From Here to Autonomy

Baking Meditation

I've been on vacation all week, spending time with family, doing not much. Wednesday I embarked on baking a pie.

I was proud of myself. I spent time researching recipes the week before. I prepped ingredients in advance, which I've never done in the past. I took more than a second to think about things that have gone wrong in previous attempts--I have chronically weak pie dough--and chilled my ingredients accordingly. I even bought a Kitchen Aid mixer so that I could better beat the dough.

As I was peeling apples I realized I had been spending hours working on this one pie. I don't recall having spent hours doing anything in a long time. Even with work, I do things in pieces--a few emails before jumping on a call. Or pulling together a deck while I wait to board a plane. I don't recall the last time I actually MADE something tangible--something non-digital.

I noticed, while I was rolling dough that I was actually nervous. I have a general anxiety around making things--food, crafts, anything requiring sewing. I don't know which came first, my ineptitude, or the fear of ineptitude, but I get more nervous making things than I do about, say, doing my taxes.

But on Wednesday I took the time--as much as was needed--to do the job right. I dug in as if making this pie were the only think that needed to be done, and it had to be done well.

The Artist as Entrepreneur

Apologies in advance to Lisa Milgram, who told me this parable. I have embellished a bit:

There was a man who used to love to fish on his boat. It was a small boat--no frills, a rowboat. He fished every day for his supper. And every day, he caught something to feed his family. One day, an Old Man floated by on his rowboat and observed the first man fishing.

"You know," The Old Man said, "You're really good at fishing! Have you considered starting a fishing BUSINESS! You could buy three more of those boats, train some fishermen, and make money."

The fisherman thought about it for a while. He loved fishing and wasn't sure he knew how to start a fishing business. But perhaps he should make more money doing what he loved by starting this business.

A week later he caught enough fish that he could sell them and buy a second rowboat. He rented out the rowboat to a fisherman, who gave him a portion of his proceeds from his catch. A month later the fisherman could afford to buy another rowboat. And a month later he bought yet another rowboat and hired yet another fisherman.

But sadly the fisherman was unhappy. He never could just sit in his rowboat anymore and fish. There were always things he had to do, like keep track of the earnings of the other fishermen, who didn't have quite the passion for fishing that he did. They just fished to feed their families. When he fished he caught more fish than they could combined. He had to teach the other fishermen new tricks, and had to keep them motivated. He often sat with them in their rowboats and encouraged them. He taught them to love fishing.

Eventually, his fishermen got quite good. Sometimes they caught more fish than the original fisherman did on his best days, back when he fished alone. Years into having his fishing business, the fisherman became quite successful. He was surrounded by dozens of expert fishermen who loved him for helping them to support themselves--and teaching them to love fishing.

The fisherman was happy that he had a thriving business, but he knew that he was unfulfilled because he no longer enjoyed the simplicity of being a master of something that he loved to do.

One day, he set out on his own to fish. It had been a while. He sat out there a long time and caught nothing. In the distance he could see another rowboat. It was weathered and old. As the rowboat got closer the person inside of it started to look familiar. It was the Old Man who, years ago, had encouraged the fisherman to start a fishing business.

"Morning," the man said. "Do you remember me?" the fisherman said. "A long time ago you suggested that I start a fishing business, and I did just that. I have a very successful business, and many successful fishermen working for me."

"Congratulations!" the man said. "But if you are so successful, why do you look so sad?"

"I'm sad because this is the first time I've gone out to fish on my own in years. I'm no good at it anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I ever should have started my fishing business, or if I would have been happier fishing on my own."

The man began to laugh. "I suggested that you start a fishing business not because I think you should be a businessman all of your life. I suggested it so that you could fish for the rest of your life, and be happy."

The fisherman started to understand. His business wasn't designed to keep him from fishing, but to give him the freedom to fish without having to do it for any other reason but the joy of fishing. The fisherman knew that the only thing for him to do now was sit in his boat. And wait.

On being a content creator

Due to a confluence of blogging events of late, I've been around a lot of digital influencers, online platform builders, content creators, call them what you will.

"What is your blog URL?" I'm asked, and I reply with my boilerplate response.

"My blog is old as the hills; I never write anymore. The irony, I suppose, of having co-founded a company by and for bloggers." This is meant to somehow prequalify me as a card-carrying blogger without actually being one.

A friend's wife started a blog and sent me a link to promote, which I was happy to do--she wrote a great piece about traveling with babies on airplanes. It came at just the right time, as we were trying to determine whether to pre-pack Liv's milk or wait until we got past security. I could't help but notice how gorgeous this woman's site was. Not bad for a newbie. Time was, you needed to get some serious help to have a site that professional looking. Now bloggers are building them on their own.

