A wonderful organization close to my heart, Help a Mother Out, has introduced Diaper Action Week for the week of November 14th through November 18th in an effort to raise awareness about this problem and help make policy changes with The Diaper Act. The Diaper Act legislation aims to amend the Child Care and Development Block Grant of 1990, which will increase child care access and relieve a financial burden on families who cannot otherwise afford a sufficient  amount of diapers for their children. The Diaper Act does not ask for additional federal funds. If Congress enacts the Diaper Act, eligible child care centers will have the flexibility and choice to provide diapers (disposable or cloth) to their neediest families.

So how can you help? By spending a minute to sign a petition for The Diaper Act and let Congress know that you want to see changes made for struggling families. You can also help spread the word about Diaper Action Week and The Diaper Act!  Blog, Facebook, and Tweet about #DiaperAct. It sometimes only takes a minute of your time to help make a difference.

Thank you!

While I watched the nurse remove the IV tube from my son’s little hand, I later learned that a tragedy was unfolding at that very moment only a few miles away. A repeat drunk driver, with a blood-alcohol level of 0.20%, slammed his truck into a car carrying four high school girls. One of the girls, 14 year old Ashton Sweet, was left brain dead while another girl remains in critical condition. At the request of her grief-stricken parents, Ashton Sweet was kept alive on life support until six of her organs were donated.

Reading about the loss of this beautiful young girl struck something deep within me. At 1:15 am on Sunday morning, I was feeling a sense of relief, renewed optimism, and nothing short of grateful for the improved health of my little boy. I distinctly remember looking at the glowing clock in the hospital room so I could etch that moment in time within my mind forever. I could finally breathe again. But now I know that as I was about to fall back asleep on the hospital cot next to my son, able to sleep more deeply and comfortably with the unquestionable knowledge that he was going to be OK, a family across town was about to wake up to the most horrible news that any parent could possibly receive.

Someone told the Dude the other day that you haven’t really experienced the lows of parenting until your child ends up in the hospital. The thing is, I knew that my little Monkey was going to leave the hospital eventually. I knew he was no longer in danger once the nurses started the IV drip. He was going to be OK. It’s the not knowing that is undoubtedly one of the ultimate lows of parenting. It’s when you can’t bring your child home from the hospital that is undoubtedly the lowest form of human suffering. And it’s those stories that are painful reminders for the rest of us that while parenting has it’s challenging moments, each moment – good, bad, and everything in between – is truly a gift that is a tragedy in itself to take for granted.

I’m walking the five blocks home from the Gymboree Play and Music location where my 8-month-old son, Josh, takes classes. I have him in the baby carrier, his pom-pom hat brushing my chin.  I’m ravenous.

What to eat?  I’m on a restricted diet because I’m still nursing Josh and his lower intestines can’t quite process dairy or soy yet.  It’s a common intolerance, as the pediatrician has stressed, not an allergy, and he will likely grow out of it around age one.  But I haven’t had a chocolate milkshake since I was pregnant, and I hadn’t intended to give them up postpartum.

I walk past the three, yes, three, pizza places on the next two blocks.  I see fresh pies emerging from the oven as I pass the last shop. The 20 pounds of baby strapped to me dissipate as I make a hard left toward the door, ready to devour a whole cheese pie, baked ziti, even the “B” health grade sign the New York Sanitation department has displayed in the window.  Alas, nearly everything has soy in it, so the sign probably isn’t safe.

On the couch back home, I’m malnourished and cranky.  Mr. No Dairy No Soy is latched to my breast, drinking away.  I debate ordering a rare steak à la carte from the Argentine place up the street, when little blue eyes takes a break, smiles at me so wide I see all five of his adorable teeth, nuzzles me, then chomps down so hard on my left nipple that he breaks skin.

I scream.  He giggles.

