Entries Tagged 'Women' ↓

I was in the grocery store and I heard a baby cry.

No. I didn’t start to lactate. But something did happen. And it’s something I haven’t been able to shake ever since I’ve had children and I hear a child cry. Maybe you will get what I mean, so I’ll explain. But I don’t think you ever have had to lactate to get it either, either.

So, back to this baby. She started to cry. And it was an “I’m so tired, I need a snuggle and a nap and get me out of this grocery cart” kind of cry. I couldn’t help myself, I oh-so-innocently wheelie-wheeled my cart around the corner and into her aisle… just to see how she was doing.

Her mom was harried. She had a sandwich platter in her cart and soda bottles and paper plates and a bunch of other party stuff she clearly had to get that afternoon. But her daughter wasn’t having it. She was so, so tired. Slumped to the side and crying — no, pleading, really — in a way that made any mother want to find a crib and a dark room and no stim and some sweet peace for that child.

There was nothing I could do about it. It came from somewhere deep beyond my control. My gut hurt for her. My arms ached to scoop her up, snuggle and soothe, and seek out a spot to get her cozy and quiet. My heart went out to the mom, too. I KNOW she wanted those same things for her daughter but, with something going on soon, she had to get that shopping done. My guess is that her daughter’s schedule was shot to hell after a day of errands and running here and there. Hardly anything that will hurt that girl, but my ache to comfort her was STRONG, my friends.

Kind of like lactating.

Let me back up and explain the comparison. Don’t freak, non-lactating types. This is just how it is…

You’ve heard of how women will “let down” when they hear a baby cry. And by “let down” I mean the boob flood-gates suddenly open and a teeny hose-like effect occurs in the general chest region. There is nothing you can do about it, really. It’s just this primal thing that happens when a baby cries or you know a baby is hungry. Mother nature just turns on the faucet.

Of course, this doesn’t happen to me any longer. My faucet dried up (OMG, has it been this long) about 4 years ago. But it used to. And it wasn’t pretty when I wasn’t ready for it. And that’s why God made breast pads. But I digress…

So back to the baby in Publix. She was crying and I felt this ache. Deep down. I wanted to help her. I wanted to take care of her and figure out a way to get her what she needs. It’s almost beyond reason or self-control, it’s just there, built-in, instinctual, just the way I am wired now.

This strange, deep down ache and need to help a crying child was not there before I had my own. Before I would have been all: “Aw. She’s crying… poor mom. Oh, I’m totally watching Melrose Place tonight…”

Not now. Now, I feel a physical pull, a painful ache, a lump at the back of my throat and an empathy like none other for the mom trying to cope and care and do it all.

It’s kind of like lactating. And, dried up or not, I suspect it will feel like this for as long as I’m a mother… which is pretty much forever.

Is motherhood something to be laughed at? Because, you know and I know that there are times when mothers completely lose their sense of humor. Poof, gone, lost, for a very long time. At 4am with a screaming — or giggling, wide-awake — baby. At 5pm, the witching hour, when dinner isn’t ready yet and you’re ankle deep in toddler tantrums. At the grocery store when you can’t seem to get down an aisle without screaming at your fighting children. Motherhood can be slow, endless, Chinese water torture, threatening to pull you deep, down into stewing pits of parenting despair. I’ll admit that it’s the hardest thing I have ever done.

And that’s why finding any outlet to laugh at parenting is so damn important.

And that’s where “Motherhood, The Musical” comes in.

I was asked to review this musical, now playing at the Straz Center in downtown Tampa, last week. And, since I am sucker for musicals (don’t even get me STARTED on my obsession with “Wicked”) and since I just really like the folks at the Straz, I was 100% down for some funny mom theater. Plus, I’ve seen lots of Facebook statuses raving about the show: “I laughed! I cried!” So, I was excited to check it out.

I rounded up two very deserving moms from my work to come with me and we set out for the Straz after a particularly crazy week at work.