Naturally this got me thinking that I should probably rethink my blog design. My design isn't bad--it's just not what I would call optimized. No newfangled features or optimization. I worked within the templates TypePad gave me--no offloading. I started to plan what I needed to do to re-professionalize. After all, maybe if I had a good looking blog, I would find more time to update it.

But I realized something--a personal truth. The business side has always been easier for me. I can always reach out to people, insert links, optimize for the search engines, establish co-promotion partnerships, pitch myself for syndication, make my site more advertiser friendly. This mode is my default. It helps to distract me from the hard work of getting back in flow.

So this blog will remain boring, er, simple. I won't distract myself and consider what I do manage to write to be wasteful because it wasn't given the ultimate SEO send-off. I need to continue to rev up and not slow down to seek out which parts of my text are linkable, or which posts are visual and need pictures. I need to keep my focus on the foundation and just write.

At some point the bells and whistles will come.

 

Life of a Secondary Caregiver

"KYE!" My daughter was yelling at me yesterday, pointing upwards. I looked at my husband, not understanding.

"Yes, My Love, SKY!" he said. It was another word in her repertoire, one that I hadn't inspired.

Last weekend, when I put on her shoes I thought she was babbling. And then I realized what she was saying,

"BUT … BUT …"

She wanted me to put on her boots.

"Don't let her wear those socks," Jesse said, as I was putting a lavender pair on her little feet. "She can't walk around in those."

"It's not a biggie," I said, putting them on and then watching Liv slip and slide on the wooden floors.

Months into coming back to work I started to notice the difference, the disconnect. I could no longer correctly guess my daughter's every need as she needed it. I could not figure out why she patted her stomach, or screeched in delight. Daddy knew how to make her laugh, while with my attempts she looked at me, not unamused but perhaps a bit confused. I watched her like a student, waiting for a teacher to explain to me what I was witnessing.

I catch myself saying things to my husband:

"Can I give her this?" I ask, holding a cup of juice. I know he has a system and doesn't want her to drink too much juice at bedtime. And then I ask myself, "Why am I asking for permission?"

"Think we can take off her sweater when she eats?"

"I think YOU can," Jesse says.

I know that when I come in the door it's my turn to be the parent. But sometimes I'm rusty, especially when I'm coming from a business trip. I put my stuff down (forgetting to zip up my purse--big mistake as its contents will inevitably be strewn across the floor once she gets to it). I want to talk about my day. Jesse wants to finish the game he'd started on his iPhone two hours before, when he last had a minute to kill.

I didn't finish an email before getting off the plane, so I open up the laptop. I just need 90 seconds to get it done.

"Are you going to be with her, or are you going to do email?" Jesse asks. He's making dinner.

"This is going to take just a minute." She comes for me with her arms out. The email is going to have to wait.

With a few moments of exception, I've learned to stop trying to fit in emails before dinner. My goal has become to put everything down and have my hands washed before she comes around the corner with her arms up. I love that she's made it difficult for me; before her no one had succeeded.

Today I'm squeezing in a blog post, a few emails, and some online shopping into her nap time. Jesse's just come back from his Saturday bike ride--one of two or three times he gets to himself during the week. He comes in the front door, avoiding the garage door, which can sometimes wake her when opened.

"What time did she go down?"

I tell him what time. And I know it's 30 minutes later than he suggested to avoid her becoming overtired.

"Bummer," he says, walking his bike through the kitchen.

I don't worry about it. She'll get used to these days with Mom. When naptimes are off, when a bottle is forgotten. She knows that I live for this time with her, however imperfect it may be.

Something

The other day I was in NYC for a new conference BlogHer launched for writers named, well, BlogHer Writers. I had learned to disassociate myself with the content of our conferences long ago, back when I sensed frustration at having to run, versus attend, my company's events. While I very much wanted to sit in and enjoy sessions, I knew that more realistically I would be running over to a sponsor to make sure they were pleased with their investment, or run back to the press room for an interview. After a few years, it just became understood, or rather, assumed, that I would be doing things other than attend the conference.

BlogHer Writers was built for bloggers seeking to publish. Yes, these people exist. We haven't sucked every vestige of traditional media into our vortex just yet. But publishers like Penguin have become smart to the ways of the new, new writer, who oftentimes now came to print via blog success first. There were many familiar faces in the room--women I'd come to know over the years who had slowly built a platform and who, over time, came to call themselves writers. There were other faces in the room as well, faces of people I'd known even longer, who hardly recognized me. After all, I hadn't stayed for very long. I was 21 years old and had moved from the Midwest to work at a book publishing house--Penguin, actually. My goal had not been to be an editor, or even to work in New York. It was to become a writer.

