Crocs: Why I hate them and bought them anyway

Hate is an ugly word. It's a nasty, 4-letter word I strive to keep out of my vocabulary and out of my house. But I warn you, I am about to use the "h" word as there's just no other way to express how I feel about this particular topic. Because I hate Crocs. Really and truly I do. And it's that time of year when sure as dandelions are popping up on my lawn, those ugly, clunky plastic shoes are popping up. Everywhere.

I remember when Crocs first hit the mainstream several years back. "Shoes with holes?" I thought. Who would wear these? What kind of person would purposely make their foot resemble a duck-billed platypus? This trend won't last, I predicted. You probably shouldn't take my stock tips, either.

Today Crocs are everywhere, they've become as acceptable in our sloppy new world as PJ pants at the grocery store. Men wear them, women wear them (a red flag right there- unisex shoes?), and it seems like every child in America wears them. And of course they must be accessorized with those little knick-knacky "Jibbitz" things. And if that wasn't enough personalization for you, the folks at Crocs have come up with an assortment of products to fit every facet of your life. Holiday-themed Crocs for those festive celebrations. College logo Crocs to honor your alma mater. Nice warm fur-lined Crocs for winter. Hey Crocs people, I have news for you: shoes for winter already exist, and we call them boots.

A few years back my Croc-wearing in-laws gave my husband a pair for his birthday. I'm not sure if this was intended to be a gag gift or not, but it did certainly make me want to gag. The offensive footwear was quickly removed to an undisclosed location.

Recently a Croc-o-philic relative (who also happens to be a lawyer) argued in defense of the plastic shoes that they should be considered a sandal alternative, and thus should be tolerated if worn to places where sandals would be appropriate. Perhaps if Crocs had stayed at the park and the playground I wouldn't have such an issue with them. But those nasty plastic things have shown up in offices, at "nicer" restaurants, and even (may the good Lord have mercy on your soles) at church.

Given my strong feelings about Crocs you might find it odd, perhaps even hypocritical, to hear that I recently purchased a pair for my son.

Not actual Crocs, as I am far too cheap for that, but Target's in-house brand of Colorful, Ridiculous And Plastic Slip-On Shoes (we'll call them CRAPSS for short).

It was partly a move born out of potty training, which has made me see the potential merits of a hose-friendly shoe. It was partly because my almost 3-year-old son has entered the "I Can Do It ALL BY MYSELF" phase, and while he can in fact put on regular shoes by himself, it requires setting aside 45 minutes to accomplish. But it was mostly because while walking past the rack of CRAPSS my sweet little boy yelled out "Mommy! Look at those shoes!!" and rattled off the names of all his CRAPSS-wearing friends. "Aidan has those shoes and Carter has those shoes and James has those shoes and Sophie has those shoes and Nicholas has those shoes!" Yes, at the tender age of 2.5 I found myself dealing with my child's first case of "I want what everyone else has" and I caved.

I have memories of waging this war with my own parents (remember Jelly Shoes?), having grown up in a brand-obsessed suburb of Detroit. As a result I can't stand the sight of anything with an obvious logo emblazoned upon it. Burberry plaid makes me dizzy. Louis Vitton emblem-covered bags? Gross. I've spent 3 years trying to convince a well-meaning grandparent that the designer clothes she insists on buying for my toddler (hint: they feature a man on horseback playing a game with a stick) are neither well-made, well-fitting, nor well-worth the ridiculous cost.

Now I'm staring at these silly shoes and wondering what happened to my resolve. It's just one pair of bright blue shoes but with that $9.99 purchase I know we've entered new territory: a minefield where peer pressure threatens to explode with every step. How do you know where to draw the line? Of course we all want our children to be happy and well-adjusted. But how do we teach them in an increasingly consumer-driven, materialistic world to value what truly matters? Which battles are worth fighting and which ones don't hold water any better than a plastic shoe with holes?

Parenting is full of tough decisions and every single one, no matter how big or small, whether a matter of the heart or the foot, comes with consequences. If anyone tells you otherwise... well, it's a crock.

