Listen to Your Mother, Northwest Arkansas
by Lela Davidson on November 16, 2011
in motherhood, writing
The first time I heard about Listen to Your Mother, I wanted in.
What is Listen to Your Mother?
Listen to Your Mother features live readings by local writers on the beauty, the beast, and the barely-rested of motherhood, in celebration of Mother’s Day. Born of the creative work of mothers who publish online, each production in this national series is directed, produced, and performed by local communities, for local communities. The mission of each LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER production is to take the audience on a well-crafted journey that celebrates and validates mothering through giving voice to motherhood–in all of its complexity, diversity, and humor. And it’s coming to Northwest Arkansas in 2012!
Why Northwest Arkansas?
Because we rock. It started when I saw that Wendi Aarons was producing Ann Imig‘s Listen to Your Mother (LTYM) in Austin. I wrote to Ann, letting her know how much I loved the idea of the show, and how I’d love to help her bring it to Northwest Arkansas. For the next year I Facebooked and Tweeted her, sent her a copy of Blacklisted from the PTAto review, and took the mic at the LTYM Salon at BlogHer11–all the time reminding Ann how very well LTYM would be received in Northwest Arkansas. Keep in touch, she said.
Then I got the call to action. Ann was adding cities to the 2012 schedule. All I had to do was apply. All I had to do was convince Ann that Northwest Arkansas was the perfect community, I was the perfect one to lead the effort, and that I would have lots and lots of help to make the event a success. No pressure.
And we got it, Northwest Arkansas! We got it!
I’m so excited to work with mother/writers in our community to celebrate the diversity of motherhood. Listen to Your Mother, Northwest Arkansas is going to be amazing. Because you’re all going to be a part of it. Can’t wait. Can. Not. Wait! Stay tuned for specifics, including timing, sponsorship opportunities, volunteer staffing, and auditions.
We’re in Good Company
The 10 cities hosting LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER shows in celebration of Mother’s Day 2012:
AUSTIN: Co-Director/Producers Wendi Aarons and Jennifer Sutton
CHICAGO: Co-Director/Producers Tracey Becker and Melisa Wells
D.C.: Director Stephanie Dulli, Producer Kate Coveny Hood
MADISON: National Director, Ann Imig
NYC: Director Amy Wilson, Producer Varda Steinhardt, Assoc. Producers Holly Fink and Julie Nemitz
NORTHWEST ARKANSAS: Director/Producer Lela Davidson
NW INDIANA: Director/Producer Stephanie Precourt
PHILADELPHIA: Co-Director/Producers Cecily Kellogg and Dresden Shumaker
SAN FRANCISCO: Co-Director/Producers Kim Thompson-Steel and Kirsten Patel
SPOKANE: Director Stacey Conner, Producer Elise Raimi
Special thanks to BlogHer for national media sponsorship!
Christmas in October
by Lela Davidson on October 28, 2011
in motherhood, Rugrats, Tweens, & Other Offspring
The official day this year is Friday, November 25th. That is the day my family is allowed to start singing Christmas songs. I have nothing against Christmas music. I rather enjoy it. But only during the season. There is nothing worse than a cheerful child’s voices singing about dashing through the snow when it’s 85 degrees outside. It’s crap like that can ruin a holiday. If you ask me. And you didn’t, nor did my family. The difference between you and them is that they must abide by my rules. Or find loopholes. Hence:
We wish you a happy Halloween,
we wish you a happy Halloween,
we wish you a happy Halloween
and get lots of candy!
Good candy to you, to you and your kids
We wish you a happy Halloween and get lots of candy!
“What? That is NOT a Christmas song.”
Little shits.
From One Mouthy Housewife to Another
by Lela Davidson on October 6, 2011
in motherhood, Rugrats, Tweens, & Other Offspring, Suburban Bliss
Dear Mouthy Housewives,
I just became Room Mom of my daughter’s Pre-K class. I didn’t really want to do it, but nobody else volunteered. The first event I did—a Welcome Breakfast–was a simple affair because the kids are still young and I didn’t have a lot of time to organize. I thought it was fine, but now I hear that a lot of the moms were making fun of the event and calling it a “Cheap Breakfast.” Should I say something to them? Make sure the next thing I do is nicer? Hit them with my car? This is all new to me and I’m panicking!
Signed,
Dubious Room Mom
Read my answer on The Mouthy Housewives
Try These, Too. Pretty Please:
Sorry Salahi, I Stopped Believing
by Lela Davidson on October 4, 2011
in Marriage, motherhood
Dear Family,
I might have been kidnapped.
Unlike Michaele Salahi, if this real housewife goes missing, it’s probably true. With the house and the kids and the job, and tripping over your combined 76 pairs of shoes, I just don’t have the time to orchestrate a fake abduction.
