.



The Lark (trailer)


The Painting that Started it All

The Pitch

The Plot Thickens

The Nitty Gritty of Producing a Film

The Larks:

Lark 1

Lark 2

Lark 3

Lark 4

Public Apologies

And More Public Apologies

Save The Date

The Premiere

The Film

Have Struck Land

Today, I ordered a landline. Tomorrow, by 10 in the AM, Eastern Standard Time, I will hear the sweet music of an audible BRRRINNNNNNNGGGG throughout the ENTIRE house. I am giddy. For some reason, I have attached all sorts of romantic nostalgia to having a REAL phone in the house. It’s like it’s Christmas, but the 1950’s version. I can already see myself standing in the kitchen, phone pressed between ear and shoulder, wiping flour from hands on red pintucked apron, half bent in laughter at friend Suzy or Jane or Rita's incredibly witty joke, Golden Retriever passing through, rubbing against me and getting half tangled in the cord as I lovingly extricate him. And then I remember—I don't have a dog. And I don't have a Suzy or a Jane or a Rita, witty or otherwise. And I don't have an apron, pintucked or otherwise. And I don't rightly know what pintucked means or if it's even available in red apron-wear. And, perhaps most importantly, I don't have a phone with one of those cord thingies. And do they even make those anymore? And why in God’s Green Earth am I working so hard at moving backwards in technology when it's doing nothing but make me yearn for smelly dogs and flour-covered aprons that are tucked with pins?

Well, I think it's this. It's not that cell phones don't rock, because they do. But they, well, CHANGE the home-time dynamic. Don't they? A landline in the house means no more tearing through the house and (that's only if you actually hear the thing) digging around in a Texas-sized purse for a muffled Justin Timberlake ring tone. Ever flipped open your phone to "Bringing Sexy Back," only to hear your mom's voice saying "Hi, Honey" an instant later? I wouldn't recommend it. Also, what about the lost art of intercepting calls intended for other household members and keeping them on the line way past the appropriate welcome and greetings by telling them about how much you paid for gas that day as compared to the day before that, and the week before that, and the year before that, until they have a veritable spreadsheet of gas prices embedded in their brain. C’mon. Those are good times.

The weirdest thing is, when I ordered the line, the guy didn't try to upgrade or sell me ANY extras. He asked if that was all, a bit incredulously, and then got me the hell off the phone as soon as possible. Young punk. And then it hit me. I'm that guy who takes the fifty-year-old pipe fitting into a hardware store and gets handed the one dusty replacement relic they have in the back along with a sour look and a "Don't worry about it; we can't charge you for it cuz it's not even in the computer, Pops." I'm him. That's me.

And that’s okay. Hey, does anyone remember how to make your own phone ring? You know, how you punch in a few digits and then hang up and then it rings? Remember that? Will be doing that A LOT tomorrow. Who wouldn't love a landline? Who?

Maybe next week, I can order a very cool number. Will have to call the young punk back and see if I can get myself something more along the lines of "Pennsylvania Six Five Thousand." And then maybe I can sign up for service with these girls and not have to talk to the young punk ever again.

Here Is Where We Meet

This is the title of a John Berger novel. I love it, and recently picked it up to read again. I know I'm rarely serious on here. What's my ratio of cynicism to sincerity? Anyone counting? In real life I'd say it's roughly 5:1. On here, probably 25:1. I like it here best. See, that was sincere. Damn.

At any rate, here are two of my (sincerely) favorite passages. I dare you not to cry. I dare you.

"Lisboetas often talk of a feeling, a mood, which they call saudade, usually translated as nostalgia, which is incorrect. Nostalgia implies a comfort, even an indolence such as Lisboa has never enjoyed. Vienna is the capital of nostalgia. This city is still, and has always been, buffeted by too many winds to be nostalgic. Saudade, I decided as I drank a second coffee and watched a drunk's hands carefully arrangeing the accurate story he was telling as if it were a pile of envelopes, saudade was the feeling of fury at having to hear the words too late pronounced too calmly." pg 13

See? You're crying aren't you? I told you.

"And I wondered how many times in my life I had taken part in the ritual of men showing to women the special little risks they run while working. (When the risks are large they don't show them.) They want to impress, they want to be admired. It's a pretext for holding the women to show them where to step or how to bend. There's another pleasure too. The ritual exaggerates the difference between women and men and in that expanded difference there is a fluttering of hopes. For an hour or two afterwards the routine feels lighter." pg 66

Twitter Current Theory™

(Brace yourselves, people. This is a long one. But stay with me.)

