Have you heard about the big snowstorm that hit the northeast on October 30? A day when in normal times there are still leaves on the trees? Well, it hit us here in NJ and here is the semi-sane report of things I am now supremely grateful for.

1. My generator. I didn’t want to buy it. Husband insisted after the basement flooded, after Hurricane Irene, when the power was not efficiently and speedily restored. That Hurricane day, I literally watched the basement sump pump bucket be almost full, then full, then…water started to flow. Squish, squish, squish across the carpet. Here’s the deal with the basement. I have a house above it, but the basement is where I hurl all the toys I’m sick of seeing, where I close my eyes to the mess of kids and husband and just walk through to get what I need, the place I send the natives when I need some peace. When it’s ruined, it’s desperation time. Also it smelled to high heaven last time so we bought this generator.

Now the generator should have been field-tested prior to the power outage in a perfect world but that didn’t not happen, evidently because I make too many plans and have us “running around like crazy every weekend” (husband quote) so we had to figure it out, when the power went out and when all those leafy branches were snow-covered and snapping off on our heads. I had made two other mistakes, as well–”Where are the damn extension cords?” (husband quote) and “Where is the damn gas cap I just had, I can’t find anything since you made me clean this garage, this is all your fault”. Fast forward and though for a while my husband was NOT a thing that was wicked awesome he got the generator working (and working again when it stopped at 11pm, inexplicably) so he became, again, wicked awesome.

The generator is wicked loud, and sucks down gas faster than my kids eating candy corn. All you heard when you went outside was “crack crack crack” (branches) and 3 super loud generators, so you couldn’t hear anything else. Outside. Inside, you could hear the children. Because they were home. Shouting. Bringing me to the next thing that is wicked awesome: school.

2. They cancelled school Monday. They postponed Halloween till Friday (you can do that, I guess). Then cancelled Tuesday. Then Wednesday. Then [FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY IN THE WORLD TAKE THEM PLEASE AND TEACH THEM ANYTHING] they cancelled school Thursday. Had I known of this extended cancelling in advance we would have possibly hit the road but the problem was I had to stay quasi-local because of the feeding of the gas to the Precious (my generator). No school was a little fun a day, not that fun day four. The children are snippy and complain-y. Also kind of over the “adventure”. Mostly because the adventure part was mine as they lay on the couch under blankets. I was out with a saw chopping up branches and trees to burn in the fireplace to keep them warm, and I told them it was JUST LIKE Little House (if the prairie was echoing with the sound of generators) and they just laid under blankets (in summer nighties because they wouldn’t put on anything warmer, except the baby who was wearing a snowsuit inside) and bickered. We got power back on Tuesday night, which was great, but by that point I had sort of adapted to living with extension cords all over the house, plugging what I needed into a cord, dumping all of my money in the form of gas for the Precious into its noisy, glorious mouth–what I needed was the next awesome thing: the internet. Which was not to be.

3. A thing that should be wicked awesome but isn’t: Starbucks. I had to go work there to get some free wi-fi. It should have been kid-free (it wasn’t) and peaceful (it kind of was but the whole town was there with their laptops and cords and phone chargers) and it was kind of stressful to have to do all the work I had to do in 3 days, in one 2 hour block on their wifi. I felt bad complaining and moaning about this when others still didn’t have power. But I was over-caffeinated and worried about ME! And what I have found is that a little worry tends to make all the bigger worries spiral. Being a bit behind made me question all the choices ever made in my life, worry about all my consulting clients–that they were going to fire me–that I’d soon have no work at all and be selling makeup at the mall (that’s a friend’s fall back position). That was the biggest hurdle for this whole difficult situation: the psychological toll. It just brings you DOWN to not be able to live the way you do. To not have the things we take for granted–and to have to put everything on hold. We all keep so many balls in the air, that putting them on hold is close to impossible–and I knew, that for each day I sat there not able to concentrate on any work–it was just piling up. That wasn’t wicked awesome. I KNEW I wouldn’t get cable and internet till maybe December. That is why the next wicked awesome thing made me so happy:

4. I came home from Starbucks. I plugged in my computer. THE INTERNET WAS BACK! Bless Al Gore, bless Comcast, bless whoever fixed it. I turned on the tv and Brian Williams, with his biased, smug self, began talking about the storm in my kitchen. Praise technology, I felt back to real life.

