Sneak Peak Excerpt from Peeing in Peace!

FROM WHAM TO THE WIGGLES...
YVETTE AND THE WIGGLES: A LOVE/HATE STORY

(Copyright 2007/NK Publications)

It all started with a favor. In 2001, I was producing a News and entertainment show on WCBS called, “New York Live.” I picked up the phone one day to hear one of my favorite publicists, Katie Schroeder, of Radio City Music Hall, pitching a segment on this great, but still relatively unknown Australian Children’s group called The Wiggles. The last thing I wanted to do was book some goofy looking group of guys who sang about fruit salad and mashed potatoes. But Katie was a great contact and my one stop shopping access to booking a kick line with the Rockettes and Santa every holiday season, so I felt I owed her and agreed to book the unknowns from down under.

The day finally arrived and the Wiggles showed up in the studio. All I can remember thinking is wow, I feel really sorry for these guys. I bet they’re all frustrated out of work actors who just can’t catch a break and decided to try the kids’ party circuit for a change. Here were four grown men walking around my studio looking ridiculous in their color-coordinated costumes, with these goofy grins on their faces and actually wiggling every time they introduced themselves. I was completely embarrassed for them and annoyed with myself for caving in and putting them on the air.

As for the Wiggles, they could not have been nicer. Laughing, joking with the crew and so completely grateful for being given exposure on American television. Katie and the Wiggles left that day thanking me up and down for giving them some airtime. I left the studio that day swearing never again to do any favors that involved grown men making fools of themselves and so openly enjoying themselves as they sang about mashed bananas and cold spaghetti. That was my life B.C. (before children).

Fast-forward three years and I’m once again face to face with the Wiggles. This time, however, it’s not in the studio and I’m not the producer. No, this time they’re in my living room, den, kitchen, car, and even my bedroom. This time I’m a mother of a two-year-old girl who is obsessed with the goofy group of guys I reluctantly put on television a few years back. Now I no longer think they’re goofy. I think they’re gods. Christiana actually sits still long enough to watch them make that damn fruit salad and you would think that batch of mashed potatoes would have gone bad by now, but no, her little fingers are mashing right along with theirs...

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As Seen in the Wall Street Journal...Editorial by Yvette Corporon

I admit it. I did it. I jumped.

At nine months pregnant and with 50 extra pounds packed on to my petite frame, I performed a fully extended and elegant swan dive right off the corporate ladder and into the pool of full-time parenthood.

Me, the adrenaline addicted, overextended, workaholic Emmy Award winning news producer, decided she was going to take all of that drive, passion and purpose and funnel it in to being a full time mother. So, at 32 years old, I quit my job as Editorial Producer for WCBS-News and channeled all of my creative energy into catering to the needs and whims of my newborn..

I quickly realized that as much as I adored my baby, something was missing from life. Well, guess what – a few things were missing; adult interaction, stimulation, a sense of accomplishment, interesting dinner conversation with my husband, financial security and perhaps the most disturbing missing element of all – my identity.

After several months of self-imposed mommy exile, I rejoined the workforce and took a job as a freelance producer for Good Morning America. Professionally, I was in heaven. Writing and producing for Diane Sawyer, Charlie Gibson and Robin Roberts was the proverbial dream come true. But again, even thought I was professionally fulfilled, personally, I was miserable. There were so many days and nights spent away from my family - nights, weekends, holidays, I felt my daughter’s infancy was slipping away, and I was missing it.

So, once again, I jumped. And like Goldilocks and her search for the perfect porridge, I set out to find the perfect professional/parenting fit.

Today, I’m a producer for the Syndicated Television Show EXTRA. I’m still writing and producing, only this time I’ve traded in undercover shoots and investigations for the world of celebrities and red carpet premieres. I’m still doing what I love for people I respect and admire, only this time I’m home mostly every night to put my kids to bed.

Do I believe in balance? Not in the traditional sense. I don’t believe in complete balance, but I do believe in a better balance. As working mothers, we make choices every single day of our lives. Are you willing to miss an important meeting in order to make it home for trick or treating? Will you blow off a ballet recital to nail a new client? Can you take a detour and put your professional dreams on hold in order to hold your children at night?

I chose to leave my dream job in order to spend more time with my family. Some corporate killers may judge me, say I sold out or couldn’t handle it. I don’t see it that way. One day, when my children are bit older, I’ll once again break through my personal glass ceiling – and when it happens, I won’t be content to sit there picking shrapnel off my suit. I’ll keep climbing, higher and higher. But it will be when I’m ready and at my own pace.

As for life right now, since I’m home at night and my kids are asleep by 8:30, I’ve found another way to pursue my professional dreams. I’ve spent the last year writing a book about the crazy lives of working moms. It’s called Peeing In Peace…Tales and Tips For Type A Moms (January 2007, NK Publications). My co-author is Beth Feldman, VP of the CBS Communications group. Beth never jumped off the ladder like I did, she’s stayed on course and kept climbing steadily higher and higher.