I talk about running a lot on this site. I think I do so because it's a huge part of who I am. Many things in our lives begin with a single choice of action. In this case, it all started with one stride. I remember that stride clearly. I was nineteen and frustrated with too much thought and too little action. And that stride, though wholly unrelated to all the plans in my head, was an action. And I've never stopped. I think of how different my life would be now had I never stepped onto the road that day. I think about the miles I've covered, all over the world. I run wherever I go. It's often how I introduce myself to a new place. I unpack my suitcase, put on my shoes, step out of the hotel, look both ways, and just start going wherever my feet lead me. It's taught me so much. Endurance. Distinguishing which pain you should push through and which pain means you should stop. It's taught me when it's safe to wander off and when it's time to stay on the beaten path. But mostly, it's taught me that action is the only conduit for thought. Before I ran, I had perfect theories, all trapped in my head. Running taught me that an unsuccessfully applied theory that has moving legs under it can become anything, including more successful than you ever imagined, if you just keep it moving forward.

And now, much to my surprise, I'm talking about Twitter the same way. I was tempted to replace the word "Twitter" with the more inclusive "Social Media." But I can't bring myself to do it. Why? Because it's not true for me. No other form of social media has had agency in my life like Twitter. It's such a funny word, isn't it? Twitter. Say it with me. Twitter. And I can assure you that a cynic like myself has not missed the irony of speaking about such a silly word in such grandiose, romanticized language. But it's genuine—I can assure you. Doubting Thomas becomes a believer.

Twitter is linear. And therefore, like running, it encourages forward motion. Nay, it insists upon forward motion. No loitering allowed. Grab your hat and hold on tight. No time for 'but what if' or 'let me just think about this for awhile.' And that dynamic is excellent for training yourself to be decisive. Shoot from your hip. Make a mistake, post something stupid (not that I ever have), it's gone before you can come to a full blush. Ironically, the fast pace forward makes the present moment, the right here, right now become very vivid and powerful.

Sometimes in order to understand an intangible, I close my eyes, think about that thing, and watch to see which familiar images come to my mind. With Twitter, I think of a fast current. A river driving hard and deep. But you have to jump in fully for it to do its magic. You have to engage. And let's face it, engaging means leaving Doubting Thomas behind. It means making yourself vulnerable to rejection. Chris Reed, of the phenomenal team at Talent Revolution boldly says, it means "doing any number of other things that actually require signing in and proclaiming your existence." Or as John Haydon bravely says on his (professional) site, "Let’s be honest, we all have some fear about opening up and being ourselves - especially when we’re going through an emotional shitstorm. Like I just did. . . But this is who I am." Provocative? I think so. It's such a rush to finally say, this is who I am. Take me or leave me. Say that out loud just once. Take me or leave me. I guarantee your shoulders will raise a full inch. You'll sit up straighter. Chin raised.

As with running, I clearly remember standing at the edge of the Twitter stream, feeling the pull of the current, and somehow intuiting that it would soon take me on a wild ride, forcing me to spend less time reflecting and more time just getting myself moving and "out there." My very first tweet: "Have just thrown all my balls into the air." I typed the words, and pressed the button: Update. @Ev, if you're reading this, I think you should change the button to read: Engage.

Lately all I read about social media tries to privilege one site over another. It's taken on its own partisanship. An us versus them. But I wonder why? This IS social media, people. I assume it derives its name from its human element. So why in God's green earth would we assume that one site fits all? People are, dare I say it, different. And I personally love that these sites have become weeders, filters of sorts, that funnel like-minded people with common goals into places where they can more efficiently communicate and achieve said goals. I am at a point in my life where I want fast and furious forward movement. It's not that I dislike Facebook, connecting with people from my past, or finding random pictures of myself from high school being passed around (thanks for that, btw). It's just that I'm not "there" right now. I have too much more road to cover before I sit back and reflect. My rocking chair will wait—my dreams will not.


Charlie Wollborg, Chief Troublemaker of Curve Detroit@CharlieCurve, a very savvy dude on Twitter, said it best, "Facebook reconnects your past. Linkedin connects you to your present. Twitter connects you with your future."

