Category Archives: Family

Working Girl Me

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When I signed on to my computer that morning, an instant message popped up from my boss: “Please call me as soon as you get to your desk.”

He was not given to chitchat or small talk. We both worked remotely and when we communicated, it was via email or instant message. Before I could consider why he wanted to speak to me, my phone rang.

“This is going to be a difficult conversation,” he began.

Fifteen minutes later, I was unemployed.

It didn’t matter that I was being laid off because of a corporate restructuring at a foundering company or that my boss said he had pushed hard to keep management from eliminating my position.

I had lost my job and, along with it, a crucial chunk of my identity. What if I couldn’t get it back? I needed working girl me. She kept me sane. She was confident, self-assured. She paid the mortgage and car payment. She provided her family with health insurance. She showed her daughter the importance of working hard, being respected and standing on her own. She was the me I wanted to be.

I had willingly given her up once before to stay home with my young children. I thought I would be happy without her, that I would find the personal fulfillment I needed in being a mother. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted her back. Slowly, I worked her into my new life as a parent. I did some freelance writing and editing for a few years, and when my son started kindergarten I took a part-time job working from home.

She was back, and I was happy. We all were.

Then my husband lost his job. I was able to expand my position to full time, which helped, but it was still a frightening, stressful period for us financially. At the same time, it made us refocus on our family and our marriage, and it brought us closer. It also motivated my husband to start his own company as he had always wanted to do. Out of what he had perceived was failure came success. She, working girl me, helped make it possible.

And now she was gone.

How could I tell him? Could we get through this again, without her this time?

As I climbed the stairs to the master bedroom where my husband was dressing for work, I felt like a child coming home with a bad report card. I had failed, and there was nothing I could do to fix it. I was afraid of what he would think, what he would say, how he would see me — the me without her.

I saw the shock in his eyes, the fear, but he was there for me. It was his turn to be supportive, and he was.

“We’ll get through this,” he told me, as I cried into his T-shirt. “You’re good at what you do. You’ll find another job.”

I didn’t believe him. But she did.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Not for Just an Hour, Not for Just a Day

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I sat alone by the pool, listening to the mix tape he had handed me at Detroit Metro, right before I boarded the plane for Florida.

“They’re just some songs I like,” he had said, in his usual flippant tone. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

I listened to the tape anyway. Belinda Carlisle sang, “Never-ending love is what we’ve found,” but The Pogues countered with, “You took my dreams from me when I first found you.”

He was right, I thought. It doesn’t mean anything.

I turned off the Walkman and headed back to my family’s mobile home. As I walked the path I had taken so many times as a child, the streets, homes and palm trees seemed smaller than I remembered, almost miniature.

They hadn’t changed. But I had.

I had just graduated from college and was about to start my first full-time job. The weight of responsibility loomed, and I wanted, needed, to relax with my aunt and uncle, my second parents, the people who loved me unconditionally.

It wasn’t a typical spring break for a 21-year-old. My aunt and uncle were Michigan snowbirds who spent the colder months at their mobile home in Lake Seminole Resort, a retirement community in Pinellas. Instead of keg parties on the beach, I visited the local flea market with my uncle, played bingo with my aunt at the community hall and caught early-bird dinner specials with their retiree friends.

After dinner we would sit on their screened-in porch, and my uncle would tell stories about their early years together. They met at the dime store where my aunt worked in downtown Detroit. My uncle, who managed a theater nearby, was immediately smitten and kept trying to get her to go on a date. She finally agreed.

“I found a million-dollar baby in a five and ten cent store,” he sang, with a big grin. They had been married 50 years, but it was as if they had just met.

Toward the end of my visit, my aunt and uncle surprised me with a trip to the Salvador Dali Museum. I was a big Dali fan and had no idea my 70-year-old aunt even knew who he was.

As we drove to St. Petersburg, I remembered the other tape in my purse, Patsy Cline’s “Always,” which I had brought to share with my aunt.