Another not-wicked-awesome thing is that the girls have now used up all their snow days and that is only awful in that people keep mentioning it and saying hopefully it won’t be a bad winter. REALLY? It started October 30. Do we really think it will be clear sailing now? I feel like I don’t want to go back to all the bad stuff! How can I be better prepared? Unclear. I had wine (clearly a wicked awesome thing) and the generator helped and I know where all the flashlights and blankets are and know how to work the generator so we’re better off–but selling make up at the mall, if the mall is in Hawaii, is looking better every day.

I’m having this style thing going on. This is a recurring thing with me, but I decided this year to stop looking like a pajama walmart shopper (my most comfy, comfy black pants–they are not sweatpants, but they are that kind of fabric–just went to the clothing drive. At least, they’re in the clothing drive bag. I swear I won’t take them out…)

BUT. I decided to step it up. I dropped a kid at dance class and the amount of diamonds worn by one mama, with her coordinated black pants that weren’t sweat pants AT ALL but were also that material, intimidated me. But I was not dissuaded. I was not, after all, trying out for the Jersey housewives. I was simply trying to move beyond hausefrau.

I find myself perplexed as I look about. For instance, is this a thing?

Headbands on the forehead? Because, weird. I mean, my gut is no, it’s not a thing, as the people modeling here are not my style mavens and the other place I’ve seen it is on the Biggest Loser, which should not obviously be my style guide. But I’ve actually seen it other places too. I cannot make it my thing.

I had a cocktail party to go the other day and got a lecture from husband on NOT buying anything for myself EVER. EVER. EVER. AGAIN from Target. Item in question, somewhat cute little black and white dress. It is honestly the one thing I own from Target, well, one of two. The other is a t-shirt for Christmas with a sparkly tree. (Jeez, I’m digging my own grave here). The t-shirt is not like a weirdo Christmas extravaganza sweater, it’s like a tasteful shirt I’d wear in December, I’m not going to go Armani for my holiday gear.

The dress in question is cute. But, the last thing I wanted anyone at this fairly swanky cocktail party to think was HUZZAH! That’s straight outta Target. Noone would in fact know unless they shopped at Target, but they could be there buying toilet paper and cereal, not dresses. Which is what my husband says is the natural order of things.

Buy better stuff. Ok, but to wear, where? I can’t justify pulling out all the stops every day. I had this discussion, with a friend at the party, that it’s worth investing in nice things instead of lots of cheap junky things (like what’s found at Walmart. NEVER Target). I do have nice things. I just think I might need someone to come in and clean out the … not nice. Or doesn’t fit. Or you bought this in highschool when you worked at the Gap. Freak.

And this brings me back to the fashion. I mean, I don’t go one zillion places to watch the trends. At they gym, some ladies are now sporting only the sports bra and shorts. A, is that allowed, B, no, even if it’s fashion, it’s not mine.

I recently picked out a great jacket for my husband and posted a pic on facebook for opinions, because he said it was bad. I got 29 responses about how bad it was. That is more facebook crowd response than when I announced I gave birth to Princess Number 4. Luckily, I hadn’t bought it, but clearly, I’m a walking train wreck.

The other day the baby wore jeggings. Those are jean leggings. They are wicked awesome on the baby. They are not in my repetoire. So at least I’m that far ahead. In fact, my kids always are style-y. Though they did go through a temporary tattoo phase this summer, to the extent that my husband pointed out it was like Sons of Anarchy around our house, except with 4 little girls instead of a massive amount of bikers.

So I’m going to keep trying my best, avoiding Target, and living through them. Except I know I’m only a heartbeat away from them busting out the headband on the forehead.

And then what if I do it too?

So I have this one good friend who has a policy: she doesn’t want to hear about your cr@p at work. I mean, she’ll listen–but she’s not hearing it. She doesn’t care. Her point is, everyone has crap at work (let’s call a spade a spade). She does too. She doesn’t need to hear it.

