Business Rule 101-Thou shalt not piss off a Social Media Savvy Writer

This post is inspired (or maybe provoked is a better word) by an experience I had with Staples Canada customer service earlier today.

I have been in the market for a new computer desk. The desk I have is a lovely hardwood desk, but it's the wrong height to be a computer desk and it's not wide enough. I've had it since I was in high school, but I don't think I ever used it as a desk.

There are space limitations in the room it's destined for, and I finally found the perfect desk at Staples and ordered it online. It stated next day delivery, so I've been sitting twiddling my thumbs all morning. Staples will only tell you that the item will be delivered "sometime between 9am and 5pm". Okay, that's not helpful in today's day and age but anyway...

I finally pulled up the confirmation email and  I called the customer service number to see approximately when in the 9-5 window I could expect to see my new computer desk, which I would still have to assemble.


That's when the problems began. Now let me preface this by saying that I have been both a customer service representative, and a manager of a customer call centre. I know from customer service call centres and shoddy customer service is not acceptable to me. I won't accept crappy customer service.

I got the customer service person on the line,  gave my order number and asked for a status update.

I was mistaken on the delivery date-mainly because I never know what the date is unless it's a date I have to remember-like deadlines and birthdays. The shipment was due to be delivered tomorrow, not today. Okay, my bad. I can own that. However, I won't be around tomorrow and there isn't anyone I can ask to be here-especially all day. I asked the customer service rep if we could reschedule.

I was told in no uncertain terms that it was not possible to reschedule. It would be delivered tomorrow, and if I wasn't there, too bad. They would try again another day. I asked if the shipment had left the warehouse yet. Nope, still in the warehouse. Well then why can't it be rescheduled to Wednesday? Nope, can't do that. Why not? Not our policy...Why not? We just can't reschedule...The CSR couldn't explain WHY it couldn't be rescheduled, only that they would make 3 delivery attempts and send it back to the warehouse. If I didn't like it, I could cancel the order. Take it or leave it.

I went around the mulberry bush for a few minutes, and then told the customer service rep that the policy was not acceptable, it made no sense, and I wanted to talk to her manager. She put me on hold for a minute, and then came back on the line with the same old lines. I interrupted her, because to be honest I was pretty annoyed at this point, and told her that I wanted to talk to her manager. She told me the manager didn't want to escalate the call, I could take the delivery schedule or cancel the order. I cancelled the order.

I then took to Twitter to tweet about the poor experience, AND I called Staples Head Office for good measure and complained to someone there. Hell hath no fury like a writer with a sense of efficacy, CSR experience and a social media presence.

The person on the end of the Staples twitter account reacted immediately and asked for details. The person at head office was not pleased with how things had been handled and was going to advise someone somewhere about it. I'm still not happy, so here I am in the blogsphere as well.

So here's what I do know. Having a delivery window of "sometime between 9am and 5pm" is ludicrous in today's day and age of text and electronic communications. People are busy, and the days of the housewife being home all day to wait for a delivery are long gone. If you tell me that it will delivered between 9-11am, I can plan accordingly. 9-5pm is a bit ridiculous...

In today's day and age of email communications and computer d-bases, it should be a simple matter to change the delivery date, especially since the boxes are still sitting in the warehouse. One keystroke could have saved a great deal of grief, aggravation and ill-will.

Social media means that good and bad experiences are instantly communicated. The first thing I did when I got off the phone was find out if Staples had a Twitter account, and tweeted my bad experience. I had a response in minutes.  I then googled their head office and spoke to someone there. I'd always had good dealings with Staples, and our local store staff are great. However, this experience has tainted my impression of the store, although the quick response to the tweet was impressive.

It's common lore that people tell 5 people about a positive experience, and 10 people about a negative one. The advent of social media can multiply that reach 10 fold. Companies need to be aware of that.

In the mean time, I'm out one computer desk and the room upstairs is a mess. Guess I'll be staying at the kitchen table a bit longer than I planned.

Little Things

This post was inspired by Laura Wright's new Blog  The ODD Mom. Laura has just started blogging, and she's on my must-read list. Go check her out.

My daughter has ADHD, OCD and Anxiety. Surprisingly, she can handle the big things pretty well-took my mother in law's death very well, and when my mother fell when she was there, she helped grandma bandage her hand (and injury that required 28 stitches to sew that skin back on-peeled it off the back of her hand) and then tried to clean up the blood for Grandma.  Big things don't seem to phase her.