Besides, who would I count on to contact the right media? You’re all too busy with school, work, and imaginary sports. And you know what they say: No publicity is no publicity.
Read the rest of this post on Modern Mom.
Image Credit: Andrea Rinaldi, Flickr
Strollergate: Was a New York Mom Really Shoplifting?
by Lela Davidson on August 23, 2011
in It's All About Me, motherhood
Grocery shopping is not a crime. Except when it is.
I often pick up more than I can carry at the grocery store. With a toddler in tow, I might stick a bottle of Heinz in my pocket, hoping I remember to produce the concealed condiment for the cashier. (That’s a risk I take when I fool myself into thinking I can get in and out with just a hand-held basket.)
However, here in the suburbs of Rogers, Ark., most food shopping involves a cart the size of my first car, which makes accidental theft less likely. Countless times I’ve almost walked out of the Super Center with a case of Diet Coke and a pallet of Charmin, but those are easy to spot on the lower rack of the cart.
Click here to read the rest of this post on the Today Show Moms blog.
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All Parenting Is Imperfect, Isn’t It?
by Lela Davidson on August 1, 2011
in motherhood, Rugrats, Tweens, & Other Offspring
What is perfect parenting? I have no idea. So what are we all aspiring to? The standards are too high, people! Too high. Here’s the Parenting U segment from KFSM Wake Up With 5News a couple of weeks ago.
Ask the Bubbly: Babies Laughing at Paper
by Lela Davidson on March 7, 2011
in Marriage, motherhood
Today’s question comes from a father who never had the chance to rip paper for his son.
Pity.
Or is it?
Dear Lela,
What’s up with all the laughing baby videos lately? And why didn’t any of those parenting books tell me that I could get my kid to laugh just by ripping up paper? This could have saved me a lot of sleepless nights when my kids were babies. I sure wish I had known about this miracle baby-enchantment strategy then. I feel cheated.
Frustrated Father
Dear Frustrated,
Take heart, and enjoy the videos while you can. The baby-laughing-at-ripped paper phenomenon will be short-lived. The reason you never read of this supposed miracle baby charming technique is because it is not a time-tested method. Unlike tickling a baby’s belly or dancing him around to vintage Britney Spears, these seemingly innocent giggling baby antics are nothing but precursors to what is referred to in the trade as meltdown. (Not to be confused with blowout, which is a marked discrepancy between human elimination and diaper capacity.)
Videos of babies laughing at ripped paper last approximately one minute. You do not see the moments preceding or those following. Note that the baby paper film genre is dominated by male directors. At some point during the day of filming, this man receives a rejection letter of some sort, a past due utility notice, or mortgage statement with an unfavorable escrow account adjustment. Just prior to making the video, his gainfully employed partner says something to the effect of,
“Get your lazy ass off the couch and do something around here.”
At this point, the man chooses from among the many household chores what he believed to be the easiest task: childcare. And because he is Daddy, aka the Fun Parent, he passes the time with Junior by making him laugh. Specifically, he rips the offending rejection or bill. (My sources have no idea why this works or how it has caught on so quickly, but I suspect it has something to do with the influence otherwise unemployed daddy bloggers.)
Daddy rips; baby laughs. It works.
For about one minute.
Then Daddy bores of this tiresome routine, because let’s face it, watching babies laugh isn’t that satisfying, not like picking March Madness brackets or eating an entire piece of leftover pizza in two bites. So the funny man stops the show and the baby starts to cry. Translation of baby’s wails: “What do you think you’re doing? Get back here and rip me some paper, Fool!”
Here’s where Mom steps in. No one has actually seen one of these videos. No one wants to.
Enjoy the foolishness of others, but consider yourself lucky, not cheated. At least during your sleepless nights there was a chance, no matter how slim of sex. Not so for the paper rippers.
Got questions? I’ve got answers:
Ask your own questions in the comments or drop me a line.
Image Credit: Creativesam, Flickr
A Case for Arts in Education
by Lela Davidson on November 2, 2010
in motherhood, Rugrats, Tweens, & Other Offspring
My daughter was made for musical theatre. She sings everything, mostly her own creation. With established works, she takes license. The other day she graced us all with an impromptu performance from The Sound of Music.
“Doe, a dear, a female dear. Oh, a pocket full of snow.”
Cute as it was, I had to correct. “It’s actually: Ray, a drop of golden sun.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I like it my way.”
“Yeah, okay. But it’s ray. You know do-re-me-fa—”
“So THAT’s what that song is about?”
“Music, yes. You didn’t know that?”
“I thought it was just, like, a SONG!”
“It’s a song that helps you learn the musical notes.” Feeling triumphant, I continued to demonstrate the correct lyrics. “Me, a name I call myself. Fa, a long long way to—-”
“Fob.”