My love for Patsy began when I was a young girl living with them. A family friend used to sing her songs at parties, and I knew my aunt would enjoy reminiscing to “Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home” and “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”

When she popped the cassette in the tape deck, my uncle took her hand in his and began to sing along to the title track:

“I’ll be loving you, always. With a love that’s true, always. When the things you plan, need a helping hand, I will understand, always…”

That’s what I want, I thought. I want it to mean something.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Growing Pains and Purple Teeth

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In case you missed my guest post on The Three Under blog, my son went away to band camp for the first time last week. It was his first taste of independence, and he couldn’t wait to go.

I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. How would he do on his own? What if he got homesick? What if he became ill or was injured? These questions began to plague me as soon as I signed him up for camp in March.

The thought of dropping him off two hours away from home and then spending a week without him made me crazy. To make matters worse, his 13th birthday was the same week. It’s a huge milestone, and I dreaded the idea of him celebrating it away from home and without his family. Obviously, camp was going to be a challenging step for me in the “learning to let go” department, and I knew I needed a distraction.

The rock star (not really, but he is in a band) and I talked about it and decided it was the perfect opportunity to plan the trip to Napa we had always dreamed of. A close family friend even volunteered to take care of our 11-year-old daughter. How could we not go?

Drop-off at camp was just as difficult as I’d imagined. I was anxious and agitated all morning and struggled not to let my son see it. I cried for a solid 15 minutes after leaving him (the rock star says it was more like 30). Later that evening we dropped our daughter off with our friends — a far easier experience, since we knew she would be staying with people we love and trust. And the next morning we left for Napa.

I had a lot of doubts about being so far away from my kids, especially since one of them was two hours from home himself. The plane ride was turbulent and stressful, a perfect metaphor for my state of mind.

Things took a turn for the better when we arrived in San Francisco. The rock star and I were both born and raised in the Midwest, so the breathtaking scenery of the West Coast — the mountains, the valleys, the ocean — leaves us awestruck every time.

Before our Napa adventure began, we planned to stay one night at The Triton Hotel in Union Square, less than a block from Chinatown. If you’ve never stayed at a Kimpton hotel, it’s a unique boutique chain that offers guests a lot of quirky, personal touches. Check out the mini bar at The Triton.

Triton minibar: Rubber duckie, anyone?

We spent a fun evening in our favorite city, meeting an old friend and his girlfriend for sushi and then drinking martinis at the Top of the Mark. The next morning we ran from Chinatown to the bay. The hills in Chinatown were brutal for two Midwestern runners like us. But the view was worth it.

The rock star during our run by the SF Bay

It’s about an hour’s drive from San Francisco to Napa Valley, so after a quick Thai lunch we hit the road. We arrived at our hotel, the River Terrace Inn, in the early afternoon and decided to hit a few nearby wineries before dinner.

Our first stop was Del Dotto Historic Winery & Caves, which we later learned is nicknamed “Del Blotto” because of the extremely large pours. We decided to share a tasting since it was our first winery of the day, and that was a wise idea: Our new friend Luis gave us about 10 different wines to taste. (One we found especially interesting was the rich, smoky 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon.)

Our introduction to Napa did not disappoint. In fact, we struck oenological gold at the majority of wineries we visited in Napa and Sonoma. I have to credit the rock star for this. He did his homework before the trip, and we received a lot of great tips from wine-loving friends at home and knowledgeable folks we encountered in Napa and Sonoma.

Our next stop was Jarvis Winery, where we took a cave tour. (Del Dotto and many other wineries offer these too.) The entire wine-making and business operations of Jarvis are contained within a 45,000-square-foot cave, complete with a stream and waterfall running through the center. For those of you novices like me, a cave is optimal for winemaking because the humidity levels are high and the temperature is constant.

Jarvis Winery cave tour

The wines at Jarvis were exceptional; we particularly liked the Cabernet Franc and the Finch Valley Chardonnay. We also loved the story of Will Jarvis’ Science Project, a wine that started as the eighth-grade science experiment of winery founder William Jarvis’ son.

After Jarvis we headed into town for dinner. A Yelp search led us to Bottega, Food Network Chef Michael Chiarello’s restaurant in Napa. If you go — and you should — order the short ribs. They are smoked and braised, served with whole-grain mustard spaetzle, Sicilian pickles, quince paste and smoky horseradish jus. Unbelievable. I am drooling over the memory alone.