The show was in the Jaeb Theater which is a smaller, cabaret style theater. We found our seats around a small table, surrounded by (no surprise here) many other mothers gathered for the show. The space was intimate — which meant a comfortable, more connected experience. I was impressed right away as the theater staff began the evening by reaching out to pregnant moms in the audience. They also sold pins with the profits going to autism research. And they even had cute “Motherhood, The Musical” postcards on the table which we could fill out and they would send for us if we dropped it in a mailbox in the lobby. (I sent one to my mother-in-law.) I have to say, the people who work at the Straz are just nice. They smile, they ask you how you are, they take pictures for you, they just make the whole vibe comfortable and welcoming. And, being a theater dork from way back, I think that really helps set the vibe for the show itself – so “cheers” to them…

Now, what did I think of the show itself? It was really great. Truly. But let me start with a couple negatives first.

Admittedly, they touched on a few cliches. You know, “we’re not gonna take cooking and cleaning anymore”  kind of thing. The naive pregnant mom, and the “knowing”, jaded other mothers hell bent on scaring the crap out of her. Mini-vans, grocery shopping, and husbands that have very little to do with parenting at all.

However. They took these typical motherhood cliches (which are only cliches because they are common experiences, by the way) and turned them into gut-busting, musical hilarity. The women who played the four mothers in the show were FANTASTIC. I kind of want to be friends with the divorced mom and the working mom. No, really. I want to have drinks with them because they have to be that awesome in real-life. (Hey ladies, email me! I can try to be awesome too!)

Also, the lyrics and the music in the show are both excellent. The lyrics are very well written, just FUNNY. Cliche or not, the mini-van song was hysterical. They took the sagging and leaking experiences of so many mothers and made anthems out of them. Even the “no more cooking and cleaning” thing was awesome. They rocked out. And I laughed. A lot.

And so did the women around us. Seriously. Women were howling, and stomping the floor, and standing, and cheering. Clearly, this show connected with the majority of the audience.

I also cried a little. No, I did. The song about “Every Other Weekend” in which the divorced mom sang about what it is like to be alone every other weekend. And how the kids come home spoiled by their fathers and she has to be the bad guy, and how she manages… well. I totally boo-hooed and said a little thankful prayer that I don’t have to experience weekends like those.

I don’t think this is a show for the majority of husbands. (Maybe some, but certainly not mine. His eye-rolling would have annoyed the hell out of me.) And, I don’t think this is a show for women who have no interest in parenting yet. I know one woman who saw it, but who isn’t anywhere near ready for children, and she said it “scared the crap out of her”. That said, bring your mother. Bring your mom friends. Bring your pregnant daughter. Bring the moms at work and the moms on your block and the teachers of your children. I suspect they will love it.

Also, if you’re going to get hung up the cliches and parenting generalizations, just check those at the door. Relax. Have fun. Let yourself laugh. Don’t take it too seriously. This isn’t supposed to be heavy stuff or some wildly prophetic social commentary. Its fun, and very funny. And it’s obviously something many, many, MANY mothers just “get”.

Cheers to the Straz and the awesome actors who rock that show out night after night (I kind of want your life). You did a fantastic job. Thanks for reminding me to laugh at this mothering stuff and then leave me ready to get back home and hug my boys super tight. Laughing like I did that night made me take a step back, accept the good and the ugly of this motherhood thing, and simply appreciate it so much more.

Want to go see it now? Get $29 tickets to see “Motherhood, The Musical” at the Straz Center through August 28th. Use promo code TIX29. The offer ends August 12th, though!  Restrictions and charges apply.

There was a time when I was a mom home with babies, and all sorts of ideas and thoughts about the world were rolling around in my head. But I had no where to go with these thoughts. No one to share them with. No community for a thinking mom. Just diapers to change and baby vomit to wipe off the floor. And such is parenting. There would be time for thinking later.

Jump ahead to the year 2008. I was a very new blogger. I had just discovered (and started stalking) all sorts of mom bloggers and political bloggers and – gasp – political mom bloggers. One in particular rose to the top. Her name was Joanne, otherwise known online as Pundit Mom. And when she wrote, I just… got it.

That summer fate stepped in and determined my path as a blogger I very randomly won a contest through BlogHer to go to the BlogHer conference in San Francisco. It was my first overnight away from my children and I arrived there wide-eyed and ready to stalk myself some amazing bloggers. I listened intently to Lesbian Dad on a panel and pushed my way to the front to meet her. I fell off my seat laughing, tackled, and forced an introduction on Deb on the Rocks. I cried listening to and (via a couple glasses of wine) jumped in front of Moosh In Indy to tell her that she was so F-ing brave. And then, it happened. The last morning, at breakfast, Pundit Mom happened to sit down at my table. We introduced ourselves. She gave me a pin with her logo on it. Oh. My hero. That conference had officially been made.