Her OCD and Anxiety means that little things, on the other hand, can throw her right into a tailspin. We had a meltdown in a store last week because she was in a panic about whether her stuffed bunny was in the car or had been forgotten. She bolted from me one time, and I caught her a nano-second before she ran into 4 lanes of busy rush-hour traffic because Bunny had been forgotten on a table at summer camp across the road.  Barbies must be naked before they are put away for the night. They must go in a certain order into the box, and clothes must be below the dolls. She can't cope if it isn't done that way. Her hair is brushed before she brushes her teeth and she once locked herself in the bathroom for 20 minutes because I tried to hurry things along and brushed her hair while she was brushing her teeth. Her clothes go on in a certain order. She needs a clean spoon if she eats more than one thing requiring a spoon.

Her anxiety can be extreme. "But what if" enters into many conversations. She should go work for the Pentagon or CSIS-she can dream up scenarios that wouldn't occur to other people. Some of them are funny ("but what if someone breaks into the car and steals Bunny?" "Honey, if someone breaks into the car, Bunny is the last thing they'll be looking for." ) and some of them break my heart.  We were going to a fall fair last weekend and she was having a meltdown because she only wanted one of us to go with her, and the other one had to stay home.  She didn't care which one, but someone had to stay. We eventually found out that it was because she wanted someone to stay in the house to protect Bunny. Problem solved-Bunny came along in a zippered carryall bag. It took over an hour of her pleading with us before we found out. "Why do you want one of us to stay." "Because"  "Because why" "I can't tell you." "Well then I can't stay home." "Please...." "Tell us why" "Because" "Because is a preposition not an answer-tell us why we need to understand" "I can't" and so it went...

I drove to Welland, Ontario and back yesterday (2 hours each way) for my friend's mom's funeral. I dropped the kid at school and left, and had arranged for one of her friend's moms to pick her up after school for a playdate until I could get home. Vampira left her hairband ("her most favorite one in the whole world") at her friend's house and she was starting to panic. I called, talked to the little girl's dad and asked if they could bring it to school in the morning. No problem, I'm putting it in the backpack now. Crisis averted, kid went to sleep.

Fast forward to this morning and kid was trotting to school so she could get her hairband back. The little friend goes in a different door, so we waited by the door she goes in. When the bell rang, the little girl hadn't shown up yet, and Vampira was in a panic. She has a test today that we have worked all week to get ready for. When we left the house this morning, she was good to go. She knew the words, she could spell the words, she could write the words, she could recognize the words if I spelt the words...and I'm afraid it's all gone to pot because a hairband. Her brain may be stuck in the hairband loop all day.

She will have to learn to recognize and manage her OCD. People with older OCD kids say that it is possible and it will come. My little girl is 6 (okay 6 1/2) and she doesn't have the cognitive ability to recognize and interrupt the pattern. All she knows is that her hairband was supposed to be at school and it wasn't. Hopefully, the little friend was just late and all was well at recess, hairband returned to its rightful owner, or I will be heading to the accessories store after school.


Part of my job as her mom is to minimize her stressors. Sometimes that means sending 3 spoons in her lunch because she has soup, pudding and applesauce and can't use the same spoon. Sometimes it means walking her back to the car to show her her stuffed bunny is sitting waiting for her. And sometimes, it means buying a new hairband.  Someone who was supposed to have training in children's mental health issues thought I was enabling her compulsion by packing different spoons which told me she didn't understand OCD. While it may be enabling to an extent, it's also making sure that Vampira will eat her lunch. She won't use the same spoon, and it doesn't matter if you wash it in between. I have bigger mountains to die on, so I pack three spoons.

I'm meeting with her teacher after school today just to introduce myself, introduce the kid's challenges and commit to working together. One of her other teachers commented a couple of days ago that a little thing like where she was going to sit really got her stressed. I'm glad the school community is starting to see it. If they can't I'll educate them and we'll work together.

I just hope the bloody hairband showed up...

Grade 1

My little girl started Grade 1 today. She wore her sparkly new shoes, her sparkly top, her jeans with sequins on them and her sparkly belt. She had her Hannah Montana backpack and lunch bag and was more than a little terrified.

My daughter suffers from Anxiety disorder, OCD and ADHD. She may or may not be FASD as well, but we have to wait until next March to have that confirmed. The labels explain the why she is, but not the whose she is. They are part of her, but I'm not going to let them define her.

School is tough on my kid. She's a worrier. She is a perfectionist and she'd rather say she doesn't know than to get an answer wrong. Her OCD means that things have to be done a certain way every time, and if things change unexpectedly she can be thrown off for the day. IF something has been promised, then it must happen as promised or she can't cope. Life is full of unexpected changes, so I've tried to mitigate that as much as possible. If there is only a possibility of something happening, I don't mention it until it becomes a certainty. 