I dig that breakdown. And though I can't speak for him, I'm comfortable with the fact that different people choose to "be" in different places, at different times, for different reasons. That's fine. And I genuinely hope they allow me the same choices.

I've been on Twitter, as what I call a full-timer, for two months. When people ask me what Twitter is, I say it's a driving pulse of people who are game. People who wake up every morning and say, BRING IT. People who not only get what I mean when I say I'm an "expert at shenanigans," but are pushing me hard toward making it a paid gig. It's the feeling you get at the end of a hard race, where complete strangers are running beside you and cheering you on—but it's constant. It's thousands of 140-character injections of powerful endorphins.

I've been noticing lately how many people on Twitter are endurance athletes, dancers, skiiers, hikers. Especially runners. All people who like to move—and quickly. And when you get us all together (grin spreading across my face as I type), look out, world. Cuz we're bringing it.

The more you engage on Twitter, the further down the bank you wade, the faster and more powerful the current gets. And I have a Twitter Current Theory™, that somehow it takes you where you're supposed to be, and to those with whom, in all this wide world, you share unnervingly common ground.

Just look at who I get to begin and end each day with. Each post alone may not seem like enough to cause the power of movement I've described above, but put them together and let them wash over you daily, again and again, and they'll carry you away to places you've only been thinking about going, for way too long. Jump in. Engage. And we'll catch you. I promise.


JPeterman If you haven't stayed in touch with your dreams, the good news is that it's never too late to reclaim them.



fleurdeleigh Chasing my to-do list around the house with a lasso. It's mine!



unmarketing I have met more incredible, caring and smart ppl on Twitter, than all other online/offline places combined.




SarahRobinson Good morning everyone! Bizy day corralling this maverick life I lead - yikes! Hope you all are setting your intentions for a GREAT one.:)



RedHotCopy (to) @marieforleo You rock, Marie! Was getting overwhelmed & remembered what u taught me bout living in the moment. Ahhhh. #tweepletuesday



mistressmia (to) @redhotcopy you have inspired some mistress mia mischief. can't wait to tell you all about it.



shannonpaul Tomorrow afternoon I'm crashing the New Media Bootcamp in Austin. Let's see if @justinlevy and @chrisbrogan try to stop me. ;-)



balemar (to) @missive Dude, I'm so pumped! :)




MelindaLouise never grew out of the "so excited I can't sit still" phase.



marieforleo (to) @SarahRobinson @MissIve Hey Ladies! Do I need to get in here & start spankin?? Shenanigans r 100% necessary for biz success :)


sandygrason Stop. Breathe. Reconnect. Ask: "What 1 thing can I do today that will have the greatest impact on my life/business?" Go do it.






michelle7814 (to) @MissIve Advice: Go to bed. Set alarm for 4 am and walk straight to dining room with Sharpie. Do not brush teeth. Do not Twitter. It works.



riasharon Hey, that's my strategy!!! :) RT @sethsimonds Don't be afraid to tell somebody you love them if you really do...


And my very favorite Tweet of all time . . . because it gets right to the heart of can do and decisiveness.


c_reed (to) @MissIve Yes.

Be Careful What You Wish For

(originally posted July 2008)

I'm leaving for a trip tomorrow, and my first stop is in Seattle to see my mother. Last night, as I was packing, I remembered something that happened when I lived with her for a short time in undergrad.

It's early spring, March-ish, we've just gone shopping and I'm supposed to drop her off at an appointment. She abhors lateness. It is unseasonably warm for a Michigan March, and when we pass the high school, we see all the kids without their coats, even though it's still probably not more than 50 degrees out. Remember doing that?

Then we pull up to a stoplight and a carful of kids pulls up next to us. They have their windows down and the boy in the passenger seat has his bare feet hanging out the window.

Mom: What is wrong with those kids?
Me: They're celebrating the sun.
Mom: Well it's freezing.

I take the next left turn, in the opposite direction of her appointment.

Mom: What are you doing?
Me: I'm not taking you to your appointment until your feet are bare and hanging out that window.
(I hit the power button and roll her window all the way down.)
Mom: Are you crazy?
Me: You raised me. Do you have to ask?
Mom: This is no time to joke.

I look at her, dead serious, with the face she knows too well, and point out the window.

Yelling, screaching, and lots of utterances of my entire-given-name ensue.

And then her bare feet go awkwardly out the window—accessorized, mind you, with a scathing look of death.

And then she smiles. And then we laugh.