Since then I have come to realize the power of the internet and the many super amazing smart women who live there. Pundit Mom and the Momocrats and various writers at BlogHer gave moms like me at home with their babies access to real politics happening in the moment. Before heading onto CNN to debate some topic or another, Joanne would tweet and ask what questions we had for the panel. The Momocrats would ask their readers what questions we had for Hillary Clinton before heading into a press conference. Moms, just like me with no way to be where they were, had access. And a voice.

And, since that morning over a bagel, my friendship with Joanne has grown. More conferences came. More conversations over meals. More shared ideas and ideals. More smart women, both online and off. She had a book she was writing, she said. I was thrilled for her. Could she use one of my blog posts? Oh my goodness, of course.

Honored is not even enough of a word to describe how I felt.

Joanne’s book has recently been published and in it she describes the extraordinarily influential political space women are carving out for themselves through social media, preconceived notions of women and mothering be damned. And she does it with the help of an incredible network of women she calls “Mothers of Intention”. Mothers, like me, who are not official political experts but actually, whoda thunk it, HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY.

This morning I opened up a PDF file from Joanne. It was the final draft of the book. My hard copy was in the mail. And there I was, amoungst these unbelievable women whom I have looked to as my conduit for change and voice and action for years. I am only one voice amongst so so many. But, once again, SHE MADE MY VOICE COUNT.

Do you see what this must mean to me? She changed my perception of motherhood. I, like a crazy woman, thought parenting meant my ideas and ability should be back-burnered. I thought you can’t parent AND think. She switched that all around and made me realize that, as a parent, I had a unique and important perspective. I had the same concerns as many mothers and we should pick them up and put them out there and get them heard, dammit. We are raising this country and that actually matters. She spelled it out quite clearly to me that mothers are kind of a big deal, even way over on Capitol Hill.

So. The book is in the mail. And I’ll be back here, of course, to freak out about it some more when I have resting here next to my laptop. Until then, check it out on Amazon. And, of course, you know… buy it. And maybe find your inner Mother of Intention. She’s in there. I swear she is.

Geraldine Ferraro ran for Vice President when I was in 6th grade. And I shocked my father by flaunting my sudden budding liberal tendencies by wearing a Mondale-Ferraro button around school that year.

Thanks to Geraldine Ferraro, I was brought up assuming a woman could eventually be president someday. She made that possibility real. She opened my eyes to women vying for positions in male dominated fields. She unveiled inequity while she stepped forward to dismantle it.

She seemed so smart to me, so fearless, so “who cares if no women have done this before, I’ve got some issues that need addressing”.

Thanks Ms. Ferraro for being the example that you were for me at eleven years old. Your candidacy was my first ever feminist agenda. And your example will remain until a woman  is finally sworn into the presidency. Your years of public service have changed the the face of politics. Thank you and rest in peace.

I can’t believe I bought this the other day.

Because holy crap. When did I turn into an old lady?

Well here’s the thing. Just when you think you’re all grown up and secure about your looks, you’re – well – you’re not. Silly me, I thought this kind of insecurity was specific to acne and teen angst years. Not mature, confident, “totally in control” late thirties years.

Yep well. I bought this anyway.

Because I have lines on my face. Lines! Those weren’t there before, I swear. And I use sunscreen everyday just like the magazines tell me I should but still. Lines? Unbelievable. And no thank you.

Where is this sudden self-indulgent bit of vanity coming from anyway?

Of COURSE a woman in her late thirties has lines and creases on her face. What, did I think it just wouldn’t happen to me? Did I think that aging is something that happens to everyone else and I would simply become some ageless exception to the rule?

Heh. Maybe. But I’m not. Clearly.

So I bought this.