"Nice company you have here," one of them told me.

"Amazing to see things come around full circle," I said back to her. And I meant it. So many times we see life as a series of lost opportunities, or failed attempts. And yet my attempts, while being short of the goal I had set for myself of supporting myself by writing, had sparked a fire elsewhere, causing that original trajectory I used to look up at, wanting to realize, to melt and warp in my direction. The worlds I had wanted to become a part of had somehow come to me.

In the morning we hosted panels of experts in the publishing world--agents and editors--who could speak to how to get a book published, what they looked for, how to have your book stand out. Agents attended to meet writers. One told me, "I have to be here to meet writers. You all have PLATFORMS! That's half the battle." I recall a much bigger battle being waged five years ago, when I tried to sell my book and getting a contract if I could accept changing my target audience. I recall another publisher saying that they wish I'd gone more Cosmo and made my stories more how-to. I recall a publisher sharing with my agent that I didn't need to write a book so much as see a therapist. After founding BlogHer I recall an agent who came to speak who left a stack of business cards on a table before leaving--she didn't want to be mobbed by a bunch of bloggers wanting to get published.

I recall waking up in the morning and going to a coffee shop with no wireless by design so that I would not check email as I hammered out pages and pages of copy. I had no job, I simply wanted to write and get a book published.

Things have changed.

"You are at an advantage," one of the speakers from the publishing side said at the conference, "you all are in the habit of writing every day."

I look at the date on my last blog post and wonder how that happened. The sad reality is that it wasn't hard not writing. I knew how encompassing writing could be. I knew how when I got into writing everything else tended to fall away. Where would I start? What if  had nothing to say?

One friend offered up a nice metaphor: Creativity is a muscle. When you go running for the first time, you feel like shit. But keep going every day, and slowly it starts to feel good. You start to run faster and more efficiently. You know how to inspire your creativity. You re-learn how to call it up.

"Just write short," friends have told me, "just get something up there." That's what I tell other people. But I'm really not very satisfied to do that.

I saw a friend this weekend when I was out in the neighborhood with my one year old.

"You inspired me to blog," she said. She's been actively blogging and consulting in the social media space now for five or six years. "It makes me sad to go over to your blog and see nothing there."

She challenged me to write a blog post while on the plane flying home from business trips.

"I've tried that," I said. "I have a lot of stuff I need to finish. I don't know if I can commit to that."

"Just write something she said."

Today I saw an email she left in my inbox. The subject line: It's Blogging Day!

My complicated relationship with SXSW: An Overview

Five years ago I attended my first SXSW Interactive conference. I was speaking on a panel--part of a series of panels that BlogHer produced for SX to raise the event's profile among women on the web (and it worked!). That SX I did everything you could at SXSW:

• Sat on a panel about Naked Blogging
• Attended panels
• Held a meet-up where all I can recall was BBQ and drinks in plastic cups.
• Went to others' meet-ups
• Did a book signing
• Sat for a Studio SX interview
• Presented at 20x2
• Stayed at a hotel within the vicinity of the conference center--meaning I booked well in advance. And I had a buddy crash in the room one night.
• Bumped into bloggy peeps in the hallway
• Met people who were doing cool stuff just to do cool stuff

BlogHer had held its first event, but we weren't yet a business--more a project that covered its costs. Venture capital was not even on our horizon yet.

I remember feeling badly that after a whole day of attending sessions I hadn't blogged my experience. In between sessions I looked for outlets to plug in my laptop and then jotted down my notes. I didn't have a modem, and the wireless wasn't good, so I waited to get to my hotel room before posting anything.

I went to the next year's SXSW, which was fun as well. I headed up a panel on blogs and brands--a provocative pairing at the time. There seemed to be more bloggy peeps there, even a few individuals from the corporate side who were digital adventurists. They'd sponsored booths at events like ours and somehow got approval to go to SX. Still, if you weren't a tech startup, it was hard to get the funding.

I also remember that this tool called Twitter dominated everyone's mindspace. I thought that while it was useful to helping me find people at SX it was a distraction to writing my blog.

The next year I skipped SXSW. My company received its first round of venture funding, and I was traveling 80 percent of the time (or so it seemed) to visit with companies who were opening to the blogging/social media space. As much as I loved to see my blog buddies, I reasoned that I could do that as well back at home in Silicon Valley. This just wasn't a must-do.