Not Fitting In: A lesson from the kitchen table

Step into my kitchen and you will always find fresh flowers on the table. If not fresh flowers, then a seasonally appropriate piece of decor. As Oprah says, your home should "rise up and meet you" and that's just the sort of person I am : a Fresh Flowers Or Seasonal Decor On The Kitchen Table kind of girl.

Oh, who am I kidding? I have to stick something on the table because there's a hole in the middle of it. It's a big, round hole that's intended to hold an umbrella. Because you see, my kitchen table is not actually a kitchen table. It was designed to live out its life on a patio (hence the umbrella hole) but we saw it in the store and thought it was too pretty to brave the elements, so we rescued it and brought it inside. Hole and all.

The hole isn't the only issue. We weren't quite as exacting as we should have been with measurements, so the table is a tad bit too large for the space. Once you sit down you'd better make yourself comfortable because you're pretty much trapped. And of course, because it's an outdoor table of an irregular size, no standard tablecloth will ever fit. But despite its flaws, I love my outdoor table brought inside. It's sturdy, durable, and different, hole and all. And somehow, it reminds me of myself.

Not fitting in has fit me perfectly for most of my life. I think it's a feeling most children of immigrants can relate to: you grow up with one foot in each world, never feeling completely steady in your stance. As a child I felt out of place among the blue-eyed, peanut butter eating masses at school, but still never completely at home in my own home. I was too young, too immature to embrace what made our family different, and though I loved the familiarity of my parents' native tongue, the customs and traditions they brought from Egypt, I feared fully embracing them would separate me even further from the seemingly perfect American experience I thought I craved. Who was I, anyway? An outdoor table brought inside.

And that was just the beginning. In an uber-successful family of doctors, nurses, lawyers, I was the one with Career ADD, flitting from one profession to the next every few years, searching for that perfect fit. And once I finally found the work I loved doing, I still couldn't find a way to make it work for my life. You can bring an outdoor table inside, but you can't always make it fit.

Now we find ourselves living in a sea of manicured lawns and pedicured toes. A place where candle parties are a way of life and stay at home moms rule the roost. At times I love the serenity and peace of our tranquil neighborhood, and at times it makes me want to put on a multi-colored wig and run screaming down the cul-de-sac at 3am. In this neighborhood of freshly starched tablecloths and perfect place settings, I sometimes find myself feeling like the outdoor table that was left uncovered all winter and finally brought inside only to make a big, muddy mess all over the floor. Yet another place I don't quite fit in, but the good news is, I don't really care.

Because somewhere along the way something happened. Somewhere between all the years in school, the different jobs, the different cities, the different countries, I filled up that hole in my table. Filled it up with a mixture of equal parts self-awareness, pride and inner strength. And not long after that I met the sweetest man with floppy brown hair. Together we made two beautiful children who remind me every day with their goofy giggles and joyful souls that we fit together perfectly as a family. And that maybe, just maybe, I did something right.

Now as I watch them grow, part of me hopes they will have an easier time fitting in than I did, because I hate the thought of them going through even a moment of angst. But I also know there's tremendous power in being able to stand out from the herd, and that the path of greater resistance is well worth the effort. So as we sit somewhat awkwardly around our too-big, too bulky, outside table brought inside, I run my fingers over every crack and bump and give thanks, knowing there's no place I'd rather be. And I say a silent prayer that my children will always know that this is where they fit. That they are lovely, that they are loved. Holes and all. Inside and out.

Cupcakes and jobs: facing tough decisions as a parent

Funny how life can turn on a dime. Or a word. Or a cupcake.

In my last post I wrote about embracing the here and now. I had one of those breakthrough moments where I realized I was shortchanging myself and my family by living in the past, I was wasting too much energy lamenting over where I wasn't in my life. I pledged to accept the hand that life had dealt, to cherish the opportunity I've been given to be home with my two young children. I vowed to look for possibilities instead of problems. I tried to think about all I could accomplish during this hiatus from full-time work: I'd try one new recipe every week. I'd become the sort of person who used "scrapbook" as a verb. Maybe I would even learn the secret ways of the Local Ladies Who Lunch and not feel like such an outcast in my own neighborhood. I walked around repeating a new mantra to myself: Now is my friend. Now is good. Now can be great!

It lasted about a week.