The solution seems obvious.  Stop being a martyr.  Stop breastfeeding.  Eat a buttery cupcake.  But dairy and soy intolerance requires special infant formula.  When I give this special formula to my son (who will willingly accept a bottle from anyone), he takes a sip, scrunches his face to suggest I have poured toxic slime into his mouth, and shoves the bottle aside.

And there’s more to this than formula rejection.  Perhaps every parent has his or her thing.  Some take on sleep; others, sign language. I knew I wanted to try breastfeeding as surely as I also knew I wanted an epidural, preferably before labor pains started (success!).   Breastfeeding didn’t come easily but after two months of pumping and crying and infections and love and encouragement from friends, family, and professionals, it clicked.  (Go Michelle Obama for recognizing the critical need for support and workplace accommodations for breastfeeding moms.)

I like breastfeeding for the bond with Josh, for the financial break, for the gift of not having to smell the putrid special formula, but mostly for something else.  My husband and I for the most part planned our pregnancy, but getting pregnant still changed my theory of the universe from quantum to chaos.  Finally, in the last few months, I’ve started to see a few patterns in the randomness.  Nursing Josh forces me to periodically stop my day and breathe, which I find helpful these days for more than just physical survival.

When I nurse Josh without my iPhone nearby—something at which I’ve gotten much better—I watch him.  I play with his hair, rub his back, kiss his hands.  I catch myself actually not thinking.  And other times as he swats at me, pulls my hair out of my head, and unintentionally (I hope) picks my nose, I do think, a lot.  I think about him growing up, about how I want to help him learn to care for himself, to make himself happy.  I think about myself, about what I want for my life with him and with our family, what balance I want between work and home.  They’re heavy topics, but there’s a calm that comes from thinking while nursing.

I don’t think breastfeeding is the only way to bond or relax with an infant, by any stretch of the imagination.  And I don’t think it’s right for every mother, especially if it’s only creating excess stress. But it has become an integral, wonderful part of my relationship with Josh.  So, I will forge ahead until his first birthday when I’ll begin to wean him, and myself.  Until then I’ll treat my battle wounds with lanolin cream and do the walk to and from Gymboree with drool pouring from my mouth.  It may not be pretty, but I’ll put on a bib and Josh and I will be two of a kind.

As I wrote in a post back in June, we’ve been wanting a dog for a long time but needed to find the right breed for our family. We found him.

Our new dog is named Noah and the Dude and I fell in love with him right away. He is cute, cuddly, sweet, intelligent, and has a great temperament. He also doesn’t shed, which is a huge bonus. However, as fun and playful and sweet Noah is, it’s been a big adjustment for all of us.  Noah is every inch a puppy – he likes to chew, jump up on people, isn’t totally housebroken, wakes up in the middle of the night, and doesn’t understand commands. We’re watching a lot of the “Dog Whisperer” these days.

Bringing a puppy home is challenging. People told me that it would be difficult but, just like parenthood, you don’t fully understand the demands until you actually live it. Like parenthood, puppyhood has tested me in every way. But what I’ve quickly learned is that, just like parenthood, it’s an awesome way to live and worth every challenge.

Ever since I became a mother roughly 3 years and 4 months ago, I occasionally have what I call a “mother moment.” It’s a moment that hits me in a significant way that reminds me of the importance of my mother role. From the moment our children enter the world, we want to protect them. It’s a basic maternal instinct. From aggressive drivers to mean children at the playground, we want to shield our children from the dangers, disappointments, and hurt that will inevitably surround their world. We would do anything for them, even if that means that we need to confront or even ignore our own fears. When I hear a bump in the night, I don’t hesitate to seek it out. When I see large spider, I don’t freak. When my baby is sick, I comfort with kisses and hugs without thinking twice of my own health. And when my son calls out for me in the middle of the night because of a bad dream, I run to him, no matter how tired I am. Unless the Dude beats me to the punch, which he often does.