The following year I wasn't planning on attending SX, but a client asked me to sit on a panel of his--making the trip to Austin that I had once considered a geek excursion a full-fledged business trip. We partnered with another organization to hold a meet-up. Guy geeks, lady bloggers, and social media gurus attended, with flecks of brand people interspersed rather obviously, like tin foil pieces in a soft chocolate chip cookie. One of my clients wanted to bring his boss to our event and asked for a run down in advance, to prepare him for what his boss would encounter. I didn't know what to tell him; this was SX--a place where geeks held court and brands could learn things if they let geeks drink and free associate.

I recall attempting an introduction of a marketer to a Web guru; it was very difficult to do while trapped in a headlock.

Though I was attending officially "on business" I felt a flash of 2005 hit me as I bumped into old friends at the bar. Women who had attended the first BlogHer, back when we had collected $20 at the door and had a Tex-Mex and sangria as our pre-event activity--and everyone attended (no other parties to go to). Back when no one had budget for socializing with bloggers, let alone brand dollars for it. When you just went because it was part of the experience of belonging.

I recall ducking into and out of sessions that year--I had a load of conference calls I had to jump on. Later I went to an offsite session to visit with some clients. It seemed the brands were picking up on SX, but still mainly congregating on the periphery of it.

Other brands, like PepsiCo, had seen the potential for getting in front of many tech influencers and built activations outside of the exhibitor hall. Now you could get a sample of a PepsiCo beverage before heading out to eat wherever there was a shorter line on Sixth street.

The next year I missed SX. I was in Europe on business and thought about cutting my trip short to come to SXSW. But I was also pregnant, and somehow this condition seemed antithetical to the eat/drink-what-you-can and sleep-when-you-can ethos of SX.

This year I wasn't planning on going. I had just returned from maternity leave and was protective of my weekends. But colleagues asked if I was going, and I have had this feeling lately of a new wave of change coming over brands, the community, the whole online ecosystem. I knew that I needed re-infusion, if you will, of the excitement that I felt at my first SX.

Back then, I felt like I had most of the answers, or at least more experience than the people sitting in the audience. Hell, even when I was in the audience I felt like I had more answers. This cockiness had shifted. I wasn't speaking this year, just listening. Pulse-taking.

Some immediate observations:

• SX is now brand marketing boot camp. At most of the parties I hung with brand marketers who were activating at SX, participating on panels, or just meeting their digital marketing obligations and making the pilgrimmage to Austin to hopefully learn by osmosis. I knew that many folks would be there, and saw many more still. I didn't feel that this diluted the techy cred of the event, but rather validated it. Especially witnessing the sponsorships, which were much more integrated into the event--woven into the fabric of SX, if you will, rather than glued on like tacky applique rhinestones.

• Mobile obsession: At one point I caught the insanity of a moment at SX: At a party on a rooftop, with Chris Cornell playing an acoustic set below, sitting at a round table with people I've known in some cases since 2005, and all of us are texting, tweeting, or emailing on our mobile devices. Arriving at the conference center I see people waiting for their coffees, browsing the Web on their phones in the meantime. Some of it seemed a simple indication of the crowd that comes to SX. Some of it seemed obnoxious. And yet, in moments of downtime--driving into town, waiting to meet friends, waiting to be seated for dinner, etc--I didn't know what else to do with myself.

• The people. Even back in 2005, SX was the mother online event--EVERYBODY went to SX. But now EVERYBODY has gotten larger. Add the brands, the agencies, the digital shops, the iPhone app developers, the social celebs, and associated spouses, significant others, and even in a few cases mothers in law/nannies, and you have a sea of people. "Bumping into" people at SX just doesn't  happen anymore; you need to be a lot more deliberate about meeting people. Hence, the texting and tweeting ...

• Content: In 2005 I wouldn't have dreamed of missing session time. I went to sessions because goshdarnit I paid for my plane ticket to SX, I was goig to LEARN something. Or show off all that I knew, pick one. This year, with my desire to be a sponge I attempted to review the agenda and felt like I was drowning in quicksand. There have always been too many sessions at SX--I expected that much. But so many of the sessions struck me as poorly concepted--too niche or too broad. And some seemed to be too commercial--a small digital shop's presentation of their client work.

Now I must caveat here that I took in very little content this year. In some cases I was on my way to a session when a chance encounter or another experience sucked me in. Also I experienced what I hear so often from attendees at my own conference--a desire to have a more personalized experience. A friend of mine runs Tech Set and invited me to her lounge in the convention center. I found myself drawn into what I will call a "Curated Content Experience"--short interviews and activations that she culled for a single sponsor. I took them in as I chose to, while connecting with other bloggers and brands. The environment offered a nice combination of both.