The nights end early in Napa, or at least for us they did. I guess the combination of day drinking and California sunshine was too much for us. Or maybe just enough.

The next morning we took a limo tour of Sonoma with our brassy driver/wine expert, Paula. Our first destination was Domaine Carneros Winery, known for its premium sparkling wines and pinot noir. It was by far the best view I’ve ever enjoyed while sipping bubbly. I am by no means a sparkling wine connoisseur, but these were phenomenal — and also quite affordable.

Enjoying some bubbly, and the view, at Domaine Carneros Winery

Our Sonoma itinerary then led us to Ledson Winery, where we found more wines we loved and what I can only dream will be our next home. While we sipped Cabernet Franc and Sauvignon Blanc, Paula set up a picnic lunch for us near the vineyard. If a salami and bacon panini sounds like an odd combo, all I can say is “don’t knock it till you try it.” It was our favorite lunch of the trip.

Ledson Winery: our dream house

A stop we particularly enjoyed in Sonoma was Benziger Family Winery, which practices sustainable, organic, biodynamic farming. We took a tractor tour around the vineyard and learned about how the “green guys” do it. The wine we brought home from Benziger was the Signaterra Sauvignon Blanc, crisp and delicious.

Benziger, a biodynamic winery

After a few other brief stops in Sonoma, we headed back to Napa for sushi at Iron Chef Morimoto’s restaurant (my second favorite dinner after Bottega) and then decided to call it a night. Paula had given us a list of “must sees” in Napa for the next day, and we needed to rest up.

Our last day in wine country began with a run along the Napa River followed by brunch at Oxbow Public Market, which sells local and artisanal foods and wines. If you’re looking for a quick bite or a place to pick up a picnic lunch, check out Oxbow.

We had scheduled a tour at Beringer that day, and in retrospect I wish we had skipped it. If you’re planning to do a tour, I’d suggest a cave tour of a smaller, less commercial winery. The impeccably tended gardens and Rhine House are worth a visit, but we didn’t get much out of the tour.

The Rhine House at Beringer

Lunch on our last day was at Farmstead (another of Paula’s picks), the restaurant at Long Meadow Ranch. Executive Chef Stephen Barber offers a menu of farm-to-table dishes, made using the ranch’s grass-fed beef, vegetables, extra virgin olive oil and honey. We loved and brought home LMR’s Sauvignon Blanc.

There were a few other wineries on Paula’s list, but we only had time to hit one more. We decided on Charter Oak Winery, which Paula had emphatically labeled “you will LOVE this stop!!!” Charter Oak is a four-generation family-run winery that operates out of the home of the original winemaker, Guido Ragghianti. Robert Fanucci and his son, David, run Charter Oak using the 100-year-old basket press, homemade punch-down tools and other wine-making equipment he inherited from his grandfather. Guido continued making wine until he died at age 99, and the family still uses his recipe.

The rock star dabbles in winemaking, and so did his father and grandfather, so this was right up his alley. The wines were outstanding, but my favorite part about Charter Oak was our hostess, Robert’s wife, Layla. The former music teacher turned artist is an absolute delight. We truly felt like guests in her home rather than strangers on a wine tour. After you tour Guido’s cellar and sample the wines, be sure to check out Layla’s artwork. She is as talented as she is gracious.

Layla's artwork appears on some of the Charter Oak wine bottles

Our homecoming was a bit of a whirlwind. We left for Chicago the following day, picked up our daughter that evening and headed downstate to pick up our son the next morning. The look on his face when he saw us was happy and relieved, but I could tell he’d had the time of his life. His buddies had even thrown him a surprise birthday party. Mama bear was happy and relieved too — to say the least.

In the days that followed I noticed some changes. He seemed more confident, more independent. He had grown during his week away.

The changes in him made me think of something one of our Napa wine tasting hosts had said: “Violated expectations are the key to learning.” The host, of course, was speaking in terms of expectations about taste. But his statement also applied to my negative expectations about my son going away to camp and being separated from him.

That week turned out to be a learning, and growing, experience for both of us.