That’s the funny thing about being a working mom, the rest of the world is consumed with that ridiculous question, can they really have it all? We don’t waste our time asking questions, we’re too busy finding answers.

GUILT

GUILT. This five letter word is a fixture in my life. It wreaks havoc on my day, is the source of countless sleepless nights, a multitude of migraines and is a constant companion when I want nothing more than to be left alone for a few moments of sweet solitude.

I just don’t get it. Why can’t I learn to give up the guilt? Like so many moms out there, my day is spent taking care of the needs and whims of those I care about most. Between my family, friends and career, there isn’t a moment to spare, so why do I feel like I should always be doing more?

Today, I’m guilt ridden for taking a sick day from work. After a week of sleepless nights, holding my children as they puked their guts up, comforting them and changing countless soiled sheets at 3am, I too have succumbed to the dreaded puking virus. I tossed and turned all night and did my best frat party impersonation as I got intimate with my toilet bowl (Thank goodness my toilet is a hell of a lot cleaner than the frat house toilets I remember). I was still planning on getting dressed and dragging my ghastly green complexion to the office up until about 5:30 am when my guilty conscious jumped in with yet another dilemma – What if I’m contagious and I get everyone else in the office sick? Now that’s a guilt trip I just couldn’t handle. So, instead I called in at 6:46 am – not because I didn’t feel guilty about missing a day at work – only because I’d feel more guilty if I passed on the puking virus.

But, as bad as work guilt is, that’s nothing compared to parenting guilt. As a working mother we’re constantly juggling rings of fire – and guess what – those rings hurt like **&&***& when we find ourselves slightly off our game.

I want nothing more than to be there for my children – all the time for anything they need. But, since I work, it’s just not possible. My husband and I divide and conquer – well some times we just divide and cover our asses. Last week was particularly hellish. My Christiana Kindergartner had her first class trip of the year – to some stinky old farm that grosses out the parents but the kids love to visit. Why, she asked...why couldn’t I take the day off from work so I could take her to the farm? Now, how do you explain to your precious child that Mommy can’t take another day of since she took time off for the Fall carnival, ran out of the office like a bat out of hell to make it home for Trick or Treating, ditched an important meeting to make it home in time to get you your flu shot and needs to save up her days so she can be front and center for the Christmas pageant. No, all that really matters in the moment is that those big green eyes are looking up at me and I can’t be there when she wants me to. Then, there are the other moments, the small, everyday moments of mommy-hood that send the guilt guillotine crashing down on us. Moments like when you’re putting your children to sleep and they ask if you can stay home with them tomorrow, or when they ask why you have to go to work when Ryan’s mommy gets to stay home and pick him up from school everyday. It’s enough to make a grown woman cry.

Then there’s the wife guilt. Now, I know how lucky I am, Dave is an amazing father who does absolutely everything he can to help with the kids and the house. So many times I tell myself I need to make more of an effort - I’d love to surprise him, have him walk in from work one day and find a femme fatale waiting for him instead of a fatigued, frenzied and frazzled working mom, hunched over her lap top, lapping up a glass of chianti and stressing about the to-do list that still hasn’t gotten done. But after running my marathon of a day, I hate to admit it – but sweats win over stilettos every single night.

Yes, I am a working mother, split into a million guilty little pieces – GUILTY AS CHARGED.

JAVA MAMA JUNKIE

There’s no way to sugar coat this one. I am a junkie. Addicted. Hooked. Yes, say it loud, say it proud. I am a coffee whore.

As much as I love my children and my husband, they are not what I crave, want to caress and want to wrap myself around when I wake. Nope, when my eyes flutter open first thing in the morning, I want to cuddle up with something hot, camel colored and steaming in my mega sized sturdy ceramic green floral cup.

During the work week, there’s never a problem. I simply set my silver cuisinart state of the art coffee maker and carafe to brew a perfect pot at 5:50 am. By the time I drag myself downstairs at 6am, my morning coffee is waiting to be inhaled and ingested. With everyone else still soundly asleep upstairs, there’s no competition for my attention or affection. I can sit, sip and savor and indulge in my addiction. Just as my evening ritual of indulging in a glass of red wine when the kids are finally asleep signals the end of my marathon day, my steaming cup of coffee serves as the starter pistol. It doesn’t take much. About a half a cup sipped on the couch in a zombie like coma does the trick. I can get in the shower and get cracking on my day.

Now the weekends however, that’s a different story. While I love and look forward to the weekends spent with my husband and kids, those busy bustling mornings turn my treasured caffeine routine into chaos. I want nothing more than to spend the day snuggling with my family, but it's the mornings when mama needs a moment to herself. I’ve tried sticking to my 6am wakeup call, but by Saturday, I‘m usually so exhausted that I want and need every spare second of sleep I can get.