She will always, always talk about celebrity gossip. And she’ll also talk about husband gossip. IE, compare notes about bad behavior. She has her priorities.

This makes me think of my ongoing mantra to my husband (and many, many others): Derek Jeter. He loves his job. He’s the shortstop for his dream team, the NY Yankees. He excels at what he does. He LOVES. HIS. JOB.

We are all not Derek Jeter. Only one person is. And from there on down, the rest of us might not LOVE our jobs like him. Why am I bringing up Derek Jeter? Because if you have some foolish expectation that you are supposed to love your job, you better go hit batting practice harder, or realize it ain’t ever going to happen. Why complain? Just go with it.

So this brings me to the next logical step, from not wanting to hear about the crap at work: I’m tired of hearing how busy people are.

(Note, if you’ve gotten this far. Bit of a rant. Pack it in if you’re not in the mood.)

I am struck, lately, by how many people with whom I’m in contact, in a work capacity, are complaining about their busy-ness. They are SO busy they simply can’t (a) return a phone call or (b) review material or (c) in one memorable case, hit the head.

Here is why this is weird to me. Many, many of these people are men. They are complaining about the big projects they’ve done. They’re fussing about how just completely overwhelmed they are, how they haven’t slept for ages.

I, personally, am busy too. I: consult for 7 clients. Manage a house. Mother four girls. One of them is a baby who wants CONSTANT attention. I do this with not a ton of help. I get to the gym. I make dinner. Granted, it is literally the same dinner night after night for the four girls: noodles and chicken. Moment of clarity: ask them what the want for dinner. Answer, noodles and chicken. So I alternate grapes/corn/peas/carrots as a side dish and everyone’s feeling like a winner.

I get out from time to time. I pick up/drop off (who doesn’t). I try to hit the gym (who doesn’t). I’m busy (who cares).

See, that’s the thing. I’m busy. As my consulting partner pointed out, we are busier than anyone we know. We’re full time moms and full time workers. I am so, so not slamming men, but I doubt they are working AND providing full-time child care (disclosure: I had a babysitter 6 hours last week). But my point is the who cares. The last thing I’d do, the LAST thing, is to start whining about how busy I am. Why?

Because I feel like the automatic response would be: oh–that’s because she’s in mommyland. And she can’t handle it.

Any day, Any day, I can handle it. I just don’t fuss about it so much!! And this, I think, is why moms can make the best employees.

We’re busy. We perhaps just handle it a bit more stylishly? Or at least, with a whole lot less whining.

So that takes me back to college. I had to take this golf class. It was horrid. I hated every moment–except one day we had to watch a video. It was something like “How to play 18 holes in 10 minutes”.  Not really, but close. They said, over and over, “If you’re close to the hole, just knock it in. It doesn’t matter if you make it. Nobody cares. Putt.”. This rule applied if you were 200 feet from the hole. “Nobody cares. Putt”.

For a long, long time that was my mantra in life. “Nobody cares. Putt.” What that meant: stop sweating the small stuff. No one’s thinking about it but you–so it probably doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

So you’re super busy. You simply can’t breathe due to all the work. How many diapers did you change while writing that report, how many times did you get up during the night to give the baby her plug, and when you started that 8am conference call, was that after you had  put 3 on the bus and were you muting the phone to play with a fourth?

No?

Nobody cares. Putt.

It has come to my attention of late that I am not the only one dealing with the following so I thought I’d share my thoughts. I have had a LOT of thoughts to share lately but no time to do the sharing, so along with all of the other guilt I carry now is the “Update the blog” guilt. Part of the issue is many of my items have to do with life at home, including my husband, who has expressly forbidden his inclusion in the blog except in terms describing him glowingly and in the best possible light. He is a good husband and a great father but nonetheless this blog does concern something a trifle annoying.

(I believe he has some sort of alert when I write about him that allows him to immediately know about it and pay attention, in a way he does not when I’m asking him to, say, fix the fridge. Since he’s home today [NOISY work from home conditions to say the least, how do couples survive who both work from home??] I will take this opportunity to say hey, if you are alerted and have read this far, can you call about the refrigerator?)