Seeing this sponsored, curated model leads to my next observation ...

• Smarter brand activations: I've got no beef with brand sponsorships--they power my business. Since I spend an inordinate amount of time working with brands on activities that will enhance their relationships with influencers I consider myself somewhat of an expert on this--actually that's false modesty, I AM AN EXPERT on this subject.

SX has certainly run a trajectory similar to BlogHer's, in that a community driven event has attracted brands and initially accepted their dollars with some trepidation and insistence on church-state separation, but has now seemed to loosen up a bit to allow brands to actually impact the experience of the event in a positive way.

I got sweaty in the way only social media event sponsorship people could when I saw the integration of HP's ePrint functionality with SX's mobile agenda app. Don't want to lug that catalog of a printed agenda around with you? Print out the parts that you want, or only the parties if that's preferable.

Later I learned that HP held food trailers outside the event with, you know, REAL FOOD. For when you've had it up to here with drinking alcohol and eating passed greasy party food and nacho buffets. Ummm brilliant! Same to Samsung for allowing SX snobs like me feel like they have a place to put down their swag and scarf chocolate in between sessions. Ditto to PepsiCo for not only providing a lounge at SX but even integrating great interviews/content with established media (Fast Company).

And then there was Mac Daddy sponsor, Tagged, who knew EXACTLY who they wanted to court at SX and provided limo service gratis to members of SMAC (the Social Media Advertising Consortium)--primarily agencies and social media publishers. A fellow named Gary carted me from the airport to my hotel and from the convention center to a session I wanted to attend way the hell off the grid. Which leads me to my next observation.

• Infrastructure issues: So I was one of those fools who booked my hotel in January and had to commute to and from the conference. I'm told I was lucky--some people I encountered were forced to contemplate $500+ hotel rooms and apartments in Lubbock. But as a SX alum I felt very removed from things. And not knowing for certain if I would be able to find a cab/pedicab/shuttle back to my hotel impacted my evening plans. That day that I checked into a hotel off I-35 I wanted to say to the poor gal sharing the elevator with me, "I used to be within a three-block radius of the convention center, y'know! I used to be SOMEBODY!" But now I was like all the other kids from the suburbs, paying my ludicrous fee and bussing my way in to the cool part of town.

One of the van drivers even tried to rip me off--twice! I was told I could pay a one time $50 fee for the van, or $10 for a one off trip. I was lucky to have caught Gary on duty a few times and only needed a ride for my last trip to the convention center before heading to the airport. I handed the driver a $20, expecting $10 back.

"Wow," he said. "Thanks for the tip!" I noticed a sign on the window that indicated tips were appreciated, not required.

"I haven't paid you a tip," I said. "Ten back please." He gave me $10, and I gave him $2. Then, when we got to the convention center some dude with a clipboard says to me, "$10, ma'am," and when I tell him I've already paid, gets uppity with me. "You aren't supposed to pay the driver!" he says.

Of course I secretly love these situations that invite me to show my fangs.

"I'm not giving you anything," I said. "Get it from your driver!"

I walked away as the driver insisted that I hadn't paid--I just paid him a $12 tip.

Wow, I thought, with all the people that are here this year, a whole new form of hucksterism.

I check my luggage at the Hilton, much to their irritation, I surmise, seeing as I didn't stay there, and hail a cab from there. As my driver, who didn't look unlike Sam Elliott, cautiously makes his way through the throng of digital humanity, I strike up conversation.

"It's nuts this year, huh?" I say.

"Nuts?" he replies. "You're getting out of here before the REAL crowds arrive."

Making it Work: Traveling while lactating

I have no expectations of earning any bloggys for this series of posts, in which I share the practicalities of being a working mom of a baby girl. I realize that this solidifies my status as "one of those people" who think that every mundane aspect of parenting deserves to be chronicled.

But I feel strongly about writing about my experience, even if that experience is not that exciting, or doesn't lend itself to engaging prose. I find that as a relatively new mom I slurp up others' anecdotes, as I'm hungry for hearing about how other women manage in what seems to be at times two self-canceling realities: working and parenting. Indulge me, or tune in another time when I am back in working mode...

I had worried about how difficult it might be to return to work. Not the work part, the being away from the babe part. And the pumping part. Actually the transition has been--dare I say--good. Better than expected.

I enjoyed every second I had spent with my daughter on mat leave, but I was jonesing for a schedule. I like having to adhere to a schedule and having dedicated thinking time. Having this space in the day only makes seeing my daughter at the end of it that much more enjoyable.