Memories of the Men Who Raised Me

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Aunt Thelma and Uncle Lincoln

As a child, I walked next to him with my tiny hand wrapped around his giant index finger. I listened to him chuckle softly at his own jokes. I ran to him when my aunt, the disciplinarian, scolded me, and I sobbed on his shoulder. He was my uncle, but he was also my second dad. He loved me unconditionally, as if I were his own daughter, and he showed me what a father should be.

I went to live with Uncle Lincoln and Aunt Thelma, my father’s older sister, shortly before my mother’s death. They were in their fifties and had already raised their own two children and numerous foster kids. Their decision to take on a toddler at that stage of their lives is just one example of the loving, nurturing, selfless people they both were.

Uncle Linc was my buddy growing up. I adored him. He walked me to the bus stop each morning with our collie, Chipper. I worked with him in his vegetable garden, planting row after row of sweet corn, cucumbers and leaf lettuce. I helped him feed and water our horse, Blue Betty. When a new Disney movie came out, he took me to the Westborn Theater, which he managed, and I sat happily in the back row munching on Raisinets.

When I was 11, my father remarried and I moved in with him and my stepmother. My dad was a stoic, distant man. I knew he loved me, but it was not easy for him to show it. My teen years with my stepmom were tough, and my dad was no Uncle Lincoln.

In my early ’20s, I spent a fair amount of time dating the wrong men. I found myself drawn to troubled, enigmatic types, guys like my dad. That changed when I moved to Chicago and met the rock star (not really, but he is in a band). Our first date lasted 24 hours, and I had never felt more at home with anyone. Within six weeks we were living together, and this year we’ll celebrate our 16th wedding anniversary.

What made him the right guy? After years of dating men like my father, I finally found an Uncle Lincoln. He laughs at his own jokes. He holds me together when I’m falling apart. He loves me unconditionally.

When I took the rock star home to meet my family, my father, a retired Detroit police officer, sat him down in the kitchen with a yellow legal pad and grilled him about his education, employment and family. When we went to visit Uncle Lincoln, he and my future husband sat outside in a couple of lawn chairs and had a casual, quiet conversation. I love both these memories. My two dads looking out for me and making sure I’d found a good guy.

It took time, distance and having my own family to repair my relationship with my dad. I had to become a parent to recognize what he had been through — World War II, being a police officer, losing his wife — and how it had affected him. Both my dads are gone now, and I miss them every day.

As I watch my own little girl unabashedly favor her father over me, it tickles me. I know she is bonding with the most important man in her life, and he is showing her what a father should be. He is her example. I hope she’ll find someone just like him some day, just like him and Uncle Lincoln.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Life in the Suburbs: Same As It Ever Was?

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"Once in a Lifetime," Talking Heads

I grew up in a bedroom community in suburban Detroit. It was filled with blue-collar families, modest ranch homes, pristine yards and, my younger self assumed, a lot of broken dreams.

As a 20-something whose dreams were firmly intact, I couldn’t wait to get out of there and see the world. My plan was to go to Chicago, work for the Tribune (this almost happened) and somehow wind up a music columnist for Rolling Stone (I have a subscription; does that count?). And no matter where my dreams took me, it would never, ever be back to the suburbs.

As a musical side note, I thought the Talking Heads song “Once in a Lifetime” was about someone waking up in the suburbs one day and wondering how he ended up there and if any of it really mattered. (For those unfamiliar, watch the video here.)

A few lines into the song, a bow-tied and bespectacled David Byrne asks, “Well, how did I get here?”

Well, Mr. Byrne, here I sit, pushing 45 and about to celebrate my 10th anniversary of suburban life, and sometimes I wonder the same thing.

Although I never did end up working for the Tribune (I was on a waitlist for an internship and got tired of waiting), I did find my way to Chicago. That’s where I met my husband — we’ll call him “the rock star” (he really is in a band, although you most likely have never heard of it). The rock star and I lived in apartments in Lincoln Park and then Bucktown in the early years of our relationship. We were married for about two years before thoughts of having children entered our heads, and life in the city suited us just fine.

When I got pregnant with our son — about five minutes after we decided to start trying and, yes, I realize how lucky we were — we decided to look for a house in the city. I was adamant about avoiding the suburbs and really wanted to give life in the city with kids a go.