Last week, it really hit me that my mother role overrules everything else. As our flight took off in the midst of stormy Utah clouds, we hit a great deal of very rocky turbulence. Since I am no longer the fearless flyer that I used to be, especially when I’m flying with my son, I could instantly feel fear taking over my otherwise calm demeanor. As I struggled to control my anxiety, I looked down at my son sitting next to me. His eyes were widened and he started to clutch his Curious George monkey tightly. In that moment, I pushed my anxiety and fear away. I didn’t have a choice. I soothingly told him that everything was just fine and then made a game out of the rocky motion – doesn’t it feel like a ride at Disneyland? Wheeeeee! We both giggled and relaxed. And then he slept for the remainder of the flight. I couldn’t sleep. All I could do was look down at my son and think about what I would do for him. There was nothing extraordinary about what I did to calm his fears. It was nothing compared to the things I would do to protect him.  I’ll do whatever it takes. Because that’s just what we do.

He had spent a weekend at home and was headed back to college, where he is a pre-med student. It was obvious that he is very passionate about his studies and career choice and had already decided on what field of medicine he wanted to study (cardiology). I was intrigued by this 20 year old man because he seemed so confident and self-aware. He told me that he has known he wanted to be a doctor since he was very young and had been preparing himself his whole life for the challenge. The sacrifices, the studying, the long hours, and lack of social life…he said he was ready for all of it. I believed him. But I was curious. Where did his drive come from? Who or what inspired him? And did he feel any pressure to become a doctor? His Asian ethnicity made me immediately think of the recent Wall Street Journal article about Chinese Mothers and I could not help but ask questions about the mother who raised him.

His mother was an immigrant from Vietnam and, although she encouraged him and his brother to do their best, there was never any pressure to study for a certain career. While he is studying to be a doctor, his brother is studying to be a filmmaker at a local art school, something that their mother supports and encourages equally. They were allowed to play sports, play any instrument of their choice, spend plenty of time with friends, and pursue whatever interested them. I said that his mother must be so proud of him and his accomplishments and goals, to which he replied with a modest shrug. His mother worries, he told me.  She worries that he works too hard and encourages him to spend more time with his girlfriend, friends, and to enjoy his college years. He brushes off her concerns, saying that if he doesn’t work hard enough, he will not achieve his goals. She certainly didn’t sound like a “Chinese Mother” to me.

He asked about my son and joked if I’m already putting any pressure on him to pursue a certain career. As we laughed about the idea of toddler LSAT and MCAT tests, I started thinking about the role I play as a mother. In reality, I don’t encourage the Monkey to do anything other than eat his veggies and share but, one day, I’ll be paying close attention to his interests and studies. Ideally, he will develop interests and find studies that he is passionate about and will pursue them to the best of his ability, but I know that’s not always the case. Children often have to be coaxed and nagged to study or practice. I can easily recall my childhood desires to stop swim practice, finish my piano lessons, and my impatience for certain classes to end. But how much is too much? When do we stop making a daughter practice the piano when it clearly no longer interests her or agree for a son to drop AP Biology when he prefers to work harder in History? Even when they nail a test or do well playing certain notes, does it even matter if they don’t find it that interesting or meaningful?

I saw the spark in the young man’s eyes when he spoke of his dreams of being a doctor, a spark his mother surely sees as well.  I hope to see that spark in my own son’s eyes one day as well, whether it’s because he wants to be a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer. Or an artist, a writer, or an electrician. It truly doesn’t matter to me. Because without that spark, it won’t matter how hard a parent pushes. The spark cannot be generated artificially. It cannot be handed down or prompted by parents, “Chinese” or otherwise.  The spark is created from within.  And from within is the only place where that spark can truly be fueled and free to build and glow.

The Dude photographs monkeys of all kinds.

One Sunday morning at the beginning of last year, I read this piece in the New York Times Magazine, which postulates that parenting today is defined by the process of archiving digital media of our children.  More morosely, it explains that

American children in 2010 have a bright, clear reason for being. They exist to furnish subjects for digital photographs that can be corrected, cropped, captioned, organized, categorized, albumized, broadcast, turned into screen savers and brandished on online social networks.