And I’ve been actually smoothing it on ever day or so. Because moisturizing is important anyway, right? Whether any such thing called Revitalift actually revitalifts the creases off my face. Or if all that snazzy encapsulated (…wait let me read it off the box…) Matrixyl and Sepilift actually irons decades of sun and time off of my face. Yeah, not that I think it really WILL. But I have to moisturize anyway so I might as well give something that boasts “firming” a try while I’m doing it… right?

*SUCKER*

I can’t believe I bought this.

I can’t believe I really care that much.

I can’t believe I haven’t bought into that whole “lines are signs of wisdom and experience and we should wear them with pride” stuff.

I can’t believe age happens.

But really.

I just can’t believe I bought this.

(And many thanks to my husband who reassures me that while this may be old lady cream, it doesn’t make me smell like one. Thank God for that at least.)

Elizabeth Edwards died today.

And I’ve been caught off guard by how deeply her death has moved me.

Maybe it’s because she was a mother. And after being diagnosed with breast cancer so many years ago, she had to face the knowledge that she could be leaving her children motherless. Which, of course, is every mother’s nightmare. She must have lain awake nights wondering if anyone would know her children the same way, understand them, help them, and love them quite as much.

Maybe it’s because my heart is breaking for her children. I don’t care how “prepared” they were for this, they are without their mother now, days before the holidays. They will be affected by her death forever. They will be rocked to their core. Their loss is immeasurable.

But I also think it is because the world lost a really good one. A woman who genuinely seemed to affect those around her in a positive, constructive, selfless way. She was scary smart and politically savvy. She stood as an example, spoke from her heart and, through all of her trials, remained strong, honest and resilient.

She should not have been so graceful. Not when she lost her son. Not when the cancer returned. Not when her husband left her side.

Still. She would regroup and stand back up again.

Over her 61 years, she took what was handed to her and she DID something. Her voice was important. Her example changed lives. Her work made a difference. Her mind reworked policy but her heart made people listen and put it all into motion.

She was a mother who affected real change in this country.

She was the kind of woman I could only hope to be.

My heart is heavy this evening. Peace, healing and love to those mourning her life tonight and in the years ahead.

You know you do it. I know I do it. I think everyone does it. Vanity checks itself in and we just can’t help ourselves. I want to look my best, I want people to think I look like that all the time, no really, that’s how I look.

What am I talking about? You know. When you post Facebook or Flickr pics or some carefully crafted Shutterfly photo album, you make every effort to upload only your most flattering pictures.

Not that one, my head looks big. Oh not that one, one eye is shut. DEFINITELY not that one, holy muffin-top pouring out of the top of my jeans.

I read a post on BlogHer titled Own Your Beauty. And while a beautifully written post, it challenged each reader to start a self-potrait project and take pictures of yourself everyday. An interesting idea indeed. But I pushed it aside. I’m not sure I had the energy or care to really pony up, snap and post my own picture everyday. Yawn. Who needs it.

But then I kept thinking about it. Would I even have the ovaries to post a pic of myself everyday in the first place? On the days when I don’t like how I feel. On the days when my muffin-top seems to pour out and smother any “feel good” vibes I may have had about myself? No way. I don’t want to. I don’t think people want or care to see it. I don’t think it’s worth it.

And then I got to thinking about the things I don’t like about myself. And how relative it all is. I am well aware I’m just up in my own mind about it. I know these are my own weird particular issues. And I know all of these things drag me down, blind me to the rest of it and render me  impossibly self-conscious.

It is so frustrating. Because on the flip side I understand (in a very secure, logical way) that I’m a regular woman and I look just fine. I get that these insecurities are all just silly. I know I’m better than that anyway.

Why?

Because I’m a feminist, dammit. I read The Beauty Myth in college (required reading for every woman, totally changed my life). I GET IT. I know how messed up our standards of beauty are in this country. I KNOW we need to love ourselves and not let any of this misogynistic crap get us down. To hell with them!

So why do I look over at my husband and shyly tell him I feel awful about myself sometimes? What the hell is that about? How can I claim these rational ideals with pride but they still can’t push me past my own hang-ups?

Because everyone has their stuff. I have my stuff.

I hate my glasses. They represent some ugly ducking part of my childhood that I wore over my face. Growing up, I truly believed that no cute boy would ever really see past them. And then I said, screw it, glasses are who I am. Rock on. It’s MY identity. And yet, when I got contacts at 20, I felt like some new person. As if I had just gotten reconstructive surgery and they had just removed an enormous wart off my face. I was free!