Sometimes, I get lucky, my eyes will open at seven or so and I’ll slip downstairs before Nico and Christiana will roll over and start the first chorus of “Mommy, Mommy.” Those mornings are pure paradise. I’ll brew a fresh pot, slip on my slippers and saunter out to the driveway – as quickly as I can checking up and down the street making sure no neighbors have spotted me in my nighttime uniform of boxers and tank top. Then, I come back inside and savor cup after cup of my steaming coffee with a healthy side order of the news of the day.

But, those weekend mornings are few and far between. Usually, in my exhausted and sleep deprived state, I’ll stay in bed until I hear the familiar thump thump thump of tiny feet heading for my bedroom as I brace myself for the cannonball that my kids are about to perform on my head. I scoop them up and head downstairs where the battle for my conscious begins. What do I do first – pour the kids’ milk or make my coffee? But it doesn’t end there – what’s more important, changing Nico’s pee soaked diaper, or savoring my first sip? He’s been lying in it for ten hours already, what’s a few more minutes gonna do? Do I break up the ugly battle over the remote or continue to ignore the eye gouging my kids are engaging in and pour myself a much needed second cup? Do I serve my kids breakfast or sit for just a few more minutes and try to savor my liquid crack in a cup?

I admit, usually, the coffee wins. Now let’s get something straight – there’s nothing in the world that matters to me more than my kids. I dote, indulge, play and obsess over them probably more than I should or need to. But when it comes to coffee – I admit defeat. I know I’m a mess without my morning fix, so what’s the fuss. Maybe a little diaper rash and sibling battle before breakfast are a small price to pay for a loving mama who needs her java.

KINDERGARTEN CONFESSIONAL

Forgive me Role Mommys, for I have sinned. Oh, it's been about five minutes since my last confession since I can’t seem to go more than a few minutes without doing something that another mom finds offensive.

It’s bad enough when I’m out with my children and I catch another mom staring at me with her toxic judgmental dagger eyes as she happens to overhear me engaging in my 2 ½ year old son’s favorite new pastime called “can’t say”.

“Mommy”, he leans in and whispers.
“Yes, Nico” I answer, bracing for what’s sure to come next.
“Mommy, we can say shut down, right?”
“Yes, Nico, we can say shut down.”
“But Mommy, we can’t say shut up, right?”
“No, Nico, that’s a bad word, we can’t say that.”
“And Mommy, we can’t say stupid, right. And we can’t say poopy…” and so on and so on until he’s

covered every single bad word he’s ever encountered – and trust me, he has quite the repertoire.

It’s always fun when I feel the disapproving stares and hear the muffled murmurs of other moms judging my parenting skills from the sidelines.

“Oh no, she just resorted to bribery and promised her children a trip to Toys R US if they’ll sit still long enough so she can finish her glass of wine. That’s a ten point parenting penalty.”

“Her son just said shit and she didn’t automatically put him in a time out – I’m afraid that’s an instant disqualification.”

I’ve learned to live with it, to ignore the looks and comments and gravitate to moms whose parenting styles are

similar to my own. There’s strength in numbers girls, we’ve got to stick together!

But just when I thought I was immune to all the color commentary – along came the first day of Kindergarten. Well, not REALLY the first day of Kindergarten, my husband stepped in for that one – yup, here’s where I start confessing and those other moms start judging.

Of course I wanted to be there for the first day of Kindergarten, are you kidding? I’d kill for the luxury of being part of every milestone and important moment. But, like so many other moms out there – I work. My husband’s schedule is far more flexible than my own so we tag team it and somehow manage to make it work. Dave took Christiana to school for her first week of half days and I arranged to take her in the following week for her first full day.( I never anticipated the angst involved in packing a lunch but that’s another sin filled confession that I’ll get to next time.)

So, in I walked, holding my little Christiana Kindergartner’s hand, feeling like the mother of the year as I proudly escorted my little girl to her class, when I had the most horrific reality check of my life. The moms aren’t the only ones judging me, the kids are judging me too.

We were barely in the door when a little bratty boy announced for all to hear.
“Christiana, you’re late. Why did your Mommy bring you to school late. You already missed announcements.” We were literally 3 minutes late, are you kidding me, kid?!

And if that wasn’t bad enough – another little Judge Judy in the making chimed in…
“Are you Christiana’s Mommy? We’ve never seen you here before. Where have you been?”

UH, how about at work, using my brain and making sure my daughter has a successful, accomplished role model to look up to so she can always be reminded that she can accomplish anything she sets her mind to.
But, that doesn’t seem to matter when your kindergartener wants to fit in with all the other kids in the class.
So, I’ve made a vow to repent, show up on time and make sure I leave little love notes in Christiana’s lunch so she can be like all the other kids who literally compare notes on how much their mommy’s love them.
I made a vow to be a prompt parent but once a sinner, always a sinner. Keep right on judging me ladies, but I never will issue a time out when Christiana slips and says a bad word. After all, guess who she probably heard it from.

