Husband and I were of the opinion that Halloween with two kids of trick-or-treating age would not be busy enough. Together, we brainstormed what to do to add a little something-something to the candy corn chaos. And then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit us. A birthday party. What’s better than sugar-soaked mayhem coated with sugar-soaked mayhem? Yum. So, we were on it. Baby’s first birthday party on Halloween morning. Genius. Utter genius. Right.

All we did was invite twenty odd kids aged 0-12 right around universal Nap Time, instruct them to wear costumes and come ready to ingest mass quantities of sugar and to rock and roll. Rock and roll? Yes. That’s right. For all you non-Manhattan folk, we city crazies hire kiddie crooners to play while parents sweat and toddlers shimmy and babies cry and play with plastic straws.

There were just a few things to remember: the cliched “I’m One” pink fluffy party hat, plenty of pizza, and one hundred orange and black balloons.

Obviously, the birthday girl had to have the perfect little costume. For many months, per her big sis, she was to be a black bat. Two days ago, I started negotiations with Toddler, explaining that I didn’t want all of Baby’s first birthday party pictures to be of her in an unimpressive piece of black felt. Toddler, sweet Toddler, permitted her baby sis to be a piglet. Victory. What a cute little piggy she was.

Our little piggy was decidedly unfazed by the crowd and the noise and the toasty pig hat on this unseasonably warm day. She toddled about, dancing among the big kids, rolling her little arms to “Wheels on the Bus,” sneaking stray candy corns from the hard wood floors.

She looked on in awe as her big sis, the fancy jaguar, got her groove on in the middle of our living room. One day, Baby. One day.

And just as all of the kids began to melt, we presented the cake. A big old candy corn for our little one-year-old. I held a piglet on one hip and a jaguar on the other as we all sang Happy Birthday.

And then we all ate cake. (And some of us smeared it all over ourselves and the floor because that’s way more fun.)

And then it was time to say goodbye. To squeeze naps in before Halloween festivities. Before letting our little friends leave, we plied them with the very child-appropriate favors below, on which very few small children are likely to choke.

It’s been a good day. A sweet day. I like this two-for-one holiday thing. It causes almost no stress at all. I’m thinking maybe we should have Toddler’s birthday party on Christmas. We can have a candy cane cake, red and green balloons, and give out little stockings stuffed with very holiday-appropriate chokable items. Hmmm…

Okay, signing off to stuff the kiddos in their costumes once more and trick or treat. Happy Halloween!

For Toddler, Halloween festivities began this morning. Within minutes of waking up, she was transformed into her very favorite animal – a super cool jaguar – feather collar, feather-lined skirt, long black tail, jaguar ears. Her smile was vast as she danced around, sneaking bites of breakfast and chasing her little sister. When the time came, we hopped on the bus. She sat there next to me for the ride, well-behaved and quiet.

We walked into school, into a rainbow sea of little people prancing around in amazingly inventive costumes. We made our way to her classroom. This morning, we parents lingered a bit longer, snapping pictures of our kids on this big day. I got some good pictures and some very blurry ones because the kids were moving around so fast. I hung back, chatting with fellow moms and dads, watching the kids suss each other out and play. I was happy to be there, to witness this celebratory morning.

But then.

I looked over and Toddler was crying. Hard. Her sweet face was crumpled. I picked her up and kissed her cheeks. I wiped away her tears. I asked her if she was okay. Apparently, this had happened earlier this week too. Toddler nodded and wiped her eyes on my jacket. I straightened her jaguar ears and pushed damp hair away from her eyes. I told her it was a fun day. That she would have fun with her friends. I placed her down again and slowly she rejoined her classmates for a class picture. But then. Then it happened again. She melted. A puddle of tears. Her wonderful teacher scooped her up and carried her to me. I held her. I hugged her. Even harder this time. I asked what was the matter, but she wept silently into my chest. I asked if she felt sick. She didn’t answer. I asked if she was sad. No response. Again, I told her that the day would be great fun. That she would run around and get candy with her friends. I put her down again. This time, she joined her buddies on line to head to gym class. She was quiet, but she seemed okay.

One by one, these little creatures trooped out of the classroom in a civilized line. Toddler followed suit. She seemed okay. I hung back, my heart a tiny bit broken, watching her go. I hung back because I had to and because I know she is okay and I need to let her work these things out on her own. I know that she is okay. She is.