I hate my front tooth. Long story but it was shattered by a piece of a telephone when I was 15. And I have not had the funds to really fix it. I hate hate hate it.

I could go on. But the point is WE ALL COULD GO ON. With a laundry list of stuff we can’t stand about ourselves. And I would bet every single dollar in my savings AND my Kia that even the most lovely women in the world have a list as equally long as yours and mine. And you might say “F them, what have THEY got to complain about?”

Yeah, exactly. None of it makes sense. Beauty may be something society determines but WE have ourselves all carved up and hidden thanks to our own subjective, warped preconceptions.

So, as a small form of social protest, here’s my salute to my own beauty this morning.

(This will be my only pic. In fact, I do NOT have the ovaries, the time or the focus to take pics of myself everyday.)

I’m not showered. My teeth aren’t brushed. My split ends haven’t been trimmed since June. I am wearing an old T Shirt I got at BlogHer 08. My recently obsessed over lines on my face are smiling back at you. And my fab, in need of a prescription update glasses are front and center. And so is my stupid tooth, glaring out for the world to see.

Good morning.

But it is me. And I swear to you — taking a deep breath and infusing my heart with every lesson I ever learned in The Beauty Myth right now, I swear to God — I look just FINE. Really.

But don’t get me wrong. I won’t be posting my muffin-top, one eye closed, tooth glaring pics on Facebook from now on or anything. Hellllll no.

I’m just being “SELF-AWARE” right now. And promising to you all that “I GET IT”.

Damn. What a mess.

Vanity, self-worth, beauty, all of it.

There is no rhyme or reason to it whatsoever.

Here’s hoping you find your beauty and hold on to it tightly whenever and where ever you find it. TIGHT I tell you. Those pretty days, those awesome hair days, those I look SO DAMN CUTE in my jeans days… hold on to them. Revel in them. Roll around in them. And take pictures and pin them up and remind yourself that THAT is YOU.

Now excuse me. It’s time I go have a shower, get on with my day, and (good Lord woman, brush your hair at least) stop fixating on everything I see in the mirror.

Apparently women are too tired and fed up to vote. No really, that’s what they are saying. We are so sad about how badly things are going that we have shrugged our shoulders and given up on tomorrow’s election. Our expected apathy has GOP and Tea Party goers giddy and relaxed. If we don’t show, if we don’t rally like we did in the Presidential election, they have this election in the bag.

Now here is where I am going to talk about how a vomiting little boy has inspired this post.

The night before Halloween, my seven year old stumbled out of his room in a cold sweat, climbed into my lap on the couch and proceeded to upchuck his entire ravioli dinner all over my t-shirt. And it didn’t end there. He spent the rest of the night heaving into a bowl while curled next to me on my towel draped bed. The following morning, Halloween morning, he managed to power down some ice chips. But then his ashen face faded from gray to blazing pink. He had spiked a 103 degree fever. And trick or treating would begin in less than 6 hours.

So what happened? My son dug deep. He had faith that his parents had the answers. He believed with all his might that if he pushed himself to hydrate and took that nasty ibuprofen Mommy had hovering in front of him he would somehow get better.

Clearly, a surge of adrenaline and his crazed little boy drive to run door to door for candy in his X-ray Skeleton costume had lit a fire within. By the time the sun had set, he was fever free, jumping gleefully around the house and ready to give it all he had.

Predictably, after an incredible night of house to house antics, my son collapsed into bed at 9pm. His fever had returned but, with a plastic pumpkin overflowing with Skittle and Smarties and his costume crumpled in the bedroom corner, he was victorious.

We need a little of what my son had yesterday.

According to all kinds of polls rating how depressed and apathetic women are regarding this election, we are supposed to be staying home tomorrow. No election trick or treating for us. No sir. We will accept our pathetic, fevered, rather ill situation. We give up.

Studies are showing that when men get angry, they go do something. But when women get angry, they get super sad. And turn inward. And do… nothing.

Nothing?!

One woman was quoted in the Huff Post as saying she doesn’t know where to turn now. There aren’t any real answers to our problems. And the financial issues are just… beyond us.