My little girl is very intuitive. She knows when someone likes her, and she knows when someone doesn't. She wants everyone to like her. That's going to be hard on her-in fact, it already has been. One of the challenges with OCD is sometimes she fixates, and sometimes it's on a person. (If I never hear another word about Hannah Montana I'll be a happy person) If the person is someone that she has decided is her new BFF, and it's news to the other person, we have a problem. I have to let the fixation run its course, but I have a sad little girl in the meantime when her adoration is not returned.

We had a couple of really bad days this weekend, because school was weighing on my little girl's mind. She thought she had to know everything for Grade 1 the first day of Grade 1. Since I'm her mom, and I know nothing, I solved the problem by hauling out the Grade 1 and Kindergarten curriculum books I'd already purchased. We started with Kindergarten, and worked through some pages so she could see how much she had learned. Then I asked her whether she had learned things in Junior Kindergarten or Senior Kindergarten. She's a bright kid, and figured out the pattern quickly-that learning builds from stuff you already know. Then I grabbed the Grade 1 book and we flipped through some pages. She quickly discovered that she already knows a bunch of Grade 1 stuff too. Problem solved, at least for now.

I'm worried about test anxiety. I'm worried that the school will use the labels to define her, rather than to help her be her best. I'm worried that my kid will be stressed and anxious. She had a rough year last year, but over the summer, I got my sunny bunny back. I don't want to lose that kid again.

The school, teachers and principal will just have to get used to this face because they are going to see it alot. A good friend of mine, whose son has Downs Syndrome, tells teachers that "my child can't rise to low expectations." I like that. Yes, my kid has some challenges, but that is all they are. She's a kind, sweet, smart, loving, funny little fashionista with strong opinions. She will do great things, with a bit of help, a lot of support and love in abundance (and maybe the occasional trip by a stuffed bunny in a backpack.)

My little girl started Grade 1 today, and I couldn't be more proud.

Choice, Priorities and Acceptance

I don't know how to start this post. Or rather, I don't know how to diplomatically start this post, so I guess I'll just start. I've never been a fan of sweeping generalizations that encompass a whole sector of people and judge them by the actions of a few. After 9-11, people blamed the followers of Islam as a whole for the actions of a few, which makes as much sense as blaming me for the Troubles in Northern Ireland because I have some Irish in my blood.  If we learned nothing else from the life of Jack Layton, it is that we need to see the individual.

I used to be quick to judge other parents when their children were pitching a fit in the grocery store. They must be bad or indulgent parents-why can't they discipline their children? Well, karma is a bitch and the universe has a sense of humour, and on more than one occasion, my child has been the one flat out on the floor pitching a fit. She gets easily overstimulated, and sometimes the only way she can let us know that she's had enough and can't cope anymore is to pitch a fit. Now I'm the parent other people are judging, yet they don't know the reason. All they see is the behaviour.

I juggle the multiple priorities of self-employed business person, wife, mother, daughter, friend and singer. Often I can keep all the balls in the air, but other times, I have to make tough choices. For example, a year ago, I lost my cousin, brother of my heart, and a memorial was planned for Labour Day weekend 2010 in Field, BC, which is about 3 hours from Calgary.  He was my mother's favorite nephew, no disrespect to the other cousins, but then 84 year old my mother was not able to make the trip to Calgary, and then to Field. She took Murray's death hard, and I didn't think I could leave her alone. In addition, my daughter was going back to school, my mother in law was fighting a losing battle with cancer, and my husband had all he could cope with. Even had I had the means to go to the memorial, it was not the time for me to be away from my family, and so I had to miss saying goodbye in person. It still haunts me, and I suspect that some of my family members think I should have found a way to be there, and don't confuse them with the facts, thank you.

My best friend is here from Australia, and is heading back home soon. Her mother had a massive stroke before Christmas, and my friend has been staying close to home during her visit. We've gone down to see her a couple of times, and hope to squeeze in one more visit if we can swing it. She called hoping to meet me for lunch on Monday halfway between our locations. I had already booked two interviews for a story that has to be completed tomorrow, and I can't manage to complete the interviews and get there in time for lunch. I have to work when the work is there, because my work can be sporadic. I have a lot of work, and tight deadlines, and as much as I want to see my friend again before she leaves, I have to meet my deadlines. I know that once her mom passes away, she probably won't return to Canada as often, if at all. It was a tough choice to have to pass on lunch.

My child is starting Grade 1 at a time when most of my friends my age are sending their children off to university or attending their weddings. My daughter has challenges, not the least of which is anxiety, and she needs routine and consistency to feel safe. She worked herself into a state this afternoon at the grocery store, for example, because she