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My new smart phone was supposed to be, well, smart.
Sure, I can download an app to translate whatever I'm reading into Gaelic.
And it's awfully handy to monitor the earthquake threat in neighboring states.
I furthermore find it interesting that I can track the load of bananas bound for my grocer as it moves North from Central America in an 18-wheeler driven by an illegal immigrant.
But if I were designing apps, I would do something practical--Momma practical.
Consider Cleat Finder.
Tap your smart phone once and a red beam would emerge, scanning each room for said sports gear. Upon locating it, the smart phone would beep then automatically dock your kid's allowance. (After all, why am I the one using my phone to find their stuff? Shouldn't they be held responsible?)
For an extra $5 per month, the app would convert to seek out missing Cub Scout socks, Brownie vests, ballet slippers and wayward lovies. Simply categorize your stuff with a quick snapshot and the phone would keep track of its whereabouts.
I'd pay a pretty penny for Snack Sargent, too.
This app would offer the sound of a rumbling belly 48 hours prior to any event to which I am scheduled to bring snacks. It would categorize the nutritional content of each item in my pantry, calibrate to consider how many and what type of food allergies were present in the group I'm feeding then suggest the most nutritious but least expensive option.
If you buy Snack Sargent, you'd get Consensus Chef for free.
This app would allow you to plug in your brood's culinary likes and dislikes then spit out menus every single child in your home would find palatable. It would further send you coupons for the necessary ingredients. And recipes.
Next on my list would be Pants on Fire.
When my kids get into an inevitable he-said-she-said, I could scan their lips with my phone. Immediately, it would alert me to the child who started whatever it was so I could fairly discipline the offender.
I think Lice Locator would also be a hit.
The moment your second grade teacher sends home news of an infestation, simply hold your phone up to your offspring's mop and scan away with the provided blacklight. Should your phone find critters, a pop-up will notify you of nearby pharmacies that have medications in stock. It will also flash a photo of the neighborhood kid that should no longer sleep over.
Many mothers of toddlers would appreciate Pee-Pee Princess.
This app would tell you with the sound of raindrops when your baby has to go. That means you could get into the proper potty position before you miss the Moment of Realization.
I might even splurge on Daily Dishwasher.
This app would keep track of which spouse last scrubbed the pots and pans. It would alleviate any arguments over whose turn it is to scrape the nasty scrambled eggs off the cast iron skillet.
The guys at the apps store sure have a lot of work to do.
Until then, my smart phone will remain in my back pocket. I'd turn it on, but I'm too busy looking for lost cleats.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Where are all the mommas?
From the Dallas Morning News, September 17, 2011
Julie Blair: Where are all the mommas? At Target, of course.
Photo: Evans Caglage / Staff Photographer
The stranger in aisle E31 had definite opinions about the size of my family. After surveying my three kids, she suggested I try for a fourth child. Doing so would eliminate the odd-man-out syndrome and “complete the set.” Even numbers are key for family harmony, she explained.
While I might have felt such a discussion was intrusive had it taken place at, say, a dinner party or a church function, this was Target. And it was Hot Momma Hour. So instead of being offended, I gave her take serious consideration.
These types of intimate conversations can be heard throughout the store between the hours of 8 a.m. and 3 p.m. Go on any day during this time slot and you’ll find dozens of mommas with their broods who’ve made the pilgrimage to the big box. They go not only for groceries but also in search of something more important: community.
The Target at FM2499 and Chin Chapel Road in Flower Mound has become a de facto country club for those of us staying at home with our children. It’s a place to find exactly what we need between the often lonely rituals of laundry duty and dishes. You can stock up on opinions about preschools, swim instructors and dance companies.
If you need to kvetch about nap schedules — or the lack thereof — you can do that, too. All you have to do is make eye contact with another woman who looks equally exhausted.
Moreover, you can go early: The store opens at 8 a.m., which feels like the middle of the day for those of us who’ve been awake since 5 a.m.
“I go to Target to find people like me,” said my gal pal Christine who lives in Flower Mound and often totes her twins to the store. “When my girls were little, I went in the early morning because I knew I’d always find other stay-at-home moms.”
While our town has a gorgeous, well-used community center and neighborhoods packed with young families with whom to play, Target offers an alternative.
The climate is a steady 73 degrees and fully shaded — you can’t say that for even the most engaging subdivisions.
Moreover, there is no need to clean up the playroom for company or even to brew a pot of coffee — you can get your fix at the Target Starbucks cafe.
My girlfriend Holly, also from Flower Mound, has gone so far as to take her husband and three boys to Target for a weekly play date on Sundays. There’s always something new for them to do in the toy aisle and friends to chat with, she said.
“It’s like religion,” Holly said, “except Target.”
If I were a glass-half-empty type, I would condemn the Target scene as evidence of a culture of consumption, a sad commentary on soulless suburbs designed for cars rather than connection.