Then along came the cupcakes. They were my idea, so I take the blame. You see, I was just trying to fill that time of day I've come to know as the witching hour: the post-afternoon nap, pre-dinner, dad's not home from yet, I can't get a (*&^ thing done stretch from roughly 4-6pm. My little boy was restless, bored with his vast array of toys and the weather was lousy. A teething baby had been using me as a chew toy and my aching arms (as well as other body parts) just needed a break. So I put her in the highchair with some Cheerios and said the magic words to my son: "Let's make cupcakes!"

So we measured and we mixed and 22 minutes later it was a beautiful thing to behold: frosted deliciousness wrapped in a tiny paper liner. My sweet little boy turned to me with sprinkles still clinging to his chunky fingers and asked the magic question: "Mama, can I eat one?"

"Not now," I told him. "You can have one after dinner."

Even before I finished saying it, I could see his little chin start to quiver, the tears welling up in those blue-green eyes. Cue the massive meltdown in 3, 2, 1....

What was I thinking? "Not now?" A toddler's whole world is now. Later, tomorrow, 3 weeks from Tuesday... these are concepts that don't quite register with a 2.5 year old. I might as well have told him "Not ever," because all he could wrap his mind around was the fact there was a cupcake on the counter, a cupcake he had slaved over (OK, Betty Crocker slaved over it, but he had helped), so close he could drool over it (and probably did) and it was somehow forbidden?

So there I stood in the kitchen, faced with a tough choice: stand my ground and preserve some hope that dinner would be eaten, or let him eat the cupcake and put an end to the tantrum. Maybe it wasn't the best decision, but I chose the path of least resistance, the one covered in sprinkles. He grinned, grabbed the cupcake and buried his face in the frosting. Crisis averted.

But it's never that simple, because who wants to stop with just one cupcake? So of course he turned to me with frosting still oozing from his mouth, cheeks still stuffed, looking like a rabid chipmunk and begged for another. But this time, I stood firm: "No. Not now." Back came the tears, the balled up fists, the stomping feet. "Not now" is not fun.

Later that same night I came to know exactly how he felt. Once both kids were asleep I settled in to do a little bit of writing. OK, maybe just a quick hello to my 635 Facebook friends, then a little writing. Right after just the teensiest little bit of email, I'll do some writing.

Except that someone had sent me a cupcake. Not an actual cupcake (although if there is a way to receive baked goods via email, someone please tell me how to make it happen), but my very own seemingly forbidden fruit. It was a job posting for the one position I wanted, at the one place I'd always hoped to work. Here I was, trying so hard to commit myself to staying home with my kids, a decision I'm pretty sure is the right one right now, and along comes a cupcake. What to do?

Eating the cupcake (applying for the job) would mean a potentially huge stomachache: daycare, commuting, a demanding schedule, being away from my husband and kids, missing out on so much personally. Is it worth the pain? I have a good situation "sans" cupcake: I recognize that we are blessed to be in a position where financially I don't have to work full-time. And working a few nights/week at a local radio station helps bring some escape from 24-7 Mommyville. Could I really handle an entire cupcake at this point?

But not being able to eat the cupcake is, pardon the pun, no piece of cake: I crave the life I left behind, feel like I'm missing out on so much professionally. A cupcake like this doesn't come along very often. My stimulation-challenged brain shouted "Eat the cupcake, already!" while my heart screamed "Not now!"

Not now is definitely not fun.

So what's a girl to do? Eat the cupcake or put it back on the shelf? It's times like these I wish I had someone to make the decisions for me. Someone to tame my internal tantrum and set me straight. Someone to help me sort out "now" from "not now." But I'm a big girl, and this is part of growing up. I'll just have to think it over, pray for clarity, and figure out if this is my time to take a bite.

Mona Shand is the mother of 2 and a local news reporter who loves cupcakes.

How a tea kettle changed my view of motherhood

Must. Have. Tea. These are the only 3 words my sleep-deprived, mommy-fied brain can process in the morning. For the record, it's decaf, and it's also in my genes. Because if there's one thing Egyptians know really well, it's the importance a good cup of tea. It's a culture where tea begins and ends the day. Tea is the only civilized way to greet a guest, begin a friendship or end a meal. I'm pretty sure there are hieroglyphs that depict our pyramid-building ancestors taking daily tea breaks around 10am. Stomachache? Try tea with mint. Rough day at work? Tea with milk. Really rough day at work? Tea with whatever you have in the liquor cabinet.