This is the thing: the going out. I’m not talking about wild nights in Vegas or even semi-wild nights at Indian Casinos. I’m talking about leaving the house without any or all of my children in some way attached, to attend a meeting or MAYBE, MAYBE have a drink with a friend. I can get away with one night a week, IF I have the kids fed, homeworked, cleaned, etc. Two nights, however, is met with mass uprising from the father and the children.

Number one. When he meets friends, which I totally don’t mind, I don’t ask him to first come home and feed/clean/homework the kids. I do it. And then when I go out…I still do it. Number two. Sometimes, sometimes I have to go out twice in a week. I mean, the upside to the round of complaining that ensues (“You are NEVER here” (lie) “You are ALWAYS out” (exaggeration) “I MIIIISSSSSSSSS You” (sweet, but I’m ALWAYS here so how can you miss me and follow up, if you miss me why are you so fresh?) is that I get so indignant about it I don’t feel one iota of guilt for gasp, taking two hours away from the house.

I got extra dirty looks, I felt, the other night when I ended up having to go to the ER after a night out to dinner with a friend. The ER was related to a stupid ongoing stomach issue but the point is, it was as if I had chosen to end my dinner by losing said dinner (that’s gross, I know, but it proves my point that no one would actually choose it) and then spending 8 hours with the fine folks at the hospital. It was like I couldn’t get sympathy (not that I was asking for it but still) for the ER BECAUSE it had been preceded by one of my many, many, many nights out.

For a while, I wasn’t allowed out without the baby, who came to all manner of restaurants and meeting places–I realized, in fact that the only time I’d been without her was two meetings with my doctor, whose town council campaign I was helping on. How WEIRD is it that my social calendar, for a year, included either my baby or my OB/GYN?

So I’m not alone in this. One friend could feel the resentful eyes of her husband from 3 floors away after she spent two nights in a row, gasp, at board meetings. Another, after heading out (with kids in bed, tucked away) hears “Must be nice”. Here’s how she reacted: she stayed out till 2:30 am at a wine bar, having an awesome time with girl friends. YES, indeed it WAS nice.

I work in my dining room. What this means is my beautiful dining room table is covered 24-7 with my laptop and 50,000 papers like bills, love notes from my daughters (including one recent that said simply “Read me Harry Potter NOW!”, threat implied and hint taken…more bills, random stickers and books, blah blah blah. One recent addition is actually right outside my dining room window that I stare vacantly out, waiting for inspiration: a mama robin built her nest there, a couple of weeks ago.

This was so real life Nature Planet and absurdly cool. I kept watching as it went from a bunch of sticks to a nice organized nest (in about the same quick length of time that my nice organized clean nest of a home goes to looking like a trash heap in the sticks, whenever any of my family members come home). Then she laid some eggs and that was cool too. Everyone wanted to know how long they would take to hatch and since I’m a mommy and I know everything (with the help of ask.com) I answered “2-3 weeks” and on schedule, they hatched.

Now I am FASCINATED by watching these little tiny baby birds with their little mouths open, facing the sky, waiting for their mama (and daddy, I am 99% sure there are two robin parents involved here) to feed them. They are so sweet and also heart wrenching. And juxtaposed against this is my own nesting issue.

I have these twins, as previously written about and alluded to. They are now 5 1/2 and enjoying them some kindergarten. In truth we all enjoy their stint in kindergarten. Because the thing with twins is–it’s not the same as a new child in your family that everyone then adapts around. Twins, at least mine, continually hit everyone over the head with their twin-ness. It’s not something that goes away or is no longer new, like a new baby is soon a part of the family–the twins are always twins first and foremost. They gang up against their sisters; they fight, but always put each other first and certainly put up with FAR more from each other than they do from anyone else.

They are very separate personalities but tied so much closer to each other than even they know. And I kept them together for kindergarten–even though everyone said “Separate them”. It’s been good, for the most part. Though not for their big sister–their alliance is stronger then ever so the Middle East peace talks have more hope of being successful than a long term detante amongst my 3 oldest (everyone gets along with the baby–all she does is yell DA DA DA DA DA and smile at us, so no one can object).