The pumping is a pain, but everyone at the office is supportive. We've made our supply room the "Pump Room" for the time-being. I duck in and put a sign on the door, requesting 30 minutes of privacy, three times a day. I crank out email and even take calls in there if they are internal. If it's a client call, I take it in my office. 

Travel has been interesting. I started off slow--a day trip down to LA--fly in, fly out. How hard could it be? Still, it was my first, and a new milestone in my time away from child.

"It will be like I'm at the office," I told H-band, only it really wouldn't be. I had a place to pump at the office, and I hardly knew where I would pump in LA. Surprisingly I'd yet to have the dignity-dissolving experience of pumping while perched on the john, the slurping sound of my hands-free Medela echoing off the tiled walls of a public bathroom.

I was grateful that my first business trip since returning from mat leave was a relatively simple one. I carried a purse and my pumping equipment in a second canvas bag. It's been beautiful on the West Coast; I didn't even need to fuss with a coat. I figured, what could befall me other than a flight delay?

The first obstacle was in security. I hadn't even pumped yet, but my equipment bag had to go through a second inspection. Still I got through to my flight. Easy peasy.

I didn't fly into LAX but rather Orange County, a smaller airport, but fortunately it had a Red Carpet Club. All of the enclosed offices had glass walls overlooking the airport--a nice touch, but not for someone looking for a private place to pump. I headed to the women's restroom.

It was a onesie. With no stall. Shit.

I did the math: Meeting in little over an hour; four hours since I'd pumped. I needed to do this--now. I held the restroom hostage, grateful that only one poor soul knocked.

I flew out of LAX, which was much more amenable, meaning I used a stall in the club on the far end of the rest room that had a changing table--just enough space to lay out my gear, strap up, and read email on my Blackberry while pumping.

Amazing how grateful you become for the little things.

But security was a bear.

"What's in your bag, ma'am?"

"A pump. And some milk."

"Security check! We have some milk here."

I walk past the conveyor belt toward another station with different equipment.

"Ma'am, do I have your permission to take the contents out of this bag, or would you like me to do this in private?"

It wasn't like he was asking me to nurse in public."

"Here is fine."

I felt a bit sheepish, as he held up half of one bottle--all that I had managed to squeeze out in Orange County. All this freaking work for three ounces.

"I'm going to put this through a radiation test," the TSA official said.

It failed.

"What does this mean?" I asked, that my milk is radioactive?

"No ma'am. We just need to do another test." He opened the bottle of milk and put what looked like a litmus strip over the top to "test the fumes."  I was free to go.

This week I traveled cross-country for several days. I'd mapped out my meetings and marked in my calendar good times to pump, but I didn't know for certain where--or if--there would be places to take my get up. Even if I could duck into a bathroom at any one of the places I was headed, I wasn't sure I wanted to pump at a client engagement. I looked at my schedule and noted that I was cutting it close between my last meeting and my flight home. I wondered if it would be gauche to pump in the cab on my way to the airport. Are there rules about that?

UPDATE: I opted not to pump in the cab--too messy, and the trip went fine, though I'm quite positive my boobs are confused. I pumped at our NY offices whenever I had a chance, then went for long stretches of nada. Watching what I consider liquid gold go down the drain (I had resolved myself to pumping and dumping, rather than try and figure out how I'd keep my milk fresh for three days) was more painful than I thought. In the early days I fought hard to establish a supply, and for three days my goal was to just get rid of it.

On the way back to CA I managed to pump before my flight, in the club restroom. I appreciated all the free tampons, pads, feminine aids that were available in the rest room, but I would have traded this bounty for a stall large enough to place all of my luggage and pumping equipment, and a surface in the stall to place my stuff.

I had just enough time afterward to grab a snack in the club and make it to my boarding gate. By the time I landed in SF I looked like Dolly Parton from the neck down. 

Why call volume is the Atari of sales metrics

I returned to the office last week, rather pleased that after 3.5 months out of the office there were only eight voicemail messages on my system. I didn't mention that I was on mat leave in my outgoing message--those who work closely with me know that I travel a lot and tend to reach out via email, where I left and outgoing message. Two of the calls came from someone who quickly determined I was on mat leave. One came from someone who had already reached me on my mobile phone. The remaining five came from "Phil", someone I'd never met but who spoke like we were buds.

Each voicemail was eerily similar to the one before it:

"Jory! Phil (last name) from (name of company, and said so quickly I couldn't hear it) here. Listen, hoping we can get a conversation with (name of CEO?) on calendar. Give me a call back at ..."