Yup, I may always be a sinner, but I’ll never be a hypocrite.

FAMILY VACATIONS

Forget the midnight feedings and stretch marks - Nothing says" WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF MOTHERHOOD - YOUR LIFE HAS CHANGED FOREVER" like a the phenomenon known as the family vacation.

Remember back to the way it was before the baby came into your life - you'd pack a bikini and your birth control and call it a day. Well life has changed forever my friend. Say ciao to the carry one and welcome to the world of luggage - lots and lots of luggage. Between the toys, diapers, strollers, formula, crayons, coloring books, dvds, cds, blankies, barbies, binkies and sun block - you're beaten down, exhausted and doing your best impersonation of a pack mule.

You arrive at your destination - determined to relax and enjoy some sun and surf with your little sweeties. With dreams of leisurely days spent on the beach - you rally the troops and get them ready to hit the beach. But this isn't room service fueled respite you remember from days gone by. Today, it takes forever just to get everyone out the door - By the time you've wrestled and wrangled the troops, slathed on the spf 45, schlepped the shovels and sand toys and set up the umbrella and chairs, it's time to reapply the sunblock and feed those finicky little sun worshipers.

It's the joke you'll hear repeated over and over again - I need a vacation to relax from my vacation..and it so true. But when you spend the day chasing toddlers, visiting every attraction within ten miles of your hotel and taking rides on tandem bikes, you can bet that chick lit novel you're dying to crack open will stay unread till your kids are ready to head off to college.

But while you may miss the relaxing vacations of your past, don't waste your time dreaming off those daquiri soaked days gone by. Today's vacations are about enjoying the simple pleasures and milestones - your child's first sandlcastle, learning to swim, hunting for hermit crabs and getting to know the little munchins who are growing so quickly and that you miss so terribly when you go off to work.

POTTY MOUTH TRAINING


Potty Mouth Training: The process by which a foul mouthed four letter word loving woman finally realizes that her potty mouth is like her can of aerosol hairspray from the 80's,sadly outdated, slightly toxic and an environmental hazard. She decides to clean up her potty mouth and learn to speak the universal language of mommy. For some, the transition is effortless (we don't know any of these women). For others, it is a much more slow and painful process as they lose words like shit and damn from their vocabulary and replace them with the more child friendly words like poop and darn.

There's no doubt about it, as mothers, we're obsessed with potty training. DVD's videos, dvds, books, spend a small fortune on pull ups, portable potties and, if we've really gone over the edge, even break into a song and dance routine when our toddlers manage a poopy in the potty. (admit it, you know you've done it at least once or twice).

As fascinated as we are by the traditional type of potty training, there's another kind that's forgotten about, never written about and quite simply, never even acknowledged. Frankly, we feel it's much more challenging than teaching your child to make a doo doo in the Dora Potty you spent $29.99 on. No, we, the working moms are the ones who need a little help in this area. By the time we need to be potty mouth trained, we're sleep deprived, overwhelmed, overworked, and exhausted. Learn a new language, yeah, add it to my to-do list. But trust us on this one, it's a to-do that must be done.

If you're new to the mommy game, you probably think you have some time before your little angel starts picking up the devilish dialogue of her mommy and you need to start cleaning up your act (as well as ten diapers a day). Guess again. Get on the potty mouth program before it's too late. Just because that beautiful little baby of yours can't speak yet, doesn't mean she's not hearing every single curse that comes streaming out of your mouth.
But it doesn't end there. Sanitizing your gutter mouth is only the first of many steps involved in potty mouth training. It's kind of like infancy all over again - you need to re-tool, re-work and relearn so many things. Some are not so bad - there was a time when I was terrified of bugs. I'd literally hyperventilate at the sight of a spider and cringe at anything that was remotely creepy crawly. But now, in an effort to make sure my kids don't inherit the arachnaphobia of their mother, I'm a superstar squisher, caterpillar catcher and hermit crab hunter.
Bugs, I can learn to deal with. Some things are a bit more of a struggle. In my life B. C. (that's before children for those who are new to this)- I loved nothing more than curling up on the couch with a glass (or two or three- come on, who am I kidding) of chianti as I spent a Sunday afternoon holding my very own foreign film festival. I'd spend hours watching French women driven to insanity by some sexy guy they had a one night stand with. No time to watch Rodin ravage Camille Claudelle these days. Today, my film festivals are more like a parade of Disney princesses.

So here's to relearning and rethinking a few things as we become mothers. While you may miss your old life sometimes, just remember - watching your language and the occasional hand puppet on Noggin is a small price to pay for watching your children grow.