The other day, however, their kindergarten teachers called me in and said I should separate them for first grade. In my head I know this is the right thing. In my heart I am conflicted. Which played out with me bursting into tears that I didn’t even really know I felt in the middle of the school hallway at the thought of my little twins heading to first grade on their own.

I know that C will always look out for S. S is more shy. She’s thoughtful, contemplative, and an observer. C jumps right in and has on multiple occasions, stood up for S this year. They have to learn to stand on their own, I know, and get their confidence–and come into their own. I know this. But I also feel that having a twin is a gift. Having someone to always have your back, always be your best friend. If that person happens to look exactly like you, well–that’s fine.

And now as I watch these little baby birds outside I worry about my little ones. When they went off to kindergarten this year I didn’t think twice. I was happy for the peace. And I know I’ll feel differently as I send them on their separate ways in first grade.

I totally know this is the right thing. I know they have to grow up. I know I have to get a grip.

When does this ever get any easier?

One of the things I do besides Detours&OnRamps is marketing consulting. I work entirely from home and though at present I’m working about 60 hours a week–which is way, way, way to many–I wouldn’t, couldn’t ever go back. Here’s what’s awesome:

• I see the baby all the time, I can hug her and squeeze her (and let’s be honest and with full disclosure, I can nurse her spoiled self) during conference calls, what-have-you
• My commute is to my dining room.
• I can do laundry, clean bathrooms, pick up toys, queue up dinner, etc while working. And I do.

Here’s what’s not awesome:

• I see the baby all the time and sometimes (often) she chooses her moments and YELLS during conference call. And it seems that I have a phone with a sensitivity of a gnat’s wing so if she breathes heavy those on the other end can hear it. Never mind that when I dial up my twins when I’m on the road I can’t hear a THING they are talking about.
• My close commute does not include passing by a bar to meet colleagues for happy hour and scheduling wine with the twins in the kitchen is simply not appropriate (at least at 3pm, therein lies a slippery slope).
• I have to do laundry, clean bathrooms, get dinner ready–besides work.

Ok so with all that said there are other goods and bads–I get to work with lots of different clients, and all those clients–since I’m the consultant–are free to blame me for anything and everything.

And I wouldn’t change it, I love it, and here’s a prime-time example of how it REALLY works.

I’m running a series of executive-level conferences for financial services guys. The head sponsor, Peter Montoya Inc–embodied by my employer-now-friend/employer Peter–loves virtual employees. I run his conferences and have done so from home, up to and including taking only a few days off while having the baby in August to plan the November conference in Sonoma. Though I’d tried to dial down my business during the baby’s first month, that was the one thing I stayed tuned in to–and it gave me a great anchor.

I brought the baby, my oldest, and my mom-as-nanny to the conference. I set up the cocktails, jumped back to the room, nursed the baby, jumped back to the party. I spent a day listening to presentations with a couple breaks for kid catch up. I’m doing the same as we speak (the twins are left home with Grandpa for the second and clearly last time–if they got left behind again it would have to be to attend pre-scheduled therapy sessions!) It’s a lot of multi-tasking. It takes an understanding boss who actually wants my oldest to attend the “bring a spouse” activities–a whole new personal level of engagement that makes this meeting with execs “warmer”.

Here’s what’s awesome:

• I’m chilling out at the Ritz Carlton with my two kids and by definition can’t wear my normal sweat-pants gear. Rock on.
• I’m being treated nicely by the RC staff, who say “My Pleasure!” when I ask for something unlike those in my family who throw themselves to the floor when asked to put a dish or jacket away. NO one has thrown themselves to the floor yet!
• I pulled my oldest out of school to come. She’s been getting wicked ornery and squirrelly. She was last fall too. The chance to pull her away from her twin sisters and re-connect (not to sound like Dr. Phil) was HUGE. This sounds awful but instead of loving my kid, with some frustration–I loved her and LIKED her, too. Reconnected.
• I get to give her this amazing experience to see this gorgeous hotel, hang at the pool–with her grandma–have a nice dinner, see cool things–and see how mommy can make work, work.
• Awesome fact for my mom, she gets to hang with my kids and get told 1000x a day “I can’t believe you’re the grandma!!”. This is my mom’s all-time favorite thing.
• I go places I couldn’t necessarily go, now. I’m paid to do so. It’s one last link to my old live of glamorous corporate travel. If I have to haul both my briefcase and a diaper bag, it’s a tradeoff I can make. If I share my king-sized bed with a kid–that’s fine too. If I have to say no chilling at the bar because I have to get back to my kid–that’s actually an awesome thing too.