Me: Remember that feeling?
Mom: Vaguely. (looking at me) Thank you.
Me: Anytime. Now get your bloody feet inside the window because I'm freezing.

And now she lives in Seattle. Because for her entire life she wanted to live in Seattle. So she got up one day, shortly after our fridged-foot incident, quit her job, sold her home, and moved to Seattle.

And I miss her. And I think it might be all my fault.

Bloody window.

Dumpster Diving

flashback

I'm about 10. My two sisters and I have just finished helping my parents set up the tent, which means we're free to take the bikes off the rack and "stake out the territory." First stop, all bodies of water in the vicinity. Next stop, the camp store.

I spotted it near the back, leaning against the campfire pie molds. A child's bamboo fishing pole, complete with plastic bobber and fish gutter. No reel. Just a put-it-together-and-drop-in-the-creek sort of a pole. Three dollars and sixty cents, which was exactly three dollars and sixty cents more than I had.

On the bike ride back to the site, I plotted. Then I pitched. (Not the tent. That was already up, remember?)

Me: I found something I want at the camp store.
Dad: What is it?
Me: A fishing pole.
Dad: You can use mine.
Me: No. I want my own.
Dad: Need some money?
Me: No. Mind if I go for a bit?
Dad: That's fine. Can you be back in two hours?
Me: (Running the numbers. Thirty-six cans divided my three girls, only one of whom is wholly invested in seeing the stunt through.) Yes.
Dad: Go ahead.

Then I had to pitch it to my sisters. Lilu was almost thirteen (tricky). Jaime Lynn, almost eight (Like shooting fish in a barrel).

Me: (to Lilu) Wanna?
Her: (brushing hair or something of the kind) No.
Me: Did you see the guy working the counter at the camp store?
Her: (putting down brush) Yeah.
Me: It involves two trips to the camp store. And you can hand him the bottles. Some of them beer. You'll look way old.
Her: (dropping brush and hopping on bike) Coming?

Me: (to Jaime Lynn) Wanna?
Her: Yep.



(Cutting to the retelling, from my father's POV, the next day, and for years to come.)

Dad: Her mother and I were driving back into the campground and approaching the row of dumpsters. We saw a bike leaned up against the side of one of them, and two children hoisting another one over the edge, until everything disappeared but her flailing feet. Then her mother said to me, "What kind of parents . . . ?"
And that's all she got out of her mouth before she realized WE were the parents in question.

(Back at the campsite, slightly mussed and certainly not smelling my best, I prepared for my defense.)

Dad: Mind explaining?
Me: (unloading bag as I spoke—I've found that spectacle always helps the defense) I have exactly 36. In less than an hour and a half.
Dad: You climbed into dumpsters.
Me: Yes. Yes I did. But time was an obstacle. And you said less than two hours. But you never said NO dumpsters. So I erred on the side of efficiency.
Dad: (grinning)

Upon examining the cans closer, I realized that 24 of the cans were from Canada. No refund. I still remember how it hurt my pride to take that money. But the coffee grounds on my outstretched arm consoled me. I'd earned it.



I caught a bluegill about an hour later. On my very own rod. It's a bummer that I didn't know how to get it off the hook, though. Poor thing made the whole ride back to my site with me, still on the hook. And he was scrappy, like me.

And the Winners Are . . .

I know it's no Oscar, but I really want to thank everyone who played "Where's Miss Ive" over the weekend, and award them their bucket of M&M's. It made my adventure that much more fun, if you can imagine anything better than standing on a frozen lake, staring down a snowstorm. Perfect. I highly recommend a little head freeze for clearing the brain.

Two people, both from Peterman's Eye, guessed correctly.

I was in Petoskey. Or as I like to say, Peeeeeeetoskey.

Technically, Rings90 (also a Lark from the Chicago trip) guessed it first. But since, as I told her, I hadn't left my driveway yet, and her answer came in the form a of a list of all the cities in this hemisphere that had ever hosted Hemingway, her win is still being scrutinized by Miss Ive's board of scrutinizers. (We've got one eye on you, Rings.)

And then there's House Guest, also a fellow poster at Peterman's Eye. Though not very frequently, always amusingly and with my favorite form of whimsy. If you have a second, you must click the link and read some of his musings. And what makes his guess even better is that he sent it to me via, Stoney, the poster of all posters at The Eye. And he later scolded Sir Stoney, for adding a question mark to his one-word email. Apparently, he did not approve of the hesitation. Still giggling over that.

