Less Alpha. More Beta Mom.

Okay, readers! Here is a sneak preview of what you will read in Coast Kids winter issue! Couldn't hold off on "publishing" this column til then. Enjoy!


Here I was, feeling all smug. Thus far in my life, I had avoided labels. In high school, I was not a dork, but not a soc (pronounced “sew-sh” for those not reared in the OC). In college, I was not a Greek, but not a geek either. In Corporate America, I dodged the “woman in a man’s world” persona by about a half a generation (and by never wearing one of those lame silk neck bows).

Despite my two kids and house in the suburbs, I could never be classified as a soccer mom. I do coach my six-year-old’s soccer team, but I also have two jobs (as a full-time PR/marketing consultant and editor of this magazine), volunteer at my daughters’ school, write a blog, run a household, care for a menagerie (three dogs, two cats, two fish, a frog), exercise, keep myself looking somewhat presentable, and – most importantly – maintain wonderful relationships with my kids, husband and friends.

Then it hits me. There is a moniker for me - aside from the one my parents put on my birth certificate. I’ve become what Madison Avenue dubs an “Alpha Mom.” The busy mom who juggles it all: Work, kids, life. The one who knows about the latest everything and anything. The go-to-gal when you need to know about the place to get this or that. And the one – if I’m to believe the real-life Alpha Mom examples being trotted out by New York Magazine, USA Today, Ad Age and ABC News – might need to have her head examined. So, in the spirit of posing some tough, reflective questions to my increasingly graying matter…

A question I’m often asked by other moms: “How do you do it all?”

A question I ask myself everyday: “Why do you do it all?”

Good questions, both.

The first query is easy to answer. Let’s call it functional mania. An inability to sit still. Generalized anxiety disorder. Whatever. I’m far from alone in the “moms doing it all” category. Just check out Anita Renfroe’s “Mom Song” on YouTube.com – the one where she condenses a day full “mom speak” into two minutes, 55 seconds, set to the William Tell Overture. ‘Nuff said.

The second question is the proverbial $64,000 one (or let’s say $1 million, adjusting for inflation). What is it that I’m trying to prove, exactly? And just who am I proving it to? How much do I have invested in being an “Alpha Mom?” Am I trying to show other moms up? Am I trying to model the ability to have a career and family to my daughters? Am I applying for a third job as a martyr? (There’s no St. Carrie yet, is there?) I have a sneaking suspicion that I will not like the answers to some – if not most – of the aforementioned questions.

Which means it’s time for a change – time for me to shed this “Alpha Mom” skin. I’ll consider it, in tech parlance, a “Beta Test.” I will transform into a Mo’ Beta Mom (nod to Spike Lee) who is more relaxed, who lives more in the moment, who doesn’t have to do – or have – it all.

Hey - do you think I’m the first mom on the block to make her New Year’s resolution?

Holiday Card Quandary

Intrepid Readers:

I've been talking alot to a friend of mine recently - the fabulous Christine Fugate, get thee to her blog at http://www.motheringheights.net/.

We have been discussing etiquette, a topic upon which she will pontificate and wax eloquent in the next issue of Coast Kids (http://www.coastkids.com/) - due out mid-late November. Okay, enough for the shameless promotion.

Anyhoo, the crux of this blog entry lies in the question:

Is there etiquette...or perhaps better stated...are there widely accepted rules (parent-developed, -tested and -approved, natch) upon which to select the photo which will appear on your holiday card?

Here are my personal standards for the all-important photo selection, ranked in order of importance:

1. The picture in which I look the thinnest.
2. The picture in which I look the youngest.
3. The picture in which my hair looks the best.

(I'm going for "personal bests" in the aforementioned categories - not trying to compete with my daughters because that would be truly sick, vain, shallow, narcissistic and too Real Housewives of The OC)

4. The picture in which my (euphemism applied) Roman nose looks less...well...Roman
5. The picture in which the armpit fat that resides where my well-defined pectoral muscle should be is the least pronounced.
6. The picture in which none of my other beloved's heads is "cut off" due to poor composition.
7. The picture in which the rest of my family is not closing their eyes.
8. The picture in which neither of my children has a toothsome smile that belongs on a kid named Obadiah, Jebadiah or any other "____diah."
9. The picture in which the sun has not yet set.

I know you are waiting for a #10 to round out this little ditty, but I can't think of one.

So - weigh in, peeps! Post a comment so we can get to the bottom of this issue before the holiday card season is truly upon us. Exception: If you're one of those moms who doesn't include herself in the holiday photo, don't respond. You are entirely too well-adjusted and secure to participate in this dialogue!