Our shoestring budget led us to a bungalow in the far northwest neighborhood of Portage Park. We took the terrifying first car ride home from the hospital after our son was born to that house. (The ride home with our newborn daughter 22 months later was far less stressful since we were, of course, seasoned veterans by then.) It was our first home, and in many ways it is where my heart will always be.

Excuse me if I am having another Talking Heads moment here, but have you ever had a dream where you’re at home, but you’re actually in a place you’ve previously lived? Well, I always dreamed of being at home in the house where I grew up — my aunt and uncle’s house in Southfield, Michigan — until I moved to the Portage Park house. It’s where my life with my own little family began.

At some point, my stubborn refusal to “go suburban,” to be a “708-er,” gave way to wanting the best for our children. Both the rock star and I went to public schools, and we wanted the same experience for our kids. That couldn’t happen in the city neighborhood where we lived. We felt safe and loved our neighbors, but the public schools there were downright awful.

So we up and moved to the South Suburbs — away from everything I knew. Although the only place I had lived in Illinois was Chicago, the suburbs are the suburbs. It was strange yet familiar. And once I adjusted to people making eye contact at the grocery store and even smiling or saying hello (no, they were not going to try to mug me), it wasn’t so bad. It was slightly easier for the rock star. He grew up out here and knew the scene…at least better than I did.

Ten years later, we have a solid circle of friends and we are firmly rooted in our community. Our dreams aren’t broken, they’ve just been sidetracked a bit, and we’ve added new ones to the mix. I never knew I wanted to be a mother, and yet I wouldn’t change it for anything — not even that job at Rolling Stone magazine. And I’m guessing the rock star is pretty happy that the band he started with a few other suburban dads now gets regular gigs in Chicago. I know I am.

Despite having achieved a relative comfort level here in the ’burbs, we have every intention of moving back to the city once the kids go to college. Chicago, New York, San Francisco — we haven’t decided yet. But I’m pretty sure the kids we’ve dragged all over the country (and soon to Italy), won’t mind visiting us there. And we won’t mind visiting them wherever their dreams do or don’t take them.

And so, my fellow suburbanites and you city dwellers, what made you decide on the place where you live? Did you opt for the suburbs or were you able to make city living work for your family? I’d love to hear your story.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

If ‘Everyone’s a Winner,’ Does Anyone Really Win?

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My son rocking the middle school talent show

I have received one trophy in my 44 years — for winning the fourth-grade spelling bee at my elementary school. As I wistfully recall, I would have won the school-wide spelling bee too if my nervousness hadn’t gotten the better of me. In the final round, I transposed the letters “u” and “a” in “guard” (I still get a little insecure when I have to write or type that word).

I know it sounds silly, but I’m proud of my trophy. I won it for doing something better than anyone else (well, at least anyone in the fourth grade at my elementary school in Southfield, Michigan). Isn’t that what awards and trophies are supposed to recognize — winning?

This topic came to mind last night at my son’s middle school talent show. At the end of the evening, after about 30 performances, the principal called everyone on stage and started handing out certificates — to all the students. My first thought was, “You have got to be kidding me! These kids sing, dance and otherwise perform their little hearts out, and no one gets to experience the thrill of winning?”

Well, it turned out that I was too hasty in my righteous indignation. There were, after all, ribbons for best solo, group, dance and miscellaneous performances. This, however, is often not the case.

You parents out there know the drill (bad soccer pun not intended). If young Johnny joins a soccer team, he gets a trophy, plaque or ribbon. It doesn’t matter if he actually kicks the ball or just stands out in the field and picks dandelions (the latter is exactly what my son did throughout his short-lived stint as a soccer player). If he’s on the team, he is a winner.

This “everybody wins” mentality is all well and good when you are dealing with young children. Why not delay the agony of defeat until they are able to process it? But preteens see through the pretense — or at least my almost 13-year-old does. In a recent conversation, he wanted to know what the rationalization is for the education system creating a society of mediocrity (I’m paraphrasing, but he did say something similar).

My response to him was that the schools (at least in this case) are not to blame. The fault lies with the “hover parents” who can’t bear to see their children lose. Let’s face the facts here: Losing, like winning, is a part of life. If Mommy calls the teacher to complain because Johnny gets a “D” on his spelling test, is this going to teach Johnny to study better? It’s one thing if he needs extra help with spelling and isn’t getting it. It’s altogether different if he actively chose not to study, and Mommy is calling to “fix” the bad grade for him.

