Work It: a blog for Working Moms

Product Review: The Swiffer SweeperVac

By Julie

The Swiffer SweeperVac
I'm not easily persuaded by advertisements for cleaning products. I like the way Brillo works over S.O.S., the way Mr. Clean smells over PineSol, how All performs over Tide. Every once in a while, a product will wow me and live up to its name, like the Magic Eraser. It certainly is magic if it can erase the permanent marker and scuff marks from my white walls.

But I think I was duped the last time I believed a commercial. I'd just moved into a new house with hardwood floors. Having lived in an apartment house with these same floors years ago, I remembered how dust and hairballs would scoot around and hide under couches and in corners. How hard they were to get rid of and catch. How it seemed there was always cat hair or dust sticking to a book or CD because I could never clean those floors just right.

I'd seen the advertisement before on TV: the Swiffer SweeperVac is a Swiffer and vacuum cleaner in one. What a marvelous idea, I thought, keeping it in the back of my head because I already had a broom, a dustpan, and a Swiffer. But I also now had a house, a toddler at home all day, and a class to teach.

Then I had an allergy attack one day after sweeping the house. I was miserable and convinced that the Swiffer Sweepervac could help me. I wouldn't be kicking up hairballs and dust; they would disappear into the suction of the vacuum cleaner. Believing it could help me, I went out and bought it.

I couldn't use it right away. I had to charge the vacuum for 24 hours first. Once I used it, I was pleasantly surprised through the first two rooms. It sucked up the bits of paper, pet hair, crumbs, and other various minute bits of trash on my floors, as I realized when emptying the filter. But by the time I reached the third room, the vacuum to lose its power. I would either have to resort to my old broom and dustpan, or wait a couple of hours for it to revamp. In every working mother's world, there isn't enough time to wait: you either finish the job right away or you don't get to it again for a week.

In my opinion, the Swiffer SweeperVac is good in theory. It does half the job; you just have to wait to finish it. When cleaning for my daughter's birthday party, I returned to my trusty broom and dustpan, and Swiffer. My sinuses made out okay. My old helpful friends were happy to see the light of day again, while the Swiffer SweeperVac stood at attention against the wall.

The Swiffer Sweepervac retails for around $30.

Toy Review: Barbie Forever Barbie Doll with Tanner the Dog

By Julie

Barbie Forever Barbie Doll with Tanner the Dog
Barbie bounces back from injury
Barbie had surgery today. The joint in her elbow came loose while she was swimming. She's only been with us for about a month and she's almost worn out. Her arm may never bend right again.

The Barbie we almost lost arrived with her dog Tanner on Christmas morning. She was glad to see us, smiling through my daughter's reflection on the packaging, and also happy to let Eleanor pick up after her dog. However, she has knee and elbow joints, and is it really such a good idea for Barbie to have so much mobility? Shouldn't her arms just flap at her sides and her knees pop when they bend? The other Barbie who lost her thumb had the same issue with flexibility. We don't her to bend in all sorts of ways, just not to break.

I wonder if Mattel will one day make a Barbie who can survive playtime without losing a limb or digit, who can keep her full head of hair after its been tugged by a brush numerous times-- in short, a doll that can run the gamut of my daughter's imagination and survive.

(This Barbie retails for about $15.)

Editor's Note: We will be featuring toy and product reviews each Friday. We'd love to hear from you! Let us know if your children's toys are living up to the hype. Leave a comment and let us know what's keeping your children entertained. Or what's leaving them asking, "Mom, what can I do now?"

My students

By Julie

This semester, I've thought a lot about what my experience in moving to a new place, a colder, more northern place, would have been like if I hadn't taught a class.

I'm glad I don't have to wonder.

I won't go so far to say my students saved me, but they did do a great deal for me. They gave me something to look forward to. They made small talk with me before class started. They asked me to read their own personal writing. They came to my office for advice. They made me feel useful. They gave me a reason to get out of the house.

At the beginning of the semester, I wondered if I could teach again. I'd taught before, but that was five years earlier, with administrative work filling the gap. I second-guessed myself through the grading of the first two essays. Would this work out? Was I teaching them anything?

Mid-term passed and my students' writing began to improve. I read essays that made me proud, and that was when I realized I was teaching them. They were working hard to write better essays. I could do this. I started to enjoy teaching again, just as much as I had the first time around.

The semester is coming to a close and soon I will part with this group of students. They've made me confident enough to keep going. They've made me realize I can do something new in a new place, and that everything will be okay.

Here come the holidays

By Julie

For the first time in my life, I won't be home for Christmas. At first, when I realized it was really going to happen, I thought I could handle it; I was happy that my husband, daughter, and I would be starting our own traditions in our new house. But the truth is, I'm rather heartbroken that I won't be going home.