Tongue even more firmly in cheek, the article describes the initiation process into digital parenthood:

The marching orders come immediately, with the newborn photo, which must be e-mailed to friends before a baby has left the maternity ward. A conscientious father . . . must snap dozens of shots of the modestly wrapped newborn. . . . Back at a laptop, he uploads the haul, scrutinizing pixels. . . . He selects a becoming one. The mother signs off, often via e-mail, from her hospital bed. . . . Thus a parent is minted.

Indeed.  And it doesn’t stop at the hospital. We all take virtual piles of pictures now that digital cameras have become nearly disposable in price and cameraphones ubiquitious.  But for all of the advantages of digital media — immediacy, bottomless storage, etc. — there is one serious disadvantage: It takes but a small computer problem to lose it all.  Anyone who’s experienced a hard drive crash can attest to just how many precious memories can be lost in an instant.  And, disaster aside, I think we’ve all grown a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of files and sources of our digital media.

So, given my role as Archivist-in-Chief in our household, Aimee thought I might be able to give AYMB readers some helpful advice by describing what we do in terms of documenting the Monkey, how we archive/curate it all, and how we secure and back it up.  But first, some background.

The Dude, Digital Archivist
If digital archiving is the hallmark of 21st century parenting, then I had been minted as Dad long before biologically becoming one.  For reasons only a psychiatrist could explain, I’ve always been a bit of a digital archivist.  By the time I graduated law school, I had stored on my computer not only every paper I had written since high school, but also, freakishly, every email I had ever written and every digital picture I had ever taken.  Then, I undertook the project of digitizing my collection of thousands of CDs.  Throw in, over the next few years, a concert photography hobby, a side-gig as live-show archivist for a band, and another pile of music, and I was juggling a few terrabytes of data before the Monkey was even a proverbial glimmer.

In short, I was well prepared for tackling the project of documenting, archiving, and curating all things Monkey.  I packed for the Monkey’s birth as I did for any other adventure: neatly stuffing into my camera bag 2 digital SLR bodies, 4 lenses, an external flash, gig after gig of memory cards, more chargers and batteries than you could imagine, and a digital HD video camera.  My bag weighed more than the Monkey at birth — and the replacement value eclipsed the hospital bill.  But it was worth it in every way. Aimee did indeed sign off on a picture, and we used it to announce the Monkey to the world before even leaving the hospital.

Parenting by 1s and 0s
I’d bet dollars to donuts that this long walk down a short digital pier resonates with many AYMB readers — if not in scale, then at least in theme.  If it does, consider following advice for managing your digital memories:

1. Take lots of pictures and video (and voice memos). Memory and storage is cheap these days.  A 4GB SD card can be had for $25 bucks.  4GB!?!  That’ll hold thousands of pics.  Snap away.  Don’t be shy.  You can delete later, but you can’t recapture lost moments.

2. Dont forget about your smart phone. With smart phones getting much cheaper, we have access to a lot more ways to record life.  That iPhone (or equivalent) in your pocket takes pretty darn good pictures, records pretty good sound files, and (the newest generation, at least) shoots some pretty incredible video.  Your phone is the one electronic device you almost always have with you.  Don’t forget it’s there.