Each follow-up had the same friendly, slightly detached tone--no acknowledgement that I hadn't called back, nor additional information to help contextualize why I might be interested in calling back. I'm not even sure if he was in the ballpark calling me. Needless to say I never called Phil back.

At home I was receiving daily calls from a local gym, which I visited with the intention of getting my workouts started again. I was issued a week-long free-trial pass, which I used before leaving town for the holidays. I reasoned, why should I bother to call back this week? I'm still using my trial. I returned home after the holidays to multiple messages on my home and mobile phones that sounded increasingly desperate, requesting that I call back the gym sales rep. I figured, I'll go to the gym tomorrow and speak to her in person.

Unfortunately that plan was thwarted when, the night of my return, while trying to put our three-month-old down to bed, we received a call (at 9:30 p.m.) from the sales rep. H-band was less than excited to receive the call. I will only share the transcript as I could hear it on my end.

"Hello!"

(pause)

"We don't take calls at this time!" (pause)

"I don't care if she hasn't called you back. We have a screaming baby here that you just woke up!"

I started to block out the words after H-band started admonishing the person on the other line about her attitude. What a lovely way to start a relationship, I thought.

The next day I, along with three-month old and H-band, went to the gym to see the sales rep. H-band apologized for yelling at her, and we went about the business of signing us both up for memberships.

The moral of this story isn't, "See! Being persistent works!" but rather what I didn't share with the sales rep: "Your sales organization needs to think qualitatively rather than quantitatively."

During our meeting, the sales rep apologized for the frequent, post-business-hours calls.

"I have to knock out 50 a day. Once I'm done meeting with prospects in person, I often have to finish late into the night to get them all in," she said.

I suspect that her organization's sales philosophy mirrors Phil's: Sales is a numbers game. The more you call, the more you sell. On the face of it, that's true. But not if the message is untargeted, and if the follow-up lacks strategy. In Phil's case, he could call me 80 times and make his call quota, but since I have no idea what his company does I will never call back. Even if his company was in the ballpark and provided a service that could be of use, his Atari Breakout approach to telesales (in which one impersonally pings you over and over, hoping to break through to a responder) negates his chances of creating a real lead.

In my gym's case, the rep had a real lead--one who walked through the door and requested a trial, in fact. But by pummeling that lead at all times of the day, my interest (and certainly my husband's) waned. In this case, all of the follow-up calls did nothing to further the sale, they even almost thwarted it. The time that our sales rep spent knocking out her call quota would have been better spent on walking more warm sales leads through the gym and offering them free trials, or prospecting for more leads.

Note, I didn't say cold-calling, or calling other prospects who are in a cooler part of the sales cycle. I mean finding places where people who are more likely to want gym memberships are hanging out and networking with people in those places. For instance, local new moms groups (where I've been hanging, online and off, when I decided to join the gym), or aligning with physical therapists who recommend to their clients specific workout regimens.

Rather than requiring X number of calls regardless of stage in the sales cycle, the gym could reward the progress of leads from cool to warm, or entry into the sales cycle of new leads based on networking, or time spent offsite networking.

But then, what do I know? I'm just a customer.

 

Image: Retroist

Special Offer: Path to prosperity in some tough times

If you want to skip my intro and just get to the offer, scroll down.

Despite my role as a champion of blogger advocacy (not just in life but as my living!), I do very little in the way of product reviews. Most product mentions happen entirely within the context of other things I am writing about--mainly life and work. Though I love books I rarely have time to read them in a timely enough fashion to write book reviews.

All this is to say that I don't typically hype or tout products on my blog, but I felt compelled to help my friend Laura Berman Fortgang with the launch of her new book, The Prosperity Plan. I met Laura first through her work and respect the hell out of her; I really feel that her book will be useful to others. While I love how social media has enabled so many of us to pursue careers we love, it has also sometimes made it difficult to establish which people have longstanding, substantive backgrounds as consultants, experts, and gurus. Laura is the real deal. 

I wrote about Laura and her last book on BlogHer in 2009; it was a revelation. I loved it for its offroading approach to personal development. Laura provided guidance via her own very personal strories of struggle and discovery. Her new book is a return to what Laura is best known for--personal development with an enlightened, straightforward approach. Given the financial and motivational hole so many of us have found ourselves in since the economy tanked, we needed Coach Laura back.

I don't recommend anything I haven't personally tried (or read), though the timing of the launch and this offer didn't line up perfectly with my reading schedule ("schedule" is code for the few minutes each night after I get the baby down and before I pass out.) Though I started it on Monday--perfect timing for getting in gear for the year. What can I say? It's classic Laura. No bloviating from on-high, but more education through personal and professional experience. Transformation is a real outcome.