BTW, you're going to LOVE my holiday card this year. I'm the one with the great hair. And the only one who has her eyes open.

It's my potty and I'll cry if I want to...

Okay, this blog entry will be short and sweet - akin to the amount of time I'm allowed to myself each day.

As in, when I'm going to the bathroom.

As in, even that is no longer sacrosanct (post-kids-who-can-walk).

As in, chronic bathroomus interruptus.

I want to hear from all you parents out there.

Is anyone else fed up with this?

Any suggestions? Thoughts?

Is nothing sacred?

Spoiler Alert!

No, I'm not going to give away anything about LOST or GREY's this season. Simply because I'm the only person alive not watching those shows. But I can tell you that some f'ed up girl with an eating disorder WILL be named America's Next Top Model! Oh, wait, wrong blog entry...

No, I'm talking about a spoiler, as in car parlance. As in, if you check out http://www.urbandictionary.com/ (which you most certainly should if you don't want to walk around sounding like a 40ish suburban mom) you will discover is...

SPOILER (noun): An aerodynamical feature that 'spoils' the air flow by forcing any air that reaches it into the shape, pushing the rear end of the vehicle downwards, this is used to improve handling. As in "I was racing my rice grinder and got up to 100 mph but started to get some gnarly upforce. Man, do I need me a spoiler!"

Those of you who know me know that I'm anything but a gearhead. My car - which I call Ugly Benzy - is always coated in a layer of dirt, child snack detritus and loaded with soccer gear, backpacks, yoga mats, spin shoes, real estate brochures and who knows what else that takes my 15 city/18 highway mileage down to about...oh...let's say 5 mpg.

But, I digress (when do I not, really - isn't that what a blog is, a big DIGRESSION?). Anyhoo...

Ugly Benzy had been screeching at me for some time to get a tune-up. At every stop light, each stop sign, she would shudder and scream..."Damn, girl, these brakes are OVER. I mean, they are sans pad, down to the rotor, yo! Hie thee to the service center, asap!"

So, after embarrassing myself and my progeny around town with Screechy Ugly Benzy, it was time to go to one of the places I most despise...the car dealership...and particularly, Le Fletcher Jones. Understand, I never has me any kind of a "jones" for Fletcher. Not only because you can't drive out of there for less than $1K, but also because the parade of sheer freakery there is not only mind-boggling, but also nausea-inducing. A vivid reminder of why I said I'd never come back to Newport Beach to feather my nest.

But, I digress...AGAIN.

My eight-year-old daughter - who is sage beyond her years (in some areas, you'll see what I mean in a minute) - accompanied me to Club FJ. She, of course, was lured by the free Nintendo Wii and the Starbucks-meets-service-center ambiance. While I unloaded all of the gear from the car - a feat no less impressive than saddling up a herd of Dromedary camels for a trans-Saharan trek - she enjoyed the games. When it was time to get our "complimentary" (as if we're not paying for it in these heinously padded service bills) rental car, I let my daughter choose it.

ME: "Hey, honey - you can choose from the silver or white small cars, or the black or silver SUVs. Which one?"

SHE: "Oooooooh, mom - for SURE the small silver one. It is hella cool!" (Seriously, she said that - this girl is ghetto fabulous already, but please don't tell her private school teacher who already hates me - See the Sweater Incident blog entry).

As I approach the too-small-for-our-sub-saharan-trek-gear trunk, I notice something. A SPOILER. WHAT THE?! Didn't spoilers go the way of the 80's dodo? Hasn't their survival been severely compromised by global warming or something?

I didn't want to create a scene - I pride myself on being one of the only people who don't wait for the Mercedes loaner at Club FJ. "I will take whatever car, in whatever color, in whatever condition is ready NOW please, thank you very much," I have been heard to utter.

So...I let it RIDE. And I do mean RIDE, baby. My daughter and I took corners, floored it (40 in a 25 zone!) drafted (not really, that's a little too Fast and Furious for me - but if Vin Diesel or Paul Walker had shown up at carpool, we'd a been going Tokyo Drift all da way!).

Heck, I was almost sad to give up Sexy Spoiler for Ugly Benzy when the time came. I handed the keys to the Enterprise Representative (was he looking at me a little differently - a little lustily - a little "hey this is one hot-spoiler-lovin' MAMA?"). I may never know.

A bigger question remains. Am I a bad role model? Have I "spoiled" my daughter with the spoiler? After all, when the time comes - I want her to go for the guy with the hip VW microbus or Thing. I want her to covet a classic Mercedes or a retrofitted bio-diesel Benz. I don't want her going for the guy in the IROC or the dude in the Trans-Am.

Do I?