It's the one beverage that's thicker than blood or water. Just ask my completely non-Egyptian husband who knew he'd been granted the green light to propose when my dad, after a long silent pause, finally turned toward him and popped the ultimate question:

"Mark, would you like a cup of tea?"

So it's only fitting I got a major wake up call from my morning tea. Or my tea kettle, to be exact.

Electric tea kettle #1 was a wedding shower gift and after nearly 7 years of speedily brewing my morning, afternoon and evening delight it one day died a peaceful death. So I invested in a new shiny stainless steel number. So shiny you can see yourself in it. And that's exactly what happened.

I came downstairs that first morning of the New Kettle Era and began my usual routine, which mainly involves impatiently watching water boil. But somewhere between the Lipton bag and the Splenda packet I caught a glimpse of myself in the side of the kettle and here's what I saw: an angry face. A tense face. A face that looked defeated. It wasn't so much the dark circles under the eyes but the sadness inside them that took me most by surprise. Was that really me? Was that the face that greeted my family each morning?

It's been nearly 10 months since I left my job to stay home with my kids. It was the decision so many women before me have faced: the emotional and financial cost of putting two kids in daycare was just too much to pay. And don't get me wrong, I adore my children. I love the sight, love the sound, want to inhale the sweet smell of their skin. But there is a loneliness and isolation to daily life with little ones that can at times feel suffocating. The constant doing and undoing of laundry, the making and unmaking of messes. By the time my husband comes home the best I have to offer is a brief State of the Household address: an exciting summary of who did and did not poop.

"Just make friends with other moms," I've been told. Well here's a newsflash- not every mom out there wants to be your friend, by mere virtue of the fact that you both have children. Sometimes the mean girls from middle school grow up and grow out of it, and sometimes they just grow up and host Bunco night. So (partly by choice) most days the only adult I interact with is the Target cashier, and even she seems a little bored with me. I miss my old life, I miss my old self.

It's enough to make a person angry, even if that person doesn't realize it until she sees it reflected back in a tea kettle. But it's slowly become clear: I've been fighting the Mommy Wars with myself, and I'm losing the battle.

So it's time to lay down my weapons; I am officially giving up the internal fight. It's high time I accept where I am, accept that this is who I am right now. It is often difficult, it is frequently lonely, but it's also what I know deep down to be right. These are my current circumstances, and I can't change them until I fully acknowledge what they are. My family doesn't deserve angry eyes, and neither do I.

So please join me and my morning tea for a toast: Here's to drinking in what life offers us in the here and now. Here's to sipping on what we've been given, and savoring what it is instead of wishing it were something else. Let's stop worrying about whether the tea cup is half-empty or half-full and just taste what's inside.

Cheers to now.

A Travel Adventure

My first mistake was thinking it would be easy.

A long weekend in Chicago- how tough could that be? Yes, we'd be traveling with 2 kids under age 3, but this is Chicago we're talking about! We've taken them across international waters. Surely we can take them round the corner of Lake Michigan. Chicago is familiar territory- home (well, Evanston anyway) to my alma mater Northwestern University, not to mention home to my brother and his family. Chicago is close! Chicago is fun! Chicago is my kind of town.

And we'd be taking the train! A dream come true for my sweet little boy, who counts Thomas (and Percy and Edward and Henry and James et al.) among his nearest and dearest friends. His first train ride! We talked about it for weeks; how he'd hear the engine's whistle, feel the rattle of the rails. How not only would he be riding on a bona fide, actual train, he'd be riding it with his grandparents! My mom and dad would be joining us for the trip, as my little boy frequently told anyone who would listen. He had it all planned out: he'd sit on Gido's (translation: Grandpa's) lap and Teta (my mom) would read him stories. What fun!

Except that my parents missed the train.