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned, and continue to learn, as a parent is how to let my children lose. If I fix it every time, will they ever learn to fix it themselves? If their rewards don’t come through their own diligence and hard work, are they rewards at all? Or am I simply prolonging the inevitable — cushioning their egos because it’s too hard for me to watch them fail?

One of my first painful lessons in letting my kids lose came when my son was 8. He tried out for a local swim team and didn’t make the cut. The poor kid was devastated. He’d never participated in an activity where you couldn’t just sign up and be on the team — where everyone wasn’t a winner.

At this point I had two options: I could call the coach to complain and possibly get my son another tryout, or I could let my son fail. I reluctantly chose the latter. But guess what happened? He took a few more months of lessons, worked really hard on his strokes and tried out for the fall season. This time he made the team and he couldn’t have been prouder of himself.

At last night’s talent show, my son and his friends won the miscellaneous category for their improv comedy routine, which was an unexpected victory. They are better known for their talents as violinists, guitarists and singers. Who knew they would be so funny up there?

Sadly, their rock band, The Amish Electricians, did not win the group performance award, although you can clearly see in this video that they rocked the house (yes, I know I’m biased). My son was happy for the talented rap trio who won the ribbon. They deserved it. And I, the non-hover mom, did not corner the judges afterward.

So what do you think? If everyone’s a winner, does anyone really win?

Here’s to You, Dad

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My hero and me celebrating his 80th birthday

When I was a young girl, about 7, my dad took me to lunch at Carl’s Chop House, the venerable (and now closed) steakhouse on Grand River in Detroit. I remember being extremely excited about my new shoes: denim platform sandals emblazoned with bright red cherries. But I recall being even more thrilled about getting to go on a “date” with my dad.

I worshipped my father, as most little girls do. He was my hero: a handsome, jovial Detroit police officer and World War II veteran, who was loved and revered by most everyone he met. I didn’t get a lot of one-on-one time with him (let’s face it, fatherhood was a whole lot different in the ’70s), so I cherished any opportunity to have his undivided attention.

Although that lunch date is one of my fondest childhood memories, what I can actually recall about it is fleeting. I was wearing my new sandals, of course. I remember watching my dad drink a Manhattan and waiting for him to give me the cherries, as always. I also recall eating what seemed like the biggest shrimp cocktail ever, and watching my dad shake his head when I poured Heinz ketchup all over what was surely an expensive steak.

I don’t remember a thing either of us said, but I do remember how I felt: special, lucky, loved. Over the years our relationship ebbed and flowed as is typical of most parent-child connections. I went from adoring and idolizing him to disliking and rebelling against him as a teenager to respecting and understanding him as an adult.

Tomorrow, May 19, would have been my dad’s 87th birthday, and the next day marks the sixth anniversary of his death. Lots of memories of him have been swirling around in my head for the past few days, but that lunch date is definitely one of the best.

Here’s to you, Dad. If I drank Manhattans, I would certainly pour one in your honor.

Why I Love My MIL (No, This Is Not a Joke)

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My in-laws will be arriving in a few hours and will be staying with us for several days. So am I: (a) scurrying around the house frantically trying to make it picture perfect, b) begging my husband to check them into a hotel or c) mixing up my second batch of martinis? The answer is … drumroll, please … d) none of the above.

You see, I absolutely adore my mother-in-law. Get those shocked looks off your faces, ladies, and I’ll tell you why. It’s because she loves me without judging me — or at least if she is judging me, she’s awfully quiet about it. Here are some examples:

  1. When my husband and I decided to move in together six weeks after we met, she accepted it and welcomed me into her family.
  2. When we announced two years later that we were running off to Vegas to get married, she and and the whole family joined us for the adventure.
  3. When I chose to breastfeed our kids, she supported me — even though I was definitely in the minority on that decision 13 years ago. (That’s another blog post.)
  4. When my 3-year-old daughter fell out of a shopping cart and split her lip wide-open, my MIL consoled me instead of making me feel like the bad mother I was convinced I was.