3. Find a workflow that works . . . and stick to it. As with anything in life, you will be more likely to stick to it if you can find a routine that works for you.  On a computer, we call that “workflow.”  It’s what you do, start to finish, to get your media off your devices, onto your computer, onto the web, and backed up safely.  Everyone’s workflow will be different, and you need to find the one that works for you.  Here’s mine:

• I create a topical folder for each photgraphed “event.”  For example, we took The Monkey to play in the snow over the weekend, bringing with our two iPhones, Aimee’s point-and-shoot, and my SLR.  When we got back, I dumped the media from each of those four sources into one folder entitled “2011-01-08 (snow-day).”
• I generally sift and edit photos in Picasa.  Although I use Lightroom and Aperture for more extensive editing jobs, I find Picasa to be the most intuitive, fastest, and most complete program (especially because I use Picasa for online storage and sharing).  Picasa is free and, for those who care, non-destructive.  iPhoto is great, I’m sure; I’ve never used it.
• I take a couple “laps” through a set of pictures.  During the first lap I flag (in Picasa, I use the star system) the pics that should be deleted.  Those are the ones that are just plain bad — bad exposure, bad framing, blur, someone eating with their mouth open, etc.  I would guess that I delete almost 2/3 of all pictures in this first lap.  After deleting those, the next lap is dedicated to culling the pics that are passable and worth editing and sharing.  Generally, I’d say about half of the pictures make it out of this lap and into a “final” subfolder (and then online for sharing with family and friends).  This time, I don’t delete the “non-final” ones; I keep them for future re-editing, alternate versions, etc.  Again, storage is pretty cheap.
• I finish up by dragging that folder onto my external storage device for backing up and safe keeping.

4. Use effective naming conventions and folder structures. This one sounds dorky, but it helps a ton.  As I mentioned, I organize my photos by “events.”  I always use the YYYY-MM-DD (event name) convention because it will sort/alphabetize property, and because it allows quick identification.  I then place those topical/event folders within folders by year.  2008, 2009, 2010, etc.  If you don’t take a lot of pictures, these yearly folders might not be necessary.  It helps me a lot.

5. Backup early and often. I have literally hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars invested into my photos.  And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.  Their sentimental and historical value is truly beyond measure.  And it could take as little as a three-year-old spilling water, electrical spike, or hard drive crash to wipe it all out.  Everything.  In a second.  And, yes, hard drives do fail.  Often.  They’re tiny magnetic discs that spin400,000 times per hour.  Even the best ones eventually break.

So, I remain vigilant about backups.  I’ll describe my backup system below, but mine is almost certainly more complicated than yours needs to be.  The casual photographer probably can get away with a simple external hard drive; amazon.com has several 500GB ones for much less than $100.  You can manually drag your prized data onto it, or could use any number of free or cheap backup programs.  Apple users should consider Time Machine, for example.  For those into idiot-proof solutions, I’ve found the Click-Free auto-backup external drive to be a nice solution.  My mom has used one for a couple years now, with not one complaint.  (And she set it up without me!)

If you’re as paranoid as I am, you might consider a bulkier setup.  I have a 6TB RAID-configured Network Attached Storage device in the closet with our networking and stereo equipment.  That’s a fancy way of saying that I have a very big, very reliable hard drive stored out of harm’s way.  The Monkey can’t spill on it.  I can’t accidentally drop it.  And, because it’s attached to a $40 UPS (uninterruptible power supply), it can shut down safely in the event of a power outage.  As soon as I’m done sifting/editing, my pictures get stored on that drive.  And then, because I’m truly paranoid, I have a second drive that I store at my office and bring home once/month to clone the home drive.  The off-site drive gives me a second backup that should add protection against theft, fire, flood, earthquake etc.

Your Tips?
Do you have any tips you’d like to share with AYMB readers?  We’d love to hear from you.

Happy shutterbugging.

Pancakes with maple syrup, hold the blueberries

My 3 year old son is a very picky eater, with an emphasis on “very.”

It’s obviously a common problem amongst kids his age, but I feel like it’s getting increasingly worse. He refuses to try new foods and often pushes his plate away, complete with a look a disgust and “blech” sound effects.

The Monkey was great with food until he was about 2 years old. At 2, he stopped drinking from a bottle, which was primarily used for milk. Since he associated milk with a bottle, he stopped drinking milk altogether. He started to push meals away, especially if vegetables were seen on his plate, and started to ask for specific foods. My child, who once devoured my roasted Brussels sprouts, scrambled eggs with veggies, and beet salads, now wants to live on chicken fingers, pizza, and pancakes.