We live 20 hours away from my family. We moved so far north we'll always have a white Christmas, and of course the bridge that connects the peninsula to the mainland is treacherous during the winter months. I could take up a collection for airfare home, but I'm too modest.

In short, I'm really going to have to suck it up this year. I'll have to find happiness in shopping for family, enjoying the snow, and spending my first Christmas with my own family. We'll hang stockings. For the first time, my daughter will leave cookies out for Santa at her own house and will wake up Christmas morning knowing he's been there. We'll buy a live tree because we'll be around to take care of it. For the first time, we'll be able to attend Christmas Eve services at church. We'll spend time with friends who have stayed here for Christmas, just like us.

Maybe I can make it work. Maybe with a little work and belief in the spirit of Christmas, I can make this one I'll remember fondly.

Settling in

By Julie

We've moved: twenty odd hours away from our families, twelve from our friends. We've moved to a new town, a small one, where we don't know anyone, finally have our own house, and are busier than we've ever been.

We still haven't settled in.

How long does it take? I keep asking myself, even though I did this same thing seven years ago. Of course back then I didn't have a child who missed her friends, preschool teachers, and her old house. I didn't feel her pain as miserably as I feel my own, as I've come to the realization that settling into a new place, no matter where it is, takes a while.

I've enrolled my daughter in ballet, but she can't talk to any of the other children because she's busy learning. I take her to library story time once a week, and even though she plays with some of the children, it will take her a while to get to know them. We will have to enroll her in preschool fairly soon, as I'm teaching two classes at the university in the spring instead of just one, so that should give her a chance to meet some kids as well, even if she's only attending part-time.

Sometimes she's sad. Sometimes I'm sad. I, too, miss my friends. I miss seeing other adults every day. This is the first time I've been home more than I've been at work, and though it's an adjustment, I'm happy to have the time to watch my daughter grow. This is the toughest transition she'll ever have to make. It's the toughest transition anyone could ever make: getting used to something new because you have to.

Poetic accuracy

By Julie

Once in a while, I discover a piece of literature that reflects my current feelings toward life with amazing accuracy. I recently came across a poem in an issue of The New Yorker that mirrors my sense of identity as a mother, combined with the other roles I still assume (wife, daughter, co-worker, writer, etc). Since my journey of motherhood began, I haven’t been able to look back on even a previous year with clarity— each moment always blended crazily into the next. Then, I read this:

Arriving Again and Again Without Noticing

I remember all the different kinds of years.
Angry, or brokenhearted, or afraid.
I remember feeling like that
walking up the mountain along the dirt path
to my broken house on the island.
And long years of waiting in Massachusetts.
The winter walking and hot summer walking.
I finally fell in love with all of it:
dirt, night, rock and far views.
It's strange that my heart is as full
now as my desire was then.

- Linda Gregg (from The New Yorker, January 16, 2006)

This poem assisted me in putting the past few years in perspective and brought me to the conclusion that, yes, I really DO love my life, in all its craziness. There was a year where I was frustrated and afraid. Juggling all that was going on in my life became a struggle and my mind felt like the “broken house on the island” in Gregg’s poem. The desire to rid myself of the stress I experienced during that time was intense, and though I survived, I’m glad it’s over.

By no means have I settled down, as it were (because of the careers my husband and I chose, we are still in transit), but I have settled into my life. Within the past few months I finally acquired the patience to deal with whatever comes my way, and found a balance between work and home that suits me and improves my demeanor. The past three years since my daughter’s birth have been wonderful and tough—but I have fallen “in love with all of it,” as the speaker in the poem says. I have arrived.

Finding solutions

By Julie

When I was pregnant with my daughter, dozens of books were suggested to me on the issue of pregnancy, childrearing and motherhood. I read one suggested pregnancy book and replaced it with another. I read various articles and books on motherhood. I talked to mothers of different ages, with grown or small children. And I’ve realized that the best advice has been what I gave myself when I became pregnant: to trust my own instincts.

When I was pregnant, I stopped trusting the manuals to tell me what to eat. If I was hungry for something, I ate it: apples, carrots, orange juice, meat, Sour Patch Kids, etc. I followed my instincts through labor, which much to my surprise (to this day) I was able to do naturally, and into caring for my newborn. I fed her when she was hungry, soothed her when she cried, and followed my instinct throughout her infant years.

Those newborn days seem like ages ago. My daughter has changed considerably since then, and I’m using my instincts differently now that she is almost three years old. These days I rely on my innate belief that a person should treat others as she would like to be treated, and that one should take care of what belongs to her. Since I want to practice what I preach, this belief enables me to realize when I should give in a little, when to back off, and when to take the upper hand. And sometimes all she needs is some extra Mommy time.