Also, the very shrewd J. Free, a regular reader, spotted the pic I sent out of my room, and guessed The Perry, as she knows me too well.


So now you all have to email me with two pieces of information if you want to collect your prize:

Address.
Favorite flavor of M&M's (Feel free to get fancy and demand Peanut Butter or even the seasonal Raspberry.)

Forgive my uncharacteristically prosaic post, sans mania. I believe my brain is still frozen.

Where's Miss Ive?

I know. Not quite as catchy as Where's Waldo, but Emerson is boring. And I'm not.

Okay, maybe he's not, either.

This morning, I'm packing the truck. Dropping boys at Papa's. Heading north into Hemingway Country. Finding first ridiculously-sized snowbank. Snowplowing into it. Lugging out snowshoes. And getting some real air into my head.

Will send a random twitpic via Twitter, so you'll all know I'm alive. If you're not on Twitter, you can still see my Tweets to the right of this page, and the links to the pics will be in them.

But here's the rub, I'll be watching the Stop the Silence page from my phone, held with frostbitten fingers. Every time the gap closes, I send a pic. So donate some money, people. You know how slack I am to take up a cause. This means something to me. And I'll thank you with ridiculous pictures of myself on yet another lark. So do it. Gawd, I'm bossy.

The first person to reach me in the virtual void and guesses my destination city, wins a bucket of M&M's. Possibly hand-delivered. All depends on the shape of the vehicle, post snowplow ramming. Name the exact location of any pic, win two buckets. Sisters, you can't play. You already know my best hiding spots.

See ya on the other side of the moon.

My road trip music:



J

My Serve

(My post on Peterman's Eye, in response to the topic of whether or not parents should, or do, push sports too much on their children)

Nothing changed my life or taught me as much as tennis. Nothing. Not school. Honestly, not even church. I was a skinny dreamer who sat in trees reading books. I was awkward and shy. And then I found a racquet one day when I was bored, my thirteenth summer. And then I found a ball. And then I introduced them to the garage door about 1000 times that day. And then I fell in love with it.

When you stand by yourself on a court and take 200 consecutive serves and only nail two aces, you learn how integral failure is to success. The two aces wouldn't have happened without the 198 that went out or caught the net. Period. And books don't teach you that. And NOTHING in this world feels better than those aces. And without the failures, they wouldn't feel that good. They're inseparable—failure and success. And pondering things doesn't teach you that. And just think of how liberating that is concerning a child's fear to fail, if they learn early that it's a necessary component of an ace.

I imagine this is true of practicing anything physical. Music. Dance.

(and here's where I apply this theory to sports and kids—stay with me)

Some parents don't care enough. They don't go to the matches. Don't ask if you made the team.

Maybe their serves never quite make it over the net.

Some parents care a little too much. Maybe their heart's in the right spot. Maybe it's not.

Maybe their serves are always a little too long.

My tennis coach used to spit in my face when screaming at me between sets. When I made it to states and to the final round of the tournament, he screamed two inches from my face as the entire crowd looked on because I'd missed a volley after diving and landing on my chin. I passed out on his feet.

So maybe the chair umpire should have pulled him off the court a long time ago.

And now it's my serve. Now I'm the parent. My Number 8 heads into his second season of T-Ball in a few months. And the only thing I know how to do, the thing I learned from all my missed serves and all the missed serves of my parents and coaches, is to keep hitting the balls and aim for the box.

With my sons, I imagine they are a new sailboat. Yare, but green. And so I keep them in the harbor protected from big winds, with my hand guiding their rudder. And I like this because the key is that I am behind them, watching carefully to see how their unique shape handles in the water. I don't push. I don't tow them around by a rope. But I do steer. And it is my prayer for both of my sons, that someday when I guide them to the open water, a powerful wind will catch their sails, whatever, or whomever it may be. Just as long as they have passion, and a decent handle on their rudder, everything else will fall into place.

My lawn chair is ready.

And for those parents, like myself, who have difficulty harnessing their competitive spirit at their childrens' games, I highly recommend competing in the "best-snack-bringing-parent" competition. Otter pops, a cooler and scissors always bring home the gold.

Seriously. Just ask the other team moms whose arses I took DOWN last year! Sorry. It's just in me.