Um, ok. So let’s just stay home and do NOTHING.

Look, I get it. Do I have any flipping clue about how to fix our economy? Not so much. Am I feeling a little disillusioned by politics after seeing a democratic majority do so very little with what they had? Hell yeah. And does it make me ill to watch political commercial after commercial use the term “Obama liberal” like a four letter word? *shudder* YES.

So fine. Sometimes I just want to pretend our economy hasn’t gone to hell. Sometimes I want to completely ignore that more focus is being put on stopping our administration than working with it towards a constructive compromise. Sometimes I’d rather just tell cute stories about my kids, bake and be a mom.

Sometimes.

But it’s not time to do nothing. Not now. Because I can bake and read Harry Potter to my kids AND vote AND care about my country all at the same time. Because women are multi-taskers. And we are smart. And we make a difference.

And women will not just stay home and pout about the state of our union. We won’t say we don’t feel so good about what’s going on. We won’t just – oh fiddle sticks, this politics thing is a pain in the ass, I’m going to go clip coupons – give up.

Like my son had faith in hydration and Motrin, we need to have faith that our vote will count. And our vote can make change happen, I swear to you. It takes time but WE CAN AFFECT CHANGE.

Don’t believe me?

“Women make up 51 percent of the population and 54 percent of voters—closer to 60 percent if measuring Democratic voters alone.”

Want to know more about this? Take a dose of “reality check” and read here about Why Women are Fed Up.

We need to show them.

We need to show them that we are mad. We have HAD IT. And we aren’t going to stay home and fold socks and internalize our worries because we don’t want to cause any trouble.

We need to show them we have power and we can stand up for what we deserve.

Don’t make these polls right. Don’t ignore and be passive and not care.

Vote. VOTE DAMMIT.

DO SOMETHING.

And watch this. Get inspired. Get mad as hell. You don’t have to take it anymore.

(Goosebumps, people.)

I spend a LOT of time in the car.

Dropping off, car lines, picking up, grocery stores, baseball practice, stop hitting your brother, don’t kick the seat, up and down the same roads we go, cracker crumbs trailing behind, to infinity and beyond.

Knowing that I spend this much time driving, my brother happened to notice that I had the option for Sirius XM radio in my car. So guess what he got me for Christmas? Love him for being so thoughtful. It was the perfect gift.

So now I have the option of over 150 different radio channels to scan through during my time spent driving. As I make my way to my son’s elementary school everyday, I’m searching, searching, searching. Amazed and entranced when a song and station identification pops up my screen. Oooooh…. lookee there…

*Squeeeeal…*

Its been a slight…er …distraction I might add also.

Anyhoo. So. While scanning through the endless list of stations, what am I looking for?

Well, first off, music. And there is plenty of that. I’ve been ROCKING out to “good but bad but I listened to it back then” 80′s and 90′s music. Culture Club, Debbie Gibson, Def Leppard, Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam, I’m shameless.

Oh and current stuff too.

“I brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack! Mommy, that’s SILLY!!!! …Whose Jack? …And whose P. Diddy?”

Tik Tok on the clock, but the party don’t stop, no.

My family truckster spins the tunes.

And then there’s the new wave channel. Loving some old Cure and Smiths and Pretenders and doing the “Molly Ringwald” to General Public’s “Tenderness”. Or the Coffee House channel – acoustic covers of everything, even Cory Hay strumming old Men at Work tunes. Reggae, Frank Sinatra, alternative rock from the 90s (when I met my husband, oh the “Sweater Song”, sigh).

And there’s Disney Radio. It’s there, if I’d ever let my kids KNOW it’s there. No Jonas Brothers for now, mmm k? Thanks.

But now and again I am looking for a little talk radio. Hoping for something that catches my attention and pulls me in for the duration of the car line still creeping forward at an snail’s pace.

There are all sorts of news options which I like. A slew of ESPN and sports channels (whatevs, never listen to those). Religion, health, weather. And Howard Stern of course.

(Sidebar: While much of what Stern spews is garbage, I find myself listening sometimes. I guess I’m one of those people that gets so irked by him I need to hear what he says next. Which is, of course, his magic formula and why so many thousands of people listen to him daily. However, I will begrudgingly give him one thing. He does one HELL of an interview. He can get a celeb to say just about ANYTHING. Barbara Walters has nothing on that guy. Nothing. So, yeah, I’ll listen now and then.)