It isn’t easy. Many times I feel like the bad guy, but that’s mainly because I don’t want to hear her cry over cleaning up a mess she’s made or picking up her toys before bedtime. Of course, I make her do it anyway. I can keep a straight face and my emotions in line. Now, in this time of being consistent with discipline, emotions need to take a backseat, even when I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing or don’t know what to do at all. How do I want her to treat others as well as her belongings? is all I can ask myself. Once I answer that question, I’ve found my solution.

Waiting for Santa

By Julie

Eleanor, my two-year-old daughter, desperately wants a new baby doll for Christmas. It must pee and cry and be able to take baths with her. She knows she’s getting it, she knows Santa will bring it, but she is so thrilled by the idea of this doll that she can’t wait.

On Tuesday night, I read The Polar Express to her for the first time. When the little boy sat on Santa’s lap, she automatically said, “I want to sit on Santa’s lap.” I told her we’d take her to see him next week. The next evening after I picked her up from daycare, she told me she wanted to see Santa. I told her I had chores to do around the house, but we’d take her next week. She kept going on and on about it—she simply HAD to see the man, so I told her we could ask Daddy when we got home. And I realized laundry could probably wait until afterward.

Before we left, she said, “I getting a new baby!” It was then I realized that she had equated seeing Santa with getting her new toy, just like in The Polar Express, when the little boy is given what he asks for right after he tells Santa what it is. I hated to disappoint her, but I told her she had to wait until Christmas for her present. She was a little sad, but the excitement of seeing Santa took that away.

So after supper, we went to the mall. She was so excited she nearly ran down the entrance hall while holding my hand. She was patient while waiting in line, and went to Santa after a little coaxing. She told him what she wanted before he even asked, and then the photographer took her picture with Santa.

This morning, on the drive to daycare, she told me in a sad voice, “I want a baby REAL bad.”

I know you do, honey. The waiting is the hardest part.

Free to be me

By Julie

Since I became a mother, I’ve been wondering where I fit into the world of mothers.

I know the kind of mother I am not.

1) I’m not skilled in the visual arts. I don’t sew or embroider or make seasonal decorations.
2) I don’t cook meals. Frankly, I’m not very good at it.

But what am I? Who am I? Where do I fit in among other mothers?

I give my daughter crayons and markers and notebooks and coloring books because she loves to draw and write. I find some of her preemie outfits for her baby dolls to wear. I let her help me bake cookies and clean up afterward. I let her choose some of her own clothes when we go shopping. We play “Green light Red light” outside and she runs through my red lights. We pet the dog and cat and talk to them sweetly. We talk about scary things and fun things and I tell her about funny dreams I have at night. We read books together. We watch Mork and Mindy and Laverne and Shirley and I Love Lucy, and the next time she wants to watch any of these she will ask for them by name. We dance to music and she learns my favorite songs by heart as well as some of her favorites.

In short, I’m just me. I have my own set of things I’m good at and enjoy. I love books, so I instill the value of reading in my child. I love comedy, so I share my favorites with her. I’m good at writing, and drawing silly characters, and love to dance and sing, and I share all these with her because I want her to know who I am.

Where I fit in among other mothers doesn’t matter much, really, when it comes down to me and my daughter. Do I want to please mothers who are so much different than me? In the beginning, I thought I did. But they’re not me. I want to share every bit of myself with my daughter and I can’t do that if I’m trying to be someone else.

So I’ll remain who I am. Certainly my daughter won’t mind.

What kind of mother are you?

The case against giving up

By Julie

I have always been afraid of failure, due in part to the fact that I am perfectionist. If I can’t do something perfectly, if I can’t be the best, then why do it at all?

There’s a little fear mixed in with that, too: the fear of being embarrassed.

So why I tried out for volleyball in the 7th grade I’ll never know. Why I joined the church choir and school chorus, why I took art when I couldn’t draw—perhaps there was a part of me that wanted to prove I could do these things, and if I couldn’t, then it wasn’t for me.

Motherhood, on the other hand, was not something I could just “try out” and then give up on. I could never be perfect at it, I’d be embarrassed more times than I could count, and there’s a lot of fear involved in raising a child. I’ve never been so scared in my life.

When I became a mother, I knew I couldn’t give up. I'm not just trying things on for size anymore-- I want my life to mirror my values. I want to set a good example for my daughter.

Thus, If I give up on writing, then I extinguish a dream. If give up on my exercise class, then I stop caring about my well-being. And if I give up on Staff Council, then I lose compassion for my co-workers.

If I give up on things that are important to me, what does that say to my daughter? That she can leave when times get rough? That she can’t persevere? That she can’t follow a dream, even if it is a dream, even if it is one day replaced by another?

I see my perfectionism reflected in my daughter’s personality: the urge to do things just the right way, to have certain objects settled in just the right fashion. However, I hope I’ve also taught her that it’s okay to fail, as long as she gets up and tries again. As long as she doesn’t give up.

How do you handle occasional "failures" as a mother?