I keep reading depressing stories of people beaten down by the economy. I wish I could just give them all a copy of Laura's book. The best I can do is pass along this offer of some of the best motivational content out there:

OFFER: Order Laura's book today and enter your receipt number at http://www.theprosperityplan.net/promo/ and you will gain access to FREE downloads by Laura and other well-known leadership and self-help authors.

I'll be reading the book over the next few days and am eager to hear your thoughts on it.

Concerns of a Mom returning to work

This is the last weekend of my maternity leave, which I've anticipated for a long time. I've been planning the timing of things in my head and practicing on the breast pump--which for all its necessary function also is a bit dehumanizing. Even as I rely on them, I'm a bit repulsed by the pump, the plastic milk storage bags, these poor facsimiles of maternal role replacement. I know, I know, many women have done this before me; broken the seal of the little bubble of constancy created around them and their child. It has to be done sometime, but I still find myself recoiling from the inevitable pop.

I remember asking a woman in my office who had recently returned from maternity leave how she felt to be back. She was glad to be working again but confessed that she cried dropping her son off at daycare. A friend of mine who returned to work three months ago said she cried every day for two weeks very morning, after dropping off her daughter with a shared nanny. I'm lucky: My husband will be staying at home with my daughter--no emotional drop-offs; no wondering if she's clean or scared. I don't imagine myself crying, but rather digging in to work like I've done for the past 17 years. Work has a way of helping me temporarily forget things. But I worry: what if I don't temporarily forget? What if I find it too easy to forget?

I must confess, I miss being focused on things for longer than three minutes, with no distractions.

My child has not been away from me for 3.5 months. There was one day when Daddy took her out thinking he would come home sooner, but, amazed that she took a bottle in her sleep, he stayed out a whopping six hours. Aside from that anomalous day we've been apart no longer than three hours. Never has a relatively short eight hour work day seemed like such a hurdle.

We've tried to get her to take a bottle (asleep or awake) for two months, and we have had no luck aside from the aforementioned "dream feed". Sometimes she screams during our attempts; most times she plays with the nipple of the bottle, thinking we're offering her a new toy, happy to chew on it for a few seconds but ultimately rejecting it. We've offered the bottle with Mommy out of sight, with Mommy in the room, with Mommy subbing it in for the breast during a nursing, with experienced Grandmas and Aunts helming the effort, with Daddy begging her to consider, with bottles that look like boobs, with bottles that look like pacifiers, and with bottles that look like bottles, but nada.

We're now resorting to what friends tell us is the final, most effective method: Mommy goes back to work and makes the baby take a bottle or starve. This option is more than unsettling.

The babe also doesn't like to sleep in her crib. The past three months has elapsed over a long series of hand-offs between me and my husband; and if you are the one she falls asleep on, you must transition her to the nearest bed-like surface. Sometimes this can be a crib, or co-sleeper, or reclined baby swing or couch. The transition is done with the grace and precision of an experienced tai chi practitioner, as the babe cannot feel any slackening, dropping, or fidgeting or she will wake up.

This on-demand service will be impossible to continue when I go back to work, including the days when I'm working from home. In other words, unless we get this kid trained to fall asleep on her own, in her own bed, my husband will be the sole set of arms for eight-hour stretches of time. I've been praying for him and reminding him that, in retrospect, these times pass by all too quickly.

There were short stretches during my leave when I took a work call, sat in on an important meeting, responded to email, jotted down some thoughts I had about something business-related. All of these moments were all-encompassing. I know myself, and while I often multitask, I cannot integrate mothering with working. Both must be done exclusively during the times I've designated for them.

This, in itself, is a mixed blessing because it forces me to keep these realms separate, but it also forces them to compete. The work side can no longer sneak in minutes, that turn into hours, pursuing unscheduled ideas and entering spontaneous discussions. All of my spontaneity will be paradoxically planned; hemmed into my work day. The Mom side has to acknowledge the future I'm building at its short-term expense. I'll miss some milestones of my daughter's development and catch her at the crankier end of the day.

And I'll abandon someone I once left before, years ago, with whom I'd become reacquainted over the past three months. She knows how to sit in a room without looking at the clock. She forgets appointments. She sometimes forgets to bring her cell phone with her when she's out. She calls her friends in the middle of the day and apologizes if she catches them working. She finds joy in crazy things like changing diapers. She's not hankering to go places. She gets weepy from looking at babies, particularly ones she has to leave.