I am so blessed and lucky, I feel, to be able to do this. I mean, not all the time. It’s annoying to do a lot of it–babysit lots of travelers, handle all manner of myriad details like creating and tweaking and alphabetizing nametags–enter the junior staff who love this kind of task. But the goods so outweigh the bads.

Is Peter ahead of his time in counting on me and letting me balance this way? Maybe. But a lot of folks I come in contact with, in this world, have similar models. So I’d say you can look around and figure out your own “cool situation”–and you may be surprised where you find it.

I was in touch with Peter as a client 10+ years ago. We stayed in touch. It all worked out. That’s the topic for my next post–when you network, without even trying. But what I’d say is if you’re torn about walking away from your corporate job, because of perks you’ll give up–don’t give them up…at least not without a fight. Because “working” at the Ritz Carlton is very sweet indeed.

To my darling 7 year old daughter, my oldest and brightest child:

GRR! You were horrible tonight. Horrible. Coming on a horrible day during which, when I handed the baby to the punk kid in the gym to watch for an hour, I knew, just knew, she was getting a better parenting experience then she would with me. That kind of day. The kind of day when I got yelled at left right and center for every bit of work I tried to do; the kind of day that I eyed the ball in the gym that someone told me is really good to do situps on to help with the lower belly, and I walked toward that ball with dreams of washboards dancing before my eyes–well, it’s the kind of day that wiser heads prevailed and I walked away because I knew if I tried it, it would shoot away from me to take out 5 exercisers, leaving me lying like a turtle on the gym floor with a guilty look and flabby abs.

So on THAT kind of day you choose to tell us how awful your life is and how bad you have it, because your poor little sisters who are spending next week home with their grandpa, heading to school each day and MAYBE, MAYBE getting ice cream once or twice–those little twin sisters got a free book from the dentist at an assembly today. And you didn’t. And you freaked. Where will you be next week? Why is grandpa coming? Oh, because you get to come with mommy to a trip to California and let’s not mention what a nice hotel you’re staying in (it’s really nice) or that I used my hard-won miles to upgrade us on the way home. SPOILED! ROTTEN! (Those are two separate things). You horrid ungrateful child–you yelled about coloring books? You then made ME yell!! When I said to myself “I will walk away. I will not engage.” I did. I walked away. And you kept pushing it. And I had to yell. And I was so angry.

And here’s what being a mom is. I was angry at me, even, for yelling–though for once I was justified, and right, and not just freaking out because I’m stressed or have too much work or too little time or because I judge myself by the punk at the gym in the parenting awards and get second place (judges rule: punk wins! tough break.) Daddy even backed me up. You were naughty as you went on and on and on with feeling sorry for yourself, and being ungrateful, and saying things that were bad.

So I yelled, and then walked away to go read a book and have some peace. And I read about a mama who’s little girl got caught in a fire. Stupid tear-jerker book. Stupid emotions all wrapped up in it. Because it brings me to when I held your little 5-year-old hand as your appendix came out, the scariest day of my life. Bar none. And I listened to your little breathing and wanted you to be all ok and you were, and I knew all along it could be worse, but I still worried. And all it takes is the tale of another mom caring for another kid to bring me right back there.

So even on a horrid day, my bratty kid who I can’t help but love–I’m telling you, as you prattle on about “Job Day” at school, and how someone brought in a doll because she wants to be a mom when she grows up: Good Luck. GOOD LUCK. It ain’t no walk in the park. When you’re judging success by a day that you haven’t dropped an f-bomb…you’ll have walked in my shoes. I hope that you’ll have four little ducklings walking behind you who are as wonderful as mine are, on certain days. And I hope when you figure out what being grateful means, you’ll take stock and be grateful for what you have.

I am truly grateful for what I have. Even if once in an (often) while they are brats. At least they’re not the hoochie kind.