“Fa.”
“Fa, a long long way to—”
“Fob.”
“So, a needle pulling thread. La, a note to follow so. Tea, a drink with jam and bread—”
“Cookies.”
“What?”
“Tea goes with cookies.”
You know how this ends, right? She and I screaming our respective versions in a friendly yet mildly disturbing preview of ages 13-16. If only she would get the Katy Perry lyrics wrong.
The Legend of My Ten-Pound Baby
by Lela Davidson on October 28, 2010
in motherhood
Despite the ever-increasing responsibilities, there are no promotions in motherhood. You’ll never get an annual review followed by a fat bonus and a healthy raise. There’s a once-a-year day of gratitude, but the rest of the time we take our props where we can. It is not enough that we (almost) singlehandedly grew an entire human being inside our bodies and then managed to keep the little sucker (literally) alive in the face of deadly car seats and crib bars. We value what we can quantify as credit for a job well done.
I earned a gold star for my daughter’s birth weight. Despite a carefully constructed birth plan, an ancient Korean midwife’s fetal turning technique, and my doula’s soothing-sounds-of-the-snow-owl CD, my second child, a precious flannel bundle, had to be pried out of me under anesthesia—with a big knife. She was born gray with an Apgar score of one, and nearly killed us both. Why? She was a ten-pound baby, that’s why. Ten.
Okay 9 pounds 14 1/2 ounces. I embellished, but when you have a baby that big you’re allowed to round up. An ounce and a half isn’t an exaggeration; it’s a shot of tequila. (Which may have taken the edge off the cheese-grater-on-nipple sensation of breastfeeding.) I’m just saying, it wasn’t a big fib. From Day One my daughter was a 10-pound baby. For the last decade all my kick-ass-ness as a mother has been implicit when I casually mentioned, “That one? Ten pounds.”
Okay, just under ten pounds. Who’s counting?
I would have perpetuated the legend indefinitely, but on her tenth birthday my daughter asked look at her baby book. This couldn’t go well. Surely she’d notice her book consisted of a few good pages, followed by a few more of random baby items, and then two-dozen blanks. I figured as long as we didn’t break out the meticulous record of Big Brother’s first year for a side-by-side comparison, she might never know that she was conceived primarily as a playmate for our favorite child. I shouldn’t have worried. All she wanted to see was her birth certificate. My husband and I beamed over her shoulder as she flipped through the handful of pages devoted to her first days. Then the trouble started. There on the first page of the sub-standard baby book was her birth announcement, the one I had created with my own breast milk-stained fingers.
“Do you see what I see?” I asked my husband.
“What?””
“Eight pounds fourteen ounces? What is that?”
“What?”
“She weighed ten pounds! Ten! Well, you know, nine fourteen.”
Like all good husbands faced with an unwinnable situation, he shrugged.
How could I have made such a mistake? As I paged through the official documentation, a ten-pound knot formed in my stomach. The hospital record of birth, her crib identification card, and in the doula’s notes all confirmed her actual birth weight: 8 pounds 14 1/2 ounces.
She wasn’t just under ten pounds at all. She was just under nine pounds. Nine. This fact would not reconcile with my myth. I was a five-foot-one She-Ra, a warrior among women, a ten-pound babymaker! Now what was I? Just over average? Big deal. And it wasn’t just about me. My daughter had bought into my heavy white lie too. The thought of her infant self as bigger than the rest had built up her self-image as a tough girl, maybe even helped her become the best defenseman on her ice hockey team. The facts presented in that stupid baby book shattered all that.
“You mean I wasn’t ten pounds?” She looked like I’d just wiped out the balance of her iTunes account.
“I don’t care what it says,” my husband told her. “You’ll always be a ten pounder to me.” He glanced in my direction. “And don’t worry, Babe. Your secret’s safe.”
The legend may live on, but I don’t feel right about keeping that gold star.
Why Don’t You Ever Text ME?
by Lela Davidson on October 4, 2010
in motherhood, Rugrats, Tweens, & Other Offspring
The other morning at breakfast the kids were mercilessly teasing their dad (I don’t know where they get it from…) about his lack of tech-savvy. He doesn’t text. Not even a little.
“Dad, I text you ALL the time,” my son said. “And you, like, NEVER answer.”
I was late to the joke, however. “You text him? You never text ME!”
“Mom, chillax.”
“No, I will not chillax. I can’t believe you don’t text ME.”
Enter the family opportunist, the as yet phoneless opportunist. My daughter, who has has been angling for my old iPhone since I upgraded, says, “I would text you, Mom.”
She’s good, that one. We’re keeping an eye on her.
Check out what bloggers much fancier than I have to say in this week’s BlogHer LG TextEd Roundup.