The Sound of Silence Stopping

I know I took down my shingle a while back and posted my sabbatical notice. But I'm stepping back in to say something important today.

(squinting and tapping the mic)

I almost forgot how bright it is in here. I'm going to crank the volume on this thing today, so brace yourselves. It's important that you all hear this. We need noise. I'm not gonna be silly, either. I gave MissIve the day off.

A Very Good Man invited me to write about the 12for12K Challenge . Every month, for 12 months, they aim to raise $12K for a worthwhile charity. February is dedicated to Stop the Silence, a nonprofit that works with others toward the prevention and treatment of child sexual abuse.

So I sat for some time thinking about what it means to stop the silence. And I thought about the sounds of childhood, and what they should be. And I thought of my own life and how, though it eventually became, well, life, my childhood was idyllic in many ways.


I remember the sound of water running from the hose as I drank from it, the blades on my ice skates cutting across the frozen pond, the pounding army of feet running underground as I pressed my wet ear against the beach sand. Do you know that sound? While the cicadas buzz in the trees overhead and the gulls cry over the crashing waves? But my warmest memories are of stolen sleep in hidden corners of our home, and the sounds that made my eyelids heavy. Fires cracking in the fireplace, my father reading Paddle to the Sea, a Simon & Garfunkel album playing in the background. Now, I watch my sons sleep. And I remember how nice it felt to rest, unburdened by life.

But today, I'm thinking about the children whose memories are built on different sounds, and the horrible silence that follows.

I'm thinking of the children who are afraid of sleep, and the sounds that keep their tired eyelids open, well into the night. The terror that stirs from the squeak of a floorboard. And I'm thinking of all the other things that are stolen from them during those hours, like the sweetness of unburdened sleep.

And I want very badly to tell those children, even if they're grown now, that I wish I had been there to make a sound for them.

And that's why I'm writing today about 12for12K and Stop the Silence.

I know people always say we need to stop the silence. But if you press your ear to those words, you'll hear them say, We are not an idea—We are an action. My fingers, as they type this, stop the silence. One-key-at-a-time, making noise.

Please Make a Noise by Clicking Here right now. Give $10. An action. Not a thought. And DO NOT be deterred if you don't have a PayPal account. I MEAN IT. You've signed up for a Target and an Amazon account. You can push through. DO IT. An action. Not a thought.

It matters that you do. You'll know that you DID something because you'll hear a sound. A click. The Sound of Silence Stopping.


This is one of the sounds I remember drifting off to as a child, on the rug in front of the fire.

Listen to the words. Listen to the sound. Hear how one 'click' can Stop the Silence.





.

Proud Mama

Yesterday my three-year-old son walks past me pulling one of these:



Me: Where ya going?
Him: On an advent-yure
Me: Oh. Where to?
Him: I don't know. I told you—it's an ADVENT-YURE
Me: Good point. Whatcha takin'?

He pulls just three things from the wagon for perusal.

A weapon.



A friend.


And entertainment.



Nothing else. Not even a toothbrush. My kinda adventurer!

Wake-Up Call

I had a dream last night that I was a serious business woman. It was so vivid that I awoke inspired. I grabbed the pad and pen on my night table and jotted a list of things I must change in my workday regime:

1) When invited to sit in on serious strategy meetings, do not inquire about the likelihood of snacks being present.
2) When asked my opinion on marketing strategies for major corporations, do not use words like 'blog' or 'YouTube.'
3) And, finally, add articles to wardrobe that clearly say, 'serious business woman,' like shoes with tall, pointy heels that make lots of noise on linoleum floors and announce that I have 'arrived,' and shirts with buttons and collars that require at least a pedestrian familiarity with an iron.

When I left the house this morning, in buttons, freshly-pressed collar and one-inch heels, I was fully optimistic that I had been wise to keep my list short and reasonable. Baby steps.

Unfortunately, it seems, that even baby steps are challenging whilst trying to operate with ankles elevated to new heights, even ONE single inch higher. I believe my feet were suffering from altitude sickness, as there is no other way to explain why they could not perform the simple functions of 'clutch' and 'break' on the morning commute. The shoes lasted only five miles down the road before they were relegated to the passenger seat, where I could keep my eyes on their bewitching powers.

Though you can probably see where this is headed, I'll fill in gaps of the sequence of events that led to my inevitable fall from the 'serious business woman' wagon.

Arrived to work, list still in hand, ready to take on the day.