Never mind, time to regroup, dry one disappointed little boy's eyes and move on. My parents promised they'd find a way to make it to Chicago, and we were still on a train- a TRAIN! What fun! My little Choo Choo was hot with excitement. A little too hot. Like feverish. And maybe just a tiny bit stuffy...

Time for travel triage. From the depths of the diaper bag we dug out the Children's Tylenol and the digital thermometer (yes, I travel with one) and prayed for the best.

By Kalamazoo his temperature hit triple digits.

The Indiana state line brought us to 104. It's a nice number if Willard Scott is wishing you happy birthday, but a very ugly one when it comes off your child's forehead. I held him tight and prayed for cool.

And so the child who never sits still and is obsessed with trains spent his very first train ride dozing in and out of a fitful sleep, fever raging inside.

We arrived in Chicago, did not pass go, and went directly to Urgent Care. 4 hours later ("Urgent" is apparently a relative term) we had a not surprising but comforting diagnosis: a bad cold. And thanks to the miraculous healing power of the waiting room (and a dose of Motrin) he was already feeling a bit better. Back to our regularly scheduled family visit! Time to introduce Noah and his sister to their cousin! Family bonding time! What fun!

Except that it turns out my son is terrified of dogs. Namely my brother's sweet, docile, slightly dopey French bulldog. To Noah she was Terror Wrapped In Fur. He shrieked like a madman the minute she approached and didn't stop until.... well, he just didn't stop.

Surely he'd feel better in the morning. A nice warm bath, comfy jammies and bed would do the trick. I'd tuck him in with his beloved Thomas the Tank Engine blanket and his stuffed bunnies and pray for morning.

Except that I forgot to pack his bunnies.

And when he raised his hot little head off the mattress to ask for them, he wasn't the only one with tears in his eyes.

We were both exhausted and I had failed. Failed to expect the unexpected, failed to prepare for the worst, failed to provide the security and comfort he needed.

I made up a story about the bunnies watching over our house, offered a stuffed penguin as a surrogate, skulked out of the room and prayed for forgiveness.

The weekend definitely improved after that; the fever broke, we all enjoyed our together, Noah and the dog negotiated a temporary truce.

Traveling with little ones will never be easy, but it is almost always worth the effort. Even a quick trip reminds us and teaches our kids that the world is bigger than the small circle we tend to travel in, that our way of life isn't the only one. My kids got their first glimpse at a big city, played with cousins they'd never met, brought smiles to grandparents, uncles and aunts.

We got back on the train, weary from the experience and glad to be homeward bound. Just an easy ride and we'd be there. I kissed my little boy as he gazed wide-eyed out the window, calling "Toot Toot" each time the engine whistled, finally feeling the rattle of the rails. For the first time in 3 days I felt myself relax, and dared to exhale as I held my baby girl in my lap.

A baby who felt a little warm, and maybe just a tiny bit stuffy....

Finding myself on an airplane

"Flight attendants prepare for takeoff."

They're not exactly the most poignant words, and I've never had a fear of flying, so why was I sitting on the runway with tears streaming down my cheeks?

It had little to do with sadness at the thought of leaving my husband and little boy at home. I was only going for a long weekend and though I'd miss them dearly, a few days away can go a long way toward recharging the batteries. Especially when the batteries are constantly being drained by an extremely energetic (is there any other kind?) toddler with a penchant for being chased in circles. All day long. So it wasn't that.

It wasn't really the fear of traveling solo with a baby. By the time the pilot uttered those words, the hardest part was over. We had arrived at the airport the recommended 3 hours in advance, lugged the suitcase, stroller and diaper bag from the parking lot to the gate, paid all the necessary and unnecessary fees, stripped down as requested by the TSA (did you know even a 7-month old baby must take off her shoes?), and made it onto the plane. So it wasn't that, either.

It took me a few minutes to figure it out, but when I did I realized I wasn't sad at all. They were tears of happiness. Because for the first time in nearly three years, I finally felt like myself.

Travel has always been a huge part of my life, especially solo travel. There's just always been something so satisfying about throwing clothes in a bag and taking off...alone. Backpacking through Europe? You bet. Crossing the Australian Outback? Absolutely. I even made travel my career for several years, working for both Air France and Club Med resorts.