But. I feel a bit sad and a bit sick. And, yes, I tend to get a bit worked up about very normal things that happen to everyone. I know that you are probably reading this and saying, Your child cried. Get over it. She’s fine. I am saying these things to myself as I type this. I am. But still. I wish I were there with her, back at school, the school she loves, in her own little world, watching from the sidelines to make sure her smile is back. I wish I could know why she cried this morning and the other day, but I know I don’t need to know this. People cry all of the time for no reason. I cry sometimes for no reason. Two-year-olds cry often for no reason. It’s just that my two-year-old doesn’t cry too often and never at school. So I worry that there is a reason and that as her mother I should know what it is. Maybe she was carsick from the bus. Maybe she was overwhelmed by all the parents in the classroom. Maybe something happened the other day with a friend. Maybe she is sad that her sister is getting so big and so bold. Maybe she is having delayed issues with separation. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

I don’t know. And I won’t. I do know that the plan was to sit down and keep my promises and fill you in on our home renovation and I simply couldn’t do it. No. I couldn’t sit here talking about the layout of our future dining room and whether we should swap the coat closet and the pantry, when all I can think of is jaguar tears. Tears that have fallen and already dried. Tears that will no doubt fall again. And dry once more. Tears that tug every ounce of me now as I sit at a Starbucks not far from school, pretending all is cool, waiting desperately for the hours to pass so I can log off and pack up and go see my girl.

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What do you do when someone you love is upset and you can’t figure out why?

I’ve said this before, but one of my very favorite aspects of blogging is the enlightening conversations it has facilitated with other authors and bloggers. One such author/blogger/financial industry exec/mother force? Shari Storm. Shari is the author of the recently-published book Motherhood Is the New MBA and also manages to find time to blog.

Shari was kind enough to answer some of my questions. I trust that you will agree with me that her answers are both insightful and intriguing. Enjoy!

Not only are you the author of the new book, Motherhood Is the New MBA , you have two MBAs – one MBA from Seattle University and your “Motherhood MBA.” How do the two work together to make you a better business person and also a better mother?

Shari: My university degree taught me invaluable lessons about business theory. A mentor of mine from my early 20’s told me to make sure I got a solid education in accounting, statistics and economics. That was great advice for a liberal arts, marketing person, like me.

But what my Motherhood MBA is teaching me is how to think on my feet.  One of my favorite quotes is “You don’t know negotiation until you’ve got two kids and one piece of toffee.” It’s so true! Raising children exercises that part of your brain that makes decisions quickly.

Working moms are often faced with feelings of inadequacy–from not giving enough hours at the office to not spending enough time with the kids, not to mention getting any time to themselves or with their partners. And yet, you’ve written that there is such a think as work-life balance. What is the most important thing a working mom can do to be “balanced?”

Shari: I think moms are far too hard on themselves. Society has set unrealistic expectations for our performance at the office and at home. I mean, you look at some of the things we do with our kids now-a-days that our mothers and our grandmothers wouldn’t have dreamt of doing.  Our moms were not afraid to let us be bored. They would tell us to go out and play in the yard. Today, we over-schedule and over-organize our lives. And moms bear the brunt of this in exhaustion and feelings of perpetual inadequacy.

I think the most important thing a working mom can do to be balanced is to believe she is balanced. In other words, telling herself she is doing a fine job, even if her kids aren’t in as many activities as other kids and even if she leaves the office earlier than her childless counterparts. Oh, and don’t listen to folks like Jack Welch.

Sometimes it seems as though there are two camps of women–the working moms and the stay-at-home-moms. How is your advice relevant for someone who is not in a traditional 9 to 5 job but still a mother?

Shari: In this economy, stay-at-home-moms are returning to the work place in record numbers (as their husbands get laid off) Conversely many working moms are returning to the stay-at-home role as they’ve been laid off. We are witnessing a great migration of roles. I hope all moms find that the time they spend with their children is never a professional liability. The lessons we learn from raising kids are lessons that make us better career women.

I have noticed that there are some mothers who act like they are CEOs of their families. They schedule classes and playdates like they are board meetings and conference calls. They adhere (or try to adhere) to rigid rules. In my estimation, nurturing a family is profoundly different than nurturing a business. Do you agree?