Instead, I see the Hot Momma Hour as refreshing: It is a showcase of the strength and ingenuity of the human spirit in an age of technology.
Despite Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter, despite drive-throughs and takeout, despite snarling highways and the absence of parks that keep us from one another, we remain committed to honest-to-God human contact.
We will still seek out and find the community we crave.
That, and a good deal on paper towels.
Julie Blair of Flower Mound is a freelance journalist and a Community Voices volunteer columnist. Her address is onehotmama10153@yahoo.com.
Julie Blair: Where are all the mommas? At Target, of course.
Photo: Evans Caglage / Staff Photographer
The stranger in aisle E31 had definite opinions about the size of my family. After surveying my three kids, she suggested I try for a fourth child. Doing so would eliminate the odd-man-out syndrome and “complete the set.” Even numbers are key for family harmony, she explained.
While I might have felt such a discussion was intrusive had it taken place at, say, a dinner party or a church function, this was Target. And it was Hot Momma Hour. So instead of being offended, I gave her take serious consideration.
These types of intimate conversations can be heard throughout the store between the hours of 8 a.m. and 3 p.m. Go on any day during this time slot and you’ll find dozens of mommas with their broods who’ve made the pilgrimage to the big box. They go not only for groceries but also in search of something more important: community.
The Target at FM2499 and Chin Chapel Road in Flower Mound has become a de facto country club for those of us staying at home with our children. It’s a place to find exactly what we need between the often lonely rituals of laundry duty and dishes. You can stock up on opinions about preschools, swim instructors and dance companies.
If you need to kvetch about nap schedules — or the lack thereof — you can do that, too. All you have to do is make eye contact with another woman who looks equally exhausted.
Moreover, you can go early: The store opens at 8 a.m., which feels like the middle of the day for those of us who’ve been awake since 5 a.m.
“I go to Target to find people like me,” said my gal pal Christine who lives in Flower Mound and often totes her twins to the store. “When my girls were little, I went in the early morning because I knew I’d always find other stay-at-home moms.”
While our town has a gorgeous, well-used community center and neighborhoods packed with young families with whom to play, Target offers an alternative.
The climate is a steady 73 degrees and fully shaded — you can’t say that for even the most engaging subdivisions.
Moreover, there is no need to clean up the playroom for company or even to brew a pot of coffee — you can get your fix at the Target Starbucks cafe.
My girlfriend Holly, also from Flower Mound, has gone so far as to take her husband and three boys to Target for a weekly play date on Sundays. There’s always something new for them to do in the toy aisle and friends to chat with, she said.
“It’s like religion,” Holly said, “except Target.”
If I were a glass-half-empty type, I would condemn the Target scene as evidence of a culture of consumption, a sad commentary on soulless suburbs designed for cars rather than connection.
Instead, I see the Hot Momma Hour as refreshing: It is a showcase of the strength and ingenuity of the human spirit in an age of technology.
Despite Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter, despite drive-throughs and takeout, despite snarling highways and the absence of parks that keep us from one another, we remain committed to honest-to-God human contact.
We will still seek out and find the community we crave.
That, and a good deal on paper towels.
Julie Blair of Flower Mound is a freelance journalist and a Community Voices volunteer columnist. Her address is onehotmama10153@yahoo.com.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
MommaSpeak
My dear friend Christina and I haven't spoken a full sentence to one another in ages.
In fact, now that I think about it, I'm not sure we've ever rendered a full conversation during the entire course of our wonderful three-year-long friendship.
It isn't that we don't have anything to discuss. We've got six children ages seven and under between us, so there's a lot of mention. Yet, the kids are the crux of the communication problem: Someone always needs something so we're constantly interrupted.
Lucky for us, our language skills have evolved as our kids have grown.
Just as those who text or tweet have developed emoticons and shorthand, Christina and I--like millions of Hot Mommas across the world--dispense with traditional language and lapse into MommaSpeak when we're together.
For example, instead of verbally greeting one another, one of us hands the other a Diet Coke.(Light ice, preferably 32 cold ounces but a warm can discovered rolling around the wheel well of the car will do.)
There is no need to inquire as to how the other's afternoon has gone. I can eyeball the number of bags in Christina's hand and tell if the day has been calm or zany. (One baby bag and clasped purse means that everyone slept well the previous night; multiple Target disposables brimming over with stuff, an errant beach towel wrapped around the neck, two pairs of sunglasses perched on her head means otherwise; an unescorted preschooler holding a Mastercard and car keys assures things are dire.)
With small talk taken care of, we jump right in to important issues.
We speak at the exact same time and in fragments for brevity.
Christina: "...mother-in-law dyed her hair pink which she says accentuate her new tattoo..."