But then along came baby... and another baby... and it's never quite been the same. It's not that we stopped traveling. Both kids have passports and have already logged their share of frequent flier miles. But we've always traveled together as an entire family. And with so much luggage. Strollers, diapers, toys, bags of this and that. Even up at 35,000 feet, I felt so heavy, so weighed down. So afraid that I might not make it through the day, much less an entire trip, without the essential gear. Like my tenuous grasp on motherhood might somehow fly right out the window the moment we left solid ground.

Becoming a mother isn't an instant process, it doesn't just "happen" the minute the doctor puts that wriggling mass in your arms. It happens slowly, while rocking a sick baby back to sleep at 3am. It happens boldly, when you snap open a stroller with one hand while balancing a baby, a bag of groceries and a stuffed cow in the other. It happens silently, when you and your child exchange a knowing glance that turns to giggles in the rearview mirror. Sometimes it even happens on an airplane.

I didn't accomplish any great task, I just got on a plane and took a flight. But it was enough. Enough to make me realize the things that used to make me happy still can. I can be a parent and I can still be me. It's all part of the new person I'm becoming. It's beginning to happen.

And one day, I know I'll fly again.

Questions in the aftermath of the earthquake

It's hard to believe, but one month ago today we were standing just a few hundred miles from Port-au-Prince, Haiti. We spent a blissful week vacationing in the Dominican Republic, enjoying sun, sand and surf at the beautiful Club Med Punta Cana. Now, much of the Haiti has become a makeshift refugee camp. Dominican hospitals and hotels are packed to the brim with the injured from the disastrous earthquake in neighboring Haiti, and like so many, I find it hard to look away.

Any decent (and even not-so-decent) news reporter must quickly acquire the ability to separate his/herself from the story, as it's the only way to survive witnessing the countless tragedies the job entails. But sadly, I have found that separation often continues when I am not covering, but merely watching news unfold. It's hard to admit, but in the immediate aftermath of the earthquake I found myself watching through somewhat callous news eyes. Instead of really "seeing" what was happening, I was focused on analyzing the coverage. "How many reporters are heading down there?" I wondered? Where were they staying? How hard was it to edit and feed back a story in those conditions?

And then I saw her.

I don't know her name or her age, or really anything about her. I only saw a glimpse as a camera panned across one of countless villages now reduced to rubble. She stood on top of what once was a roof, perhaps her own, her back to the camera. On her hip she held an infant, a baby covered in dust, wearing tattered clothes and sucking his thumb, his face poking out over her shoulder. Another child pulled at her hand- a toddler, perhaps 2 or 3 years old, kicking stones with his bare, dirty feet. It took that simple image: two young children doing what all children do, doing what MY children do, their mother holding them like all mothers do, holding them like I do, to jar me out of news reporter mode and back into humanity. The tears haven't stopped coming ever since.

The feelings of helplessness in the wake of such suffering can be paralyzing. My oldest child is just 2.5, far too young to understand what is happening in Haiti. In his little world, a "disaster" occurs when his Thomas the Tank Engine has disappeared (which is really not cause for concern in my little world). So before bedtime we just try to help him say a prayer for those who lost their homes ("But Mama, why can't they find them?") and those who are hurt ("Do they need a kiss to make it better?"). We will do what we can to support the relief effort through the Red Cross. Thursday night a local family originally from Haiti will hold a fundraiser (you'll find more information here) to support the George Stines Foundation, which operates medical and dental clinics in Haiti. For those with older children, ABC news has compiled this list of resources for talking to kids about the earthquake. But it's my own questions

It's hard not to wonder why this particular disaster had to happen on that particular island given the already near desperate conditions prior to the earthquake. At night when I close my eyes I see that woman holding her two children and can't help but wonder why, despite the threads of humanity that make us similar, our lives turned out so differently. How is it fair that I sit with my two kids in my too nice house full of too much stuff, a spectator to her suffering? What will happen to her and the rest of the people of Haiti when the news crews pack up and leave, off to chase the next breaking story? Will our hearts and wallets remain open once the headlines fade? What more can we do to help, what should we have been doing before this even happened? There are no easy answers, but I'll start by holding my kids a little closer, and give thanks the only trembling in our lives is that of my own hands.