Shari: I think sometimes people forget that a business is really just a bunch of people. And whether we like the idea or not, people need nurturing to be their best performers.

My whole career, I’ve heard sports analogies when it comes to business and I’ve heard war analogies when it comes to business. I believe there is room for a metaphor that includes a more caring, encouraging framework – like the family.

Having said that, employees, like kids, want an environment that is predictable and safe. They want the people in charge of them to be consistent, fair and honest and they want to clearly understand expectations and consequences.

Personally, I found that having a child made me more creative and ambitious. Perhaps this is so because I suddenly felt compelled to set a strong example for my children? Did you feel this way?

Shari: Ah! I am so glad you asked this question. I love it. YES! I found I was tremendously more creative and that I had a lot more energy for all sorts of things. You must read the phenomenal book by Pulitzer Prize winner Katherine Ellison called The Mommy Brain: How Motherhood Makes Us Smarter. She provides scientific backing to the idea that raising kids makes us braver, more cunning and better able to handle stressful situations.

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Thank you, Shari! Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions and to share your well-honed instincts and insights on important questions about navigating the overlapping worlds of parenthood and career.

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Do you agree with Shari’s basic premise that parenthood sharpens our business or professional skills? Do you agree that we modern parents are often too hard on ourselves? Do you agree that believing we are balanced is an important part of being balanced? Do you believe that balance exists, or do you think it is an ephemeral ideal that will consistently elude us?

There is something about sisters. Sisters are friends and confidantes and comrades. Sisters talk and listen and fight and compete. Sisters hold hands, literal and metaphorical, through life. Sisters share stories and clothes and wine and parenting tips. Sisters look like each other, but also very different. Sisters have conversations, silly and honest and deep and slippery. Conversations that sustain.

One of my very favorite blogs to read is written by sisters. I love to read the alternating and wonderful words of two women who grew up in the same home and in the same family and who now have their own homes and families. I am the middle of five sisters and I hope that one or more of my sisters contributes, in some way, to this blog someday. I would love that.

Yesterday, something amazing happened. Something deceptively simple. Something I feel compelled to share. It was early evening. I was home with the girls. We were all in the living room waiting for Husband to come home. I was multi-tasking. I was on the phone with my older sister. Toddler sat on the couch and I placed a bowl of microwaved Alphatots in front of her (mother of the year for sure). I told her to be careful because they were hot. Baby walked over and reached for the bowl. Instead of pulling her tiny hand away from the bowl in an effort to protect, I hung back and kept chatting with my sister on my cell. I watched. And listened.

Toddler looked at her baby sister. She watched as her baby sister grabbed a letter. And then she said something. “Be careful. Those are very hot.”

Baby, ever the diminutive dare-devil, stuffed the letter in her mouth.

Toddler looked at her and said, “Those letters are very hot. Are you okay? Are you okay?”

Baby chewed, her round cheeks jiggling. She looked up at her big sister, blue eyes bright. And then she nodded. And answered her sister’s question. “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.”

At this, Toddler nodded too. “Okay then.” And then she held out the bowl to offer Baby some more.

Their very first sisterly conversation. Words exchanged. Understanding palpable.

And all of this transpired while I was on the phone with my own sister. This might not seem like a big deal to you. But to me, it was big. To me, it was symbolic and sweet and something worth memorializing; That while I chatted with my big sis, my little girls chatted with each other. They did not just share. They shared words. They communicated. They had their first conversation. The first of so many.

Maybe I am crazy to do this, but in moments like these I flash forward. To the distant future. I imagine these two creatures, these baby girls, many years down the line. As high schoolers. I imagine them sitting there at the dining table, exasperated after a long day of learning, complaining about homework, or maybe each other. I imagine them bickering sweetly and effortlessly like sisters so often do.

And I imagine interrupting them, snapping them out of their sister zone. I imagine telling them about one evening in late October of 2009 when they were both very little. You had your very first conversation about a bowl of steaming hot microwave letters. At hearing this, I imagine them smiling at me and each other. And then, if they are anything like my sisters and I were, they will probably roll their eyes and one of them will probably say something like, “Oh, Mom, you didn’t cook back then either?” And at the rolled eyes, and sassy words, and threadbare memories, and timely truth, I would smile proudly.