We established a rewards system that is very hit or miss.  We would reward him with a small soy ice cream sandwich or a few organic chocolate covered pretzels as a treat after he ate his dinner. However, as for trying new foods, the reward system doesn’t even work. He would rather skip a treat than try something new. He has been known to throw a tantrum when he doesn’t get what he wants or simply refuses to eat.

Although he’s pretty good with certain fruits, like apples and bananas, it’s a struggle to get him to eat any veggies. I often put veggies on his plate, which he immediately removes. I even tried the whole hiding-pureed-veggies-in-food thing for a while. But not only have I grown to believe that it’s a disservice in the long-run, the Monkey also knows better.

I now dread mealtime.

Where did we go wrong? I did my research when it came time for the Monkey to start eating. At 6 months old, while being exclusively breastfed, the Monkey only ate pureed green vegetables, followed by an introduction to orange and yellow vegetables. He didn’t even have fruit until he was about 9 months old. As for refined sugars, the Monkey didn’t have any until his first taste of cake on his 1st birthday. He didn’t have it again until his 2nd birthday. The Monkey has never had fast food and doesn’t even know what McDonald’s is.

But, at some point during his 2nd year, I lost some of the control I had with the Monkey’s food intake. He was introduced to more types of “kid-friendly” food. He went to birthday parties where they served treats and cakes. He had pizza, french fries, and chicken fingers for the first time. He started to crave those foods. The Monkey also started to eat more snack foods like crackers and chips. Carbs and sugars – it’s all he wants and demands.

This could all be a phase or we may simply have a very picky eater on our hands. It’s hard to say at this point. I like to say that if this is the worst issue with our child, than we’re very fortunate parents. But it does make me nervous. I want my child to be as healthy as possible, which can only be accomplished with a diet filled with nutritious and healthy food. I worry about the lack of calcium, magnesium, and omega 3′s in his diet. I worry that his weight is on the low side of normal for his height and age. And I worry that he will grow up to have a negative relationship with food. Or, maybe, all this worrying is for nothing – that his eating habits are fine for his age and that he will choose better food options down the road. Guess time will tell. In the meantime, I’ll keep serving him veggies and wholesome foods and hope that, one day, he won’t push the plate away.

If you have any ideas, suggestions, stories, or words of encouragement, please share!

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It’s pretty common for those who work a 9-5 job to get some kind of annual year-end review. For those of us who work the 24/7  job, otherwise known as stay-at-home parents, it’s my belief that we should get a year-end review, too. The only problem is that our bosses typically lack the verbal skills to express a year’s worth of achievements, failures, and everything in between. If my 3 year old boss could actually give me a year-end review, I’m guessing it would go something like this:

Well, Mom, here we are again. Another year is over and it’s safe to say that it’s been an interesting ride. I’ve developed into a fairly typical 3 year old boy.  I am obsessed with trains, planes, cars, and anything else that has wheels. I like splashing in puddles and playing in dirt. I like bugs but hate worms. I could live on peanut butter sandwiches, french fries, and chocolate covered pretzels, if you let me. I’m a little shy, especially around girls, but once I get to know someone I don’t want them to leave. I don’t like to share my toys or leave the playground. And I definitely let you know when I’m pissed. I still treat you like a servant yet you STILL smother me to death with love and kisses. I have to admit that I still love the kisses, hugs, and snuggling and I think I’ll still be OK with all that for at least another year or two. So enjoy it while it lasts. We had a lot of hits and misses this past year in terms of behavioral training.