I could go on and on here, but I think you get the point. When I hear some of my friends’ MIL horror stories, I thank my lucky stars. And with Mother’s Day fast approaching — my first without my own mom(s) — I am really looking forward to spending some time with her. Did I mention that she’s a hell of a lot of fun too? Maybe I’ll mix up that batch of martinis after all.

So what’s your MIL like? I’d love to hear your stories.

Weather Girl or Waitress?

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My childhood career role model: weather girl Marilyn Turner

My daughter, who turned 11 yesterday, has informed me that she wants to be a food critic. I love her reasoning: You get free food, you get to tell people how it is, and you get paid for it.

But I wonder if she’s thought this through.

For example, does she know that a food critic has to be knowledgeable about fine dining, gourmet cooking, food history, the restaurant scene, chefs’ backgrounds, etc.? Does she realize that decent writing skills are a prerequisite if she wants to be successful? Does she recognize that Food Network stars like Anthony Bourdain and his butter-loving nemesis, Paula Deen, weren’t just handed TV shows? And, finally, does she understand that no matter what she tells me she wants to be when she grows up, she is absolutely, positively going to college? (I think I’ve successfully drilled that last part into her brain.)

I ask her these questions because I lacked a professional female role model at her age. I was all set in the “how to be a good mom” department. My aunt, who raised me, was an amazing mother. But most women I knew didn’t work outside the home, which meant I didn’t know any female doctors, lawyers or accountants.

In search of some guidance, I turned to my perpetual babysitter, the television (don’t judge my aunt; it was the ’70s, after all). On the evening news, I saw blond and beautiful Marilyn Turner, the WXYZ-TV Detroit weather girl. I watched her smile and “forecast” the weather (i.e., read the teleprompter), and I was hooked. I drew a map on my chalkboard and I practiced … a lot. Let’s face it: You sometimes find odd ways to amuse yourself when you grow up without siblings your age.

In the mornings, my TV babysitter presented me with an alternative career goal. While watching Rita Bell, host of “Prize Movie,” give away countless dinners for two at the Roostertail, I decided that being a waitress at the glamorous waterfront restaurant might be right for me.

How I ended up an editor is a whole other story, complete with lots of twists and turns, and I’m not sure I ever shared these childhood career goals with anyone in my family. I lived in my head a lot as a kid — also a product of being a virtual only child. But these early notions of what I might like to do as an adult are why I ask my daughter pointed questions about her career aspirations. I know they will change over the years — mine sure did — and the end goal, of course, is finding something she’s good at and loves to do. Whether she ends up a food critic or a brain surgeon, I hope I can offer her a little guidance along the way.

Spring Break: Embrace the Chaos

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Spring break officially begins just a few hours from now. That means for the next 10 days, my two children will be invading my work space, my daytime haven of solitude, my “me” time. Truth is, I couldn’t be happier.

Go ahead, say I’m crazy. You wouldn’t be the first. I know plenty of moms who cherish those hours alone during the week, and I get it. They love the quiet, they savor the freedom. They relish in the downtime from the insanity of their daily lives.

Not me. I was the mom who bawled her eyes out the first time she dropped her 3-year-old son off at preschool. I was the mom who sobbed for hours when he got on the bus for his first trip to kindergarten. And today, when my almost 13-year-old not-so-little boy heads off to the bus stop by himself, I am the mom who aches just a little each time he steps out the door.

I’m sure this makes me sound clingy, borderline neurotic and in need of my own life. To be honest, it’s not like I spend the entire day pining away for my long-lost little ones. I work. I do housework. I run errands. I do all the things other moms do.

But every so often, as I sit at my desk in my quiet house, with my sleeping Yorkie curled up in my lap, I crave the sound of my children’s voices, their laughter, their movements throughout the house. And I recognize, painfully, that someday they will be gone for good, off living their own lives and raising their own kids. When that day comes, our house will be eternally quiet.

So as they constantly interrupt my train of thought and add extra hours to my workdays for the next week and a half, I will remind myself to savor their company. I will try to tolerate the arguing. I will attempt to overlook the door slamming. I will make every effort to embrace the chaos because I know someday I will miss it madly.