Me: "...decided to build a beach in the baby's bedroom complete with sand..."
Christina: "..ended up roller skating through all that puke..."
Me: "...left for a job in Vietman for six weeks and has no internet access..."
Christina: "...stood on top of the ladder balancing four cans of mushroom soup..."
Me: "...found two albino hamsters running through the pipes in the kitchen..."
Christina: "...hot-wired the toaster in an attempt to curl Barbie's hair..."
Me: "...fed the neighbor's retriever the whole box of enemas..."
The diaglogue is dispensed with such speed that no U.S. military decoder could decipher it.
Christina: "...gottheearplugsstuckinsidethetoilet!"
Me: "...putthecarinreverseinsteadofdrive..."
Furthermore, our discussions are often yelled to one another. That's because we're often not in the same room at the same time and/or we need to be heard over the din.
In addition, our dialogues are interspearsed with the disciplining of a brood member.
Christina: "...locked himself in the cupboard...Mattie, please put the scissors down...before the physician could get into the room..."
Me: "...said she didn't want to do the math problem...William do not put underwear on the baby's head...before she ate the paste."
Our conversations, like most MommaSpeak, usually has an abrupt ending.
Sometimes we say goodbye. Other times, we just chase a child to the potty/car/dangerous precipice.
With the rules of MommaSpeak in play, it's all understood.
In fact, now that I think about it, I'm not sure we've ever rendered a full conversation during the entire course of our wonderful three-year-long friendship.
It isn't that we don't have anything to discuss. We've got six children ages seven and under between us, so there's a lot of mention. Yet, the kids are the crux of the communication problem: Someone always needs something so we're constantly interrupted.
Lucky for us, our language skills have evolved as our kids have grown.
Just as those who text or tweet have developed emoticons and shorthand, Christina and I--like millions of Hot Mommas across the world--dispense with traditional language and lapse into MommaSpeak when we're together.
For example, instead of verbally greeting one another, one of us hands the other a Diet Coke.(Light ice, preferably 32 cold ounces but a warm can discovered rolling around the wheel well of the car will do.)
There is no need to inquire as to how the other's afternoon has gone. I can eyeball the number of bags in Christina's hand and tell if the day has been calm or zany. (One baby bag and clasped purse means that everyone slept well the previous night; multiple Target disposables brimming over with stuff, an errant beach towel wrapped around the neck, two pairs of sunglasses perched on her head means otherwise; an unescorted preschooler holding a Mastercard and car keys assures things are dire.)
With small talk taken care of, we jump right in to important issues.
We speak at the exact same time and in fragments for brevity.
Christina: "...mother-in-law dyed her hair pink which she says accentuate her new tattoo..."
Me: "...decided to build a beach in the baby's bedroom complete with sand..."
Christina: "..ended up roller skating through all that puke..."
Me: "...left for a job in Vietman for six weeks and has no internet access..."
Christina: "...stood on top of the ladder balancing four cans of mushroom soup..."
Me: "...found two albino hamsters running through the pipes in the kitchen..."
Christina: "...hot-wired the toaster in an attempt to curl Barbie's hair..."
Me: "...fed the neighbor's retriever the whole box of enemas..."
The diaglogue is dispensed with such speed that no U.S. military decoder could decipher it.
Christina: "...gottheearplugsstuckinsidethetoilet!"
Me: "...putthecarinreverseinsteadofdrive..."
Furthermore, our discussions are often yelled to one another. That's because we're often not in the same room at the same time and/or we need to be heard over the din.
In addition, our dialogues are interspearsed with the disciplining of a brood member.
Christina: "...locked himself in the cupboard...Mattie, please put the scissors down...before the physician could get into the room..."
Me: "...said she didn't want to do the math problem...William do not put underwear on the baby's head...before she ate the paste."
Our conversations, like most MommaSpeak, usually has an abrupt ending.
Sometimes we say goodbye. Other times, we just chase a child to the potty/car/dangerous precipice.
With the rules of MommaSpeak in play, it's all understood.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Dinner at the Duck Pond
The Duck Pond could be anyone's Happy Place: Its banks are lush, the waves ripple prettily, the fish bite.
But if you're a toddler who happens to like ducks, well, there's really no better place on Earth.
The Duck Pond has a menagerie that would make most zookeepers envious. There are gaggles of mismatched mallards, half a dozen exotics with Dalmatian-colored feathers, mysterious turkey-like swans, fifteen or so grackles that think they're ducks and two actual giant white ducks that were perhaps released from Easter baskets.
The ducks seem to frequent this pond for one reason: the toddlers.
The symbiotic relationship between the diapered and the feathered has likely been going on for generations: The babies bring bread, the ducks become junkies.
They all waddle about chasing one another with squawks of joy.
Occasionally, one of the aforementioned falls into the pond.