You have to admit, for someone that has supposedly been educated and trained in behavior modification, you’re not perfect when it comes to modifying the behavior of your own 3 year old kid. I throw tantrums when I don’t get my way, I still don’t use the potty, and there is no way in hell you’re going to make me eat that. But, hey, I’m 3 and no “expert” is going to make me do anything I don’t want to do. You can play all the reinforcement games, give me time-outs, and deprive me of my toys and treats, but as you and that Daddy guy have quickly learned, I’m not going to always give in to your demands. Yes, I do believe that I’m smarter and more savvy than you and I will always find a way to get what I want. Oh, you want to give me a time-out? Yes, please! I really enjoy my “me time.” And that toy you just took away? I didn’t care about that either. You really don’t get it, do you. I am perfectly content with playing with a paper towel roll or just sitting in a corner talking to myself and my imaginary friends. Let’s face it, I might get upset about that stuff for a minute or two but then I’ll get distracted and behave nicely as I focus on something else. Oh, that’s the whole point?!? Huh, guess you’re smarter than I thought. Before we end this review, we should go over a few of the goals we had established for the year and see how you fared:

1. Wean me off the binkies: Accomplished!
2. Wean me off the bottle: Accomplished!
3. Wean me off a night bottle: Half-accomplished. It changed from a bottle of milk to a sippy cup of seltzer water
4. Potty-train me: Big FAIL. Going once in the potty doesn’t count. I told you that I’ll let you know when I’m ready!
5. Learn the alphabet: Somewhat accomplished. I get to G really well and then I skip to O.
6. Learn to count to 3: I can count to 10. Well done!
7. Stop throwing food: Uh, FAIL. My aim has only improved in the last year.
8. Learn to say I LOVE YOU: Accomplished! And, yes, I do mean it.

The upcoming year will be a year filled with big changes. I’m starting preschool next week, so we’ll see how that goes. We talk about it a lot and I’ve met my teacher and new friends, so I think it will go well. I’m sure it’s a bittersweet time for you but I’m sure you’ll enjoy the few extra hours you get a week for yourself. I also know that you’re starting some part-time work with a non-profit philanthropic organization, whatever that means, but I certainly hope that doesn’t impact your work here with me! I’m sure you’ll do just fine. It’ll be good for you to do something new and exciting and have adult conversations that don’t revolve around diapers, tantrums, and your favorite products at Trader Joe’s.

In conclusion, I think you’ve done a great job this year and I’m excited for the future. I think that in addition to that Daddy Dude, we’re a great team. Keep up the good work! Uh, no, there isn’t a raise or a bonus. What? No, I won’t be hiring any additional support staff this year.  Sorry, I thought you knew this when you took the position. You and Daddy are the only staff with the occasional help from a “Nana.” Isn’t this job getting easier for you anyways? You’ve been doing it for 3 years! No? It was easier when I was less opinionated, verbal, and active? Ha! Just wait until I’m 13. Happy New Year, readers! May 2011 bring you much joy, love, and happiness.

OK, let’s be honest. It doesn’t actually get *wintry* in my area of SoCal. Sure, many leaves have fallen and some trees will soon be bare. But the palm trees will still sway in all their glory, although they may be lit up with holiday lights. The days will be a lot cooler but the sun will mostly be shining. Some people will even hit the beach on Christmas Day and frozen yogurt shops will still be bustling through the next few months. A winter wonderland, it is not.

I sometimes wish for snow this time of year, although I’m sure people in the Midwest and East Coast are telling me to watch what I wish for right about now. We have to travel to find snow, which is the plan this winter for the Monkey’s first ski trip. The Monkey has only seen snow once, if you count a winter trip to Yosemite at 4 months old. I’m counting down the days until he will play in the snow for the first time, an experience I’m sure he will enjoy. And after a few days of building snowpeople in the brisk cold, trying to ski (that would be me), and numbing of our fingers, noses, and toes, we’ll return to the sunny SoCal *winter* where people put on a coat and scarf when it reaches 60 degrees.

So, goodbye Fall (whatever that means here in SoCal). Here’s one last leaf to remember you by.