Checked rearview mirror for mussed hair or rogue breakfast remnants attached to my person.

Got halfway to the building before hot blacktop reminded me that I was still sans heels.

Got halfway BACK to car when president of company pulled into lot—spotting me—sans heels.

Have since restored the natural order to my workday routine and created new list.

1) Will refrain from allowing dreams to leave the bedroom.
2) Will maintain high expectations for snack-endowed meetings.
3) Will roam the office all day long sans heels to remind myself, and everyone else, just who the hell I think I am.

If You Give A Kid An iPhone . . .

You'll never get it back.

First, they'll look at it skeptically. After all, if big people dig it, how cool could it be?


Then they'll find out the secret that all big people have been trying to hide from little people (and their bosses)
the world over—that the term 'phone' is a bit misleading, because when you have an iPhone you'll never have to talk to anyone in the real world ever again.

And then their tiny, innocent little fingers will accidentally brush the dancing array of colorful squares . . . What was I saying? Oh, yeah, they'll find what is known in the big people world as compu-crack.



And then their skeptical look will gloss into the all-powerful iGlaze.



And then it's too late. You'll never see your phone again. Just look at the grin.



Please forward all texts, Twitters, blog comments and emails for Miss Ive to old-fashioned Pony Express, because though she has tried diligently to retrieve said iPhone from said kid on numerous occasions, she has had her hand slapped more times than a Twittaholic refreshes her Twitter (Read: A Lot).

Michigan Film: Take One

Everyone knows about the recent wave of movies that have come to Michigan. Overnight, Detroit has gone from pretty scary to scary pretty, graced with faces like these:







If you read articles like this one from The Ann Arbor News, you'll see how much growth the film tax incentives have brought. "Two months after the bills were signed, the Michigan Film Office had received 49 applications from production companies interested in filming within the state. During all of 2007, it got just three applications."

Now, most of you know that Miss Ive writes A LOT. And some of you know that she is working on her second GO at a screenplay.

What you probably do not know is how much she is not hip to the idea of ever (EVAHHHH) moving to LA. And what you CERTAINLY do not know (possibly because it is absolutely untrue) is that it was all her idea that the movies come to her.

One thing that nobody can argue, is that this news confirms Miss Ive's sneaking suspicion that she leads a charmed life. And her favorite thing about the film business—truth is pretty irrelevant. It's whatever she says it is.

Anyone wanna be in her first film? (VERY SMALL PRINT: must be willing to rollerblade nekkid downtown Detroit in a foot of snow.)

Don't Shoot Your Eye Out

Miss Ive is burnt out from dealing with this since Santa brought the Michigan Militia to her home. So she will keep this very brief.

Nerf guns rock.

Excellent stress reliever.

Just make sure the glasses are on, and all is fair.

iFart

Can't tell you how hard it was to bring myself to title this post with that . . . that . . . you know.

It's not that I don't love a good four-letter word. I'm no prude. But excrement talk is different, right? Unlike other obscenities that can be used to bring home your point, show passion and maybe a little 'Yeah, I said that, what are you gonna do about it?' grit—potty talk just makes you look like a filthy ten-year-old boy.

But here's the dirty truth. I've been wooed by the new addition to an increasingly long list of apps for iPhone.

First there was iBowl.



That was fun for a few minutes.

Then there was UrbanSpoon.



That was great just for shaking the phone and seeing the dials roll like you're in Vegas. But let's face it, it's not that practical.


And then (clouds parting, the angelic sound of Gregorian chants coming from the sky) they gave us iFart.

For the very fair price of 99 cents, you too can experience the sheer pleasure of spinning the wheel, selecting your favorite stinker (Brown Mosquito, Squeezer, Splatter, The Muffler, Butt Socket, Jack the Ripper or, my personal favorite, Bombardier), and then push the big red circle that simply reads "Fart Now"—exhibiting a spartan sensibility that even Ms. Stewart could appreciate. Am I right?

And lest you think this application is for the simple-minded, there are numerous sidebar options that allow you to build a complex algorithm of customized farting. For example, you can record a fart and email it to a friend. You can also select a fart and set the timer, so that the bomb may be dropped at any time, say, in a board meeting, without lifting a finger to give yourself away. Seriously. You could even place it under the boss's chair if you were feeling brazen.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, apparently I am a filthy ten-year-old boy. And I'm loving it.