My most recent discovery is the COSMO channel. Oh ho yes. Now that there is a GEM. You know, it’s COSMO as in the magazine, but for radio. And one particular program is call “Cosmolicious”. Cute, no? And the 20-something DJs who talk using question marks chatter ceaselessly about every topic you might find in COSMO magazine.

“I dunno, I mean I think I would tell my husband if I got botox? Because like he would be mad if I didn’t tell him? But he might not even notice? For like a LONG time? So maybe? If he didn’t know? He couldn’t get mad at me about it? And then when he gets the bill? I’d be all ‘I’ve been getting it for a long time so whatever’?”

(True story.)

Like Stern, maybe even more so than Stern, I can’t turn the dial. I NEED to hear what they will say next. How do I make sure (hex? train?) my boyfriend so that he knows exactly what kind of 3 carat engagement ring I want without actually telling him ? How do women get through Valentine’s Day WITHOUT (OMG you poor thing, it so sucks, I can’t imagine) A MAN? But if you DO have a man, what shape should you get your bikini area waxed for Valentine’s Day? A heart? Arrow? Landing strip?

So I’ll switch over to the Entertainment Channel now and again – which has some interesting stuff. But then there’s the Rosie Show. *Sigh.* I want to like it but, I’m sorry, it blows. The fabulous Deb on the Rocks called it a “Hot Mess“. And she is so right. And unfortunately its not even good enough to be that bad that I want to listen to see what variety of hot mess she’ll make today. Bored. Bleh. Next.

There’s always the Martha Stewart channel. Honestly? I think I tried it once. I felt like I had failed at all things Susie Homemaker just by flipping to that dial. Also, next.

And if you want to try and picture what a bunch of Playboy models look like, or what they like to *giggle giggle* do, there’s always the Playboy station. For the two seconds I don’t have kids in my car, that is.

Because Playboy isn’t the only station dropping F-bombs and verbalizing adult scenarios. That’s just what happens with satellite radio and so I take care to police what’s on with two wee sets of 6 and 3 year old ears tuned in behind me.

So back to the music I go. Which is totally fine because there is enough variety for sure. That and the family friendly comedy channel which cracks me up…

“Larry the Cable Guy is Tow Mader’s voice Mommy!”

…Ok, its not that funny.

But what am I really looking for? What is missing from the 150 station long menu of radio wonderment?

Well. Where the hell is MY station?

I want a women’s interest channel. Not Martha, NOT COSMO, not just news, not just sports. I want a women’s interest channel that talks about parenting and school and balancing work and kids and finding yourself after you’ve had kids and marriage and friendships and the dreaded post baby muffin top. I want a channel that debates current topics like Michelle Obama’s fight against childhood obesity or the fact that Florida still won’t allow same sex couples to adopt. I want a channel for smart women, who like to see things happen and change and work – but for women who also like to talk about the best padded bras out there right now to revamp all of what 14 months of breastfeeding took away. I want funny, I want witty, I want current, I want to think.

You know what? The blogging world might be able help Sirius out.

Because really, the perfect women’s radio channel on Sirius should be inspired by a combination of some of the best women bloggers out there. Take Aiming Low, Pundit Mom, Motherhood Uncensored,  MOM 101, Deb on the Rocks, The Bloggess, Redneck Mommy, Uppercase Woman (oh I could so go on, really I could, because I know there are fabulous bloggers out there ALREADY doing webcast shows, rocking it better than Cosmolicious EVER could), include all sorts of topics mentioned daily on BlogHer, mix that with a whole lot of The Ellen Degeneres Show, some political brilliance from The Rachel Maddow Show and a smattering of the debate style from The View and, well, you’ve got my station.

Oh and if there are a few F-bombs or adults topics of discussion, bring it. If I found a station that good, I’d invest in a couple pairs of earmuffs for the boys in the back and let them kick the crap out of my seats as much as they damn well please.

Until then, I guess I am left doing the “Molly Ringwald” at traffic lights. And considering heart-shaped bikini waxes. You know, since I was looking to do something meaningful this Valentines Day.