Cheers to first words and to first conversations. Cheers to sisters, big and little and middle, now and later and always.

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Do you agree that there is something special about sisters? Do you remember particular conversations with your sister(s)? If you are a parent to multiple kiddos, do you recall the first actual conversation between them?

I am not only deeply boring. I am utterly predictable. How do I follow up a whiny post about how miserably uninteresting I am? With a post about sex of course! To, well, show that I am not boring after all. No. In fact, I am edgy enough to talk about sex. Kind of.

So, here it is. My transparent attempt to appear brazen and bold and oh-so-sexy…

Almost every day, Husband sends me links to articles he think might interest me. I love this. I love this because this demonstrates to me his support of my blogging. I love this because Husband is usually right; I am almost always intrigued by the pieces he sends. And I love this because I usually read some subliminal message into what he is sending me even if he is not in fact trying to send me a message.

Last week, Husband sent me this article. The title of said article? Housework Pays Off Between the Sheets. I saw this title and laughed out loud. I laughed out loud for a couple of reasons. First, housework is not a word in my lexicon. I own my lack of domesticity. I rarely clean. I rarely cook. I rarely do laundry. I am not proud of these things. These are things I hope to change. Second, I also laughed because I immediately interpreted this as Husband’s indirect effort to get me to be a little more domestic. But in mere moments, my laughter faded and I was left sitting there alone, somberly, quietly, undomestically (FYI – that is not a word), staring at my sad screen, pondering life and love and sex and housework. In no time, everything grew more sinister. My insecurities? They came out to play.

Then I figured I better actually read the article. So I did.

The article references a study that purports to show that for both husbands and wives, the more housework you do, the more often you are likely to have sex with your spouse. One explanation for this? The “work hard, play hard” hypothesis that suggests that working hard in one domain produces more energy in other domains. Per the study, this argument holds true for paid work as well. The idea here is that it is the energetic go-getters, the individuals who are toiling away at home or at the office who are more likely to make sex a priority.

The article’s author also interviewed husbands and wives to gain further understanding for the posited housework-sex connection and learned – and this I find compelling – “that housework might be a proxy for a general willingness to invest in shared interests, a symbol of commitment to home and hearth.” The balance of the article highlights several other explanations for this connection; shared housework promotes friendship, collaborative housework demonstrates minimization of selfishness, a clean home is more relaxing and conducive to intimacy. I encourage you to read the article in its entirety to appreciate the nuances of this fascinating study.

I, however, am more interested in the basic premise and what it says for me. Selfish? You bet. Is there something about housework per se that is an aphrodisiac? Or is housework part and parcel of a more general chemistry and collaboration between husband and wife? I’m not so sure. I do know (avert your eyes, dear Grammy) that when I see Husband wiping down the counter or changing a diaper or folding laundry, I find it very sexy. I love that fact that he contributes so mightily, and wants to, to our home and to our family.

But then. Then I think about what he sees when he looks at me. A creature who leaves a trail of empty Splenda packets in her wake, who never screws the caps back on our condiments, who tosses her coat on the dining table when she comes through the door. Hardly hot. But then I think that maybe, just maybe, he sees beyond these domestic deficiencies. Maybe he glimpses me twirling our girls around, giggling, dancing to Dora, hunched behind this screen striving to make my dreams come true, and  finds all of these things impossibly alluring?

Maybe. Because housework aside, there are still sparks. Big, fat, sparky ones. (That is as much as I will say. Lame? Absolutely. Sue me.)

But if I have taken away one thing from this article, maybe it is that housework is not just housework. Maybe housework is evidence of true commitment, of a continued desire to contribute, of genuine participation in the home. And with this new lens on things, I feel humbled and a bit guilty. I am committed, I want to contribute and participate. Maybe, just maybe, I should peel myself from this screen and acquaint myself with Mr. Swiffer.

Husband, thanks for the article. Thanks for putting up with this undomestic goddess. Thanks for giving me, and us all, something sexy to think about.

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Do you buy the notion that there is a link between housework and sex? Have you ever known someone who was once a selfish slob and who is now a domestically collaborative creature? Please give me (and Husband) some hope.