Well, duh.  

When was the last time you had to tell a fellow employee to for-God’s-sake stop hitting someone? And when was the last time your boss demanded a cookie — then threw himself on the floor in a temper tantrum when you couldn’t deliver fast enough? And have working mothers ever had project managers, administrative assistants, and account executives to help them schedule soccer practices and make sure the laundry gets done?

Of course it’s easier at work. Relationships are, for the most part, formal…everyone does what they’re hired to do and things run smoothly. You get a paycheck for your contributions. There are defined goals and processes.

On the other hand, when was the last time any of your coworkers threw sticky hands around you, kissed your cheek, and told you that you were the best in the whole world?

Managing a family may not be easy, but it’s far more rewarding. 

I’m sure many of us can laugh and nod our heads sympathetically to this story Lindsay tells in the interview:

“One time I was in the middle of a match in Bali and I looked over and saw my son with his nanny. He had sun on his forehead. I was freaking out on the court. But then I was like, Lindsay, you have to let it go.” 

Check out the whole  story here. 

That’s right. Words like “butt,” “stupid,” and “loser” are considered mild curse words, and Sponge Bob rifles them off multiple times in a half-hour program. 

So, as a self-proclaimed “word nerd,” the NPR program got me wondering: is there some kind of official government agency, some guy in a suit getting paid thousands of taxpayer dollars, to determine which words are swear words?  

I mean, words are words, right? And swear words change from generation to generation. “Shoot” and “shucks” used to be considered vulgar. In the early 1900s, you weren’t supposed to say “Gee” or “Jeepers.” For crying out loud you couldn’t even say “for crying out loud!” — it was a euphemism for Christ. And cover the kids’ ears for this one: “Jiminy cricket” was a no-no in the 1800s. 

According to James O’Connor, the author of the book and the site, Cuss Control, it’s not so much the words as it is the attitude with which they are used. “You will be perceived as more mature, intelligent, articulate, polite, considerate and pleasant if you control your language and the emotions that typically prompt expletives,” he says. “You can choose to have character and class, or be considered rude, crude and crass.”

On the other hand: “There isn’t any other language that does what curse words do — expressing surprise, joy, anger, frustration, at its deepest level,” saysTimothy Jay, a professor of psychology at North Adams State College in Massachusetts and author of four books on obscenity, including “Cursing in America.” 

I went through a swearing phase when I was in the sixth grade, trying to bridge the gap between elementary school and junior high, during which the f-bomb dropped pretty regularly from my lips. It made me feel strong, powerful, grown up, anti-establishment. And I outgrew it by the time I was in high school. Most kids do.  

Bottom line from my perspective? If your kid is using foul language along with a pattern of aggressive behavior, maybe you’ve got a problem. But in most cases, it’s just a way for them to “salt their language.” 

And frankly, I have to agree just a little bit with Professor Jay. As mature, intelligent, and articulate as it is to say, “Please leave me alone right now,” it certainly doesn’t pack the emotional punch of “F-off.”

Not that you’ll ever catch MY kids saying that.

You can find the real version of this WWI-era poster at the Library of Congress. But this one is much more clever. 

Just a few years ago I wouldn’t have even thought about Easter being an environmentally-unfriendly holiday. But last night, as I took out an enormous garbage bag full of annoying Dollar-store toys from Grandma, plastic cellophane wrapping, and that awful green Easter grass that gets all over everything, I promised myself that next year we would just plant flowers for Easter. And use real eggs instead of plastic ones…and paper grass and real wood baskets.

 Ok, I know it’s too late to save Easter this year, but it’s never too late to curb our consumption of Cheap Plastic Crap. You know what I’m talking about: the Happy Meal toys, the rings, tops, balls and other assorted junk that your kids collect from birthday parties and candy vending machines.

 OrganicMania has a great post.

And here’s another great idea: plant some trees with your kids. Both Earth Day (April 22) and Arbor Day (sometime in April, depending on your state) are coming up, so now’s the perfect time to be kind to both. For $10, you can become a member of the National Arbor Day Foundation and they’ll send you 10 free trees picked to grow in your zone. 

Happy spring! 

And (not surprisingly), the group is using the typical 1950s family as its benchmark.

Don’t you think working moms have enough guilt to deal with? Where’s the call for legislation that supports payroll moms?

“You’re four,” I say, grabbing the belt buckles and hiking them up around her middle. “You are absolutely not allowed to wear hip huggers yet.”

She gives me the look—the squinty-eyed, pinched-lip look that says just wait until I’m 16—and when I turn around the jeans “magically” slip back around her hips. At least, that’s what she claims when, a few minutes later, she’s bent over with a crack that would make a 300-pound plumber proud.

I’m still trying to determine if her insistence on low-riding jeans and tacky Disney princess t-shirts is a matter of comfort…or more likely, an indication that her teenage years will involve many days in which I will bite my tongue as long as a majority of her flesh is covered. Already she loves to experiment, mixing and matching skirts, jeans, leggings, tights, tank tops and wool sweaters (and the occasional elbow-length satin gloves or feather boa) with the finesse of a runway designer.

I wasn’t nearly as obsessed with clothing at her age. In fact, I let my mother dictate my style until I was in the sixth grade, when I finally took matters into my own hands by perming my mousey, poker-straight hair and turning it orange with large doses of Sun-In. The only evidence of my experimental phase is a faded Polaroid where I’m flashing the camera a come-hither look in an acid-washed miniskirt, multiple layers of socks in various colors, a pink shirt with the collar flipped up, and a wide swath of blue eye shadow.

Now I tend to stick with the Old Faithfuls of fashion: blue jeans and a black shirt. I love black. My closet, in fact, is a veritable rainbow of black, shades ranging from washing machine-faded to wore-it-once-to-a-wedding. For variety, I also have a few browns and the occasional off-white.

So the morning I come downstairs in my bathrobe, bemoaning the fact that I can’t decide which black shirt to wear with which blue jeans, I know I’m in trouble. I know because my fashion-obsessed daughter has already taken it upon herself to stylize her little sister, and her eyes are sizing me up in hopeful four-year-old expectation.

“How about if I pick out your clothes, mom?” she asks.

Sigh.Only vaguely aware of what I’m getting myself into, I agree to let my little fashionista have her way.

“Really?” she says, with obvious enthusiasm for the challenge.

“Really,” I say—but she’s already halfway up the stairs. How bad can it be? My closet has a pretty basic color palette.

The thing is, she skips the closet altogether because she knows what’s in there: black. And brown. And the occasional off-white. Instead, she opens the drawers to my dresser—that overstuffed collection of God-knows-what—and digs out a pink flowered shirt that I swear I gave to Salvation Army years ago. Delighted with her find, she pairs the shirt with a fringy, green striped skirt that I cannot believe still fits me, and black stiletto sandals. Black does go with everything, after all.

Apparently my jewelry collection is as bland as my closet, because she opts to loan me a dangly, sequined green choker from the dress-up box. The final touch? A hair clip flaunting an enormous butterfly.

She steps back to admire her work as I strut the hallway like a catwalk, and she can barely suppress her excited, little-girl giggle.“Oh,” she says, clasping her hands over her heart like a mother sending her daughter off to the prom.

“Oh. Daddy is going to think you are so beautiful.”

I’m not sure about that, but I do know one thing: I wish I had a Polaroid camera. I haven’t felt this spectacular since the sixth grade.

All that to say — I watched American Idol last week. The one with Gwen Stefani as the guest star. Now, I’m not much of a pop music girl…I’d take Daughtry or Red Hot Chili Peppers any day. But the “hollaback girl” of pop has won a convert. And not so much because I admire her music, but because I admire her.

Why? She’s 37. And she can still get away with wearing a miniskirt. I haven’t worn a skirt above my knees since 1995.And, she’s a mom.

Since I don’t keep up much with pop singers, I was really surprised when the subject of Gwen’s motherhood came up in a meeting at work (don’t even ask how we got from the Chevy Malibu launch to Gwen Stefani). I never would have guessed that the jet-setting, trend-setting, blond-haired diva was ever fat and pregnant (of course, I wouldn’t have guessed that she was 37, either).

Talk about a working mom. She may not be my taste in music and style, but you’ve got to give her credit on working motherhood into her career. That’s actually her son Kingston you can hear crying in her new song Yummy. And as she launches into her world tour, Gwen’s taking baby on the road with her. “It just makes it more fun with him around,” she says, looking impossibly glamourous for a breast-feeding mother. According to Gwen, she’ll be rocking Kingston to sleep every night before rocking the stage.

But Gwen has admitted she loves being a mother so much, she often thinks about walking away from her pop career so she can spend all her time with her child. She said: “It’s all I ever thought about. I would love to just sit at home with Kingston and eat pizza.”Looks like she’s already starting to think about her post-pop career, launching her own fashion label, L.A.M.B. , and talking about a possible baby #2 after her current tour.

More power to you, Gwen. Thanks for reminding us that motherhood can be sexy…and that having a career doesn’t mean you love your kids any less.

A coworker has recommended the international deli at the corner of Fifth and Detroit for lunch. It’s the kind of sophisticated place that, had it been Saturday, and had I been running errands with my three young children in tow, I would have passed up in favor of a place with neon lights and a menu that included french fries. As it is, today is Wednesday and I am free of small, sticky hands.

The bell on the door jingles behind me and I am wrapped in the smell of a Mediterranean village, the smell of meat and cheese and bread and olive oil. For a minute I am taken back to a family trip to Italy, savoring a mid-day lunch at a shady picnic table. The sandwich is unlike anything I have ever tasted. The bread, baked in the outdoor hearth of zia’s house that morning; tomatoes freshly plucked from her rambling valley garden and olive oil pressed by hand.

I have been trying without success for years to recreate the taste of that sandwich with local grocery-store deli products and commercial loaves of pre-sliced bread marked “Italian.” Here, finally—hope. I order a ridiculously-priced pound of sandwich pepperoni, some prosciutto, a chunk of aged provolone, and ask the baker to slice a circular loaf of peasant bread.

While I am waiting, a petite woman with silky dark hair pulled into a low ponytail floats through the door, followed by her near-perfect reflection—a petite, dark-haired young girl of about six or seven. The woman is obviously a regular, waves to the man behind the counter, stops to inspect the day’s selection of breads. Her daughter is at home among the bagels and croissants. She thoughtfully considers this one and that one, eventually settling on a crusty French baguette in a paper bag.

They make their way to the deli counter where I am still waiting for my pepperoni.

“What would you like, dear?” Mother inquires. Daughter scans the deli case and points to a round wheel of cheese with a yellow casing.

“I think l’ossau-iraty, today, please,” she says, with perfect enunciation and manners.

Mother hmmms.

“Are you sure? You usually have the taleggio.”

“Oh, yes. I’m in the mood for something different.”

It is not simply the fact that this bright-eyed young girl can pronounce the names of exotic cheeses that surprises me. It’s that she actually eats them, and apparently on a regular basis, enough to know the difference between a refined French cheese and a chunk of cave-ripened Italian. I imagine how the scene would play out if my six-year-old son were standing next to me at the deli.

“Mom, look! That cheese in there is moldy! Gross! Do they have any chicken nuggets?”

Suddenly, I am painfully aware of all the ways I have failed my children. This mother, with her leather sandals and flawless pedicure, her glycerin-soap smelling skin and organic beauty, shames me. This is the kind of mother who takes her daughter to museums and symphonies. Enrolls her in tennis lessons and music lessons. Cooks a dinner every evening that involves herbs I’ve never heard of and calls for shallots or kumquats. This is the kind of mother who makes sure her daughter’s hair is always brushed and her teeth are always flossed. The kind of mother who takes her daughter to Europe, where she learns to say things like, S’il vous plaît, Monsieur, and grows fond of crusty baguettes and soft cheese.

A twinge of envy settles in my stomach and begins to gnaw. I think of the hurried life of a working mother that keeps me from spending leisurely afternoons in the company of my children. I think of them, dispersed in day-cares and schools, and I heap guilt on top of envy. I wonder if any of my kids could identify a kumquat. I wonder if I could identify a kumquat. I think about racing home at the end of the day, ordering pizza or reheating leftover butter noodles in the microwave. I can’t remember if my daughter’s hair was brushed this morning, never mind her teeth. I cringe at the thought of another vacation to Florida, cringe at my commonness and the mediocrity of my life in suburbia.

The petite woman with the life I envy notices that I am staring so I manage a half-hearted smile. She elbows her daughter, who is waiting for her ossau-iraty, one hip swung out, arms crossed, foot tapping.

“Stand up, for heaven’s sake,” Mother says. “You look like a hooligan all slouched like that.” She rolls her eyes at me, searching my face for a shared sense of indignity about the girl’s poor posture.

The daughter startles and straightens. Drops her hands to her sides. Looks up at me apologetically. I wink, and her lips split into a wide grin, big gaping holes where her bottom teeth should be. Just like my son.

I remember the time last summer when the clouds dumped buckets of water for a whole day and the driveway turned into a giant mud puddle. Kicking off shoes, stripping little ones down to diapers and splashing in the murky water. I remember hiking through the woods in the backyard after a fresh snow, pointing out skinny bird footprints and neat little piles of deer poop. I remember how my son begged me to leave the dishes in the sink one night so I could make popcorn and watch a movie with him. We sunk into a big beanbag chair together and cuddled and laughed while the dinner dishes sat in the sink until the next morning.

The daughter tucks the baguette under her arm and carries the cheese in one hand, waving shyly with the other as her mother ushers her out of the deli. Envy and guilt have been replaced by something else; something like the wistful longing I see in the daughter’s face as she passes the chocolate bars and colorfully-wrapped candies. I ache for her to know something simple and common: bare feet, skinned knees, hanging upside down on the monkey bars.

Later that evening, I assemble sandwiches on the kitchen counter with the peasant bread and expensive deli meats.

“Mom, this is the best sandwich I ever had,” says my son, mouth full of pepperoni.

I almost agree.

“Do you know what a kumquat is?” I ask.

He smiles, waiting for the punch line. “No. Is it a game?”

Soon my two daughters are echoing, I want to play kumquat. Can I play kumquat, too? And suddenly, I am aware of all the ways my children have never failed to show me what matters.

Tonight it begins at 2 a.m. with a sleepy whine and the distant squeak of mattress springs as my three-year-old daughter Emerie tosses and turns in her bedroom across the hall. Within minutes the whine has escalated into a loud whimper, and before I can rub the sleep from my eyes, my name is echoing through the quiet house:

“Maaaaammmmmmaaaaaaa!”

This is the third time tonight that I have to rouse myself from my own Nyquil-induced coma to settle the sniffly toddler back to sleep. I trudge into Emerie’s bedroom, where she is wiping her nose on her pajamas and reaching for me.

Need…you, she says between sobs.

I pick her up, throw her filthy pink blanket over my shoulder and drop into the rocking chair next to the bed. She curls her arm around my neck and nestles into my shoulder, tiny mouth propped open and eyes still wet with tears and bad dreams. She smells like drool and coconut shampoo, and I bury my face in her mop of brown curls and breathe deeply. I hate it when my kids are sick, but I absolutely love moments like this—moments when I am the only person in her world that can make things better, moments when something as small as the smell of her hair can make my heart feel full.

Need you, too, I whisper, as we drift off to sleep.