So I was sitting at the intersection of Target and Suburbia this morning at around 8:00am. My kids were strapped into the back, their backpacks sitting on the seat next to me. The 80s station was on, and Dixie’s Midnight Runners were bidding Eileen to “Come on”.

That particular intersection takes it’s time in the morning with cars moving, plodding their way out of their gated communities, through green lights and towards the interstate. So there I sat, amongst the a.m. idling, waiting my turn, mind blank, when I happened to look over at the mini van next to me.

There was nothing much to see at first. A blue mini-van, the standard suburban Tampa mode of transportation, with a woman at the helm and the top of a baby seat strapped in the back, barely visible.

Nothing unusual for the intersection of Target and Suburbia.

Except, this woman? She was crying.

Not hard. Just staring straight ahead, sunglasses on, wiping tears when they came. Her expression was blank. I noticed a cigarette smoldering in her left hand, hung out an open window. Now and then she took a  drag, then leaned out the window to blow it out, waving it away from her car. Back to staring. Back to wiping at her face. Back to having no idea she was being watched (although discreetly, behind my own sunglasses – I knew I was intruding on her moment).

It was a quiet cry. Not a sob. Not a quick couple of tears either. These seemed like the kind of tears that couldn’t help but spill over ceaselessly, no matter how stone faced she remained. Down they slid. Wipe. Take a drag. Fan the air. Stare.

My heart stopped and broke for this woman.

And then my mind raced to determine what could bring her to this moment.

It could have been any number of things.

Money. What if her family was struggling. What if her husband was about to be laid off. What if she had just finished balancing her check book and found no hope of any kind of balance. What if she knew there was nothing left. And Christmas ahead. And a Nintendo DS already promised to her son if he was a good boy. And loans and credit lost and unpaid bills and increased percentage rates and collection agencies and this damn mini-van that they never really could afford in the first place but were now stuck with. Could they get out of their home? Move in with her parents? Just for a little while. Could they ever get what they had back?

Or what if it was her marriage. What if after eight years, she woke up and realized she didn’t know her husband any longer. What if she suspected his attention was elsewhere. And his apparent indifference to their marriage meant that he was hardly covering his tracks. And she knew. And she had three children to care for and no idea what to do. Except to ignore and wait and hope it will just go away. And maybe, after enough time had passed, they would both remember why they had married each other in the first place. But until then, she was stuck raising her children and just ignoring.

She could have gotten a call from her doctor too. Her doctor could have told her the results came back positive. And she would need this kind of treatment, and that much recovery, and years of waiting to find out if it was ever going to be ok again. And her insurance was iffy at best. How much would this cost? And she is a mother, she has no time for this. Who was going to breast feed her baby? So she couldn’t bring herself to call anyone and tell them. Not yet. All that it could cost her family, no one needed to know. Not quite yet.

Or what if her mother just died. If that was the case, I should have simply put my car in park, gotten out, opened her door and given her an enormous hug. (And then maybe run back to my car quickly before she fumbled for her cell and dialed 911.)

Or maybe it was just another typical day. Maybe her baby had been up every 2 hours again. And had been waking up every two hours every night of her 9 months of life. Maybe the exhaustion was impossible to bear. But she had to drop her children at school. And pick up groceries. And talk to her son’s teacher about his behavior issues and make sure the air conditioner repairman didn’t rip her off. And deal. Just always deal. While the baby starts crying again. And only children at her feet and no adult home until 9:00pm because he was busting his hump to make sure they had a roof over their heads. It was just another typical day and that alone was enough.

I don’t know what it was. And I won’t ever know. But I understand. And I hope she will find some way out of her pain. Because that’s it. While we make these choices in our lives and take on the weight of the world, we just have to decide which way we are going to go. Forward? Up and out of the pain? Down the path of least resistance? Do we find the right way for our families? But are we making the best choices for us too? We hesitantly move our way through every crossroad. But we have no way of knowing where we will find ourselves someday. No way.

I hope she found her way. I hope with all my soul that she found peace. But I won’t ever know.

At that moment, the lights changed. She turned left into suburbia and I went straight past Target. And she was gone. And my kids were on their way to school. We all carried on with our lives. Another typical day.