On our last visit to the Duck Pond, however, Charlotte was uncharacteristically disinterested in the fauna.
Instead, she wanted their bread.
"Ooh, food!" she yammered, bending down on stubby legs to finger a piece buried in the grass.
"Ducky bread," I suggested, making my ickiest face.
"Dirrrrrty," Charlotte breathed in her best Christina Aguilara voice.
Then, she popped the bread into her mouth.
As a recovering germaphobe, I choked back words.
"She is immunizing herself," I thought.
I pointed out the goslings to Charlotte in hopes of distracting her.
Charlotte responded by digging through the grass to find another chunk of bread.
Victorious, she pulled forth an usually large mound and jammed it between her cheeks chipmunk-style.
"Blah! Blah!" I said, sticking my tongue out.
I mentally began cataloging the germs that ducks might contain.
"Is Duck Itch food borne?," I thought. "What about Duck Death? How do you get that?"
Charlotte smiled like an angel sent down from Heaven.
Then, she turned on her heel and sprinted towards a pile of rocks. She plunged her chubby fist into a crack, pulled up moldy crust and rammed it into her mouth.
"Mmmmmm!" she said, chewing.
Then suddenly, I was noticing the duck poop.
It was everywhere--the grass, the mulch and probably the bread my child just consumed. Slimy white-green goo coated huge swaths of the grassy landing like icing atop a birthday cake.
Anxiety's heavy hand was pushing down on me.
"How about your crackers," I pleaded. "You have nice, clean fishy crackers in the backpack. Let's go get them."
Charlotte blinked and pulled herself up tall.
"No," she stamped. "Bwead."
"How about the bread we have at home?" I suggested. "I can make you a yummy peanut butter and jelly."
After raising three children, I knew that reasoning with a 20-month-old baby was no smarter than reasoning with, well, a duck.
I changed tactics.
I would offer limited choices that would not include toxic duck bread.
"Do you want cheese or oranges?" I asked.
Charlotte trotted off.
"Bwead, bwead, bwead," she sang.
In the great tradition of the Duck Pond, I waddled after her.
I was still squawking.
But if you're a toddler who happens to like ducks, well, there's really no better place on Earth.
The Duck Pond has a menagerie that would make most zookeepers envious. There are gaggles of mismatched mallards, half a dozen exotics with Dalmatian-colored feathers, mysterious turkey-like swans, fifteen or so grackles that think they're ducks and two actual giant white ducks that were perhaps released from Easter baskets.
The ducks seem to frequent this pond for one reason: the toddlers.
The symbiotic relationship between the diapered and the feathered has likely been going on for generations: The babies bring bread, the ducks become junkies.
They all waddle about chasing one another with squawks of joy.
Occasionally, one of the aforementioned falls into the pond.
On our last visit to the Duck Pond, however, Charlotte was uncharacteristically disinterested in the fauna.
Instead, she wanted their bread.
"Ooh, food!" she yammered, bending down on stubby legs to finger a piece buried in the grass.
"Ducky bread," I suggested, making my ickiest face.
"Dirrrrrty," Charlotte breathed in her best Christina Aguilara voice.
Then, she popped the bread into her mouth.
As a recovering germaphobe, I choked back words.
"She is immunizing herself," I thought.
I pointed out the goslings to Charlotte in hopes of distracting her.
Charlotte responded by digging through the grass to find another chunk of bread.
Victorious, she pulled forth an usually large mound and jammed it between her cheeks chipmunk-style.
"Blah! Blah!" I said, sticking my tongue out.
I mentally began cataloging the germs that ducks might contain.
"Is Duck Itch food borne?," I thought. "What about Duck Death? How do you get that?"
Charlotte smiled like an angel sent down from Heaven.
Then, she turned on her heel and sprinted towards a pile of rocks. She plunged her chubby fist into a crack, pulled up moldy crust and rammed it into her mouth.
"Mmmmmm!" she said, chewing.
Then suddenly, I was noticing the duck poop.
It was everywhere--the grass, the mulch and probably the bread my child just consumed. Slimy white-green goo coated huge swaths of the grassy landing like icing atop a birthday cake.
Anxiety's heavy hand was pushing down on me.
"How about your crackers," I pleaded. "You have nice, clean fishy crackers in the backpack. Let's go get them."
Charlotte blinked and pulled herself up tall.
"No," she stamped. "Bwead."
"How about the bread we have at home?" I suggested. "I can make you a yummy peanut butter and jelly."
After raising three children, I knew that reasoning with a 20-month-old baby was no smarter than reasoning with, well, a duck.
I changed tactics.
I would offer limited choices that would not include toxic duck bread.
"Do you want cheese or oranges?" I asked.
Charlotte trotted off.
"Bwead, bwead, bwead," she sang.
In the great tradition of the Duck Pond, I waddled after her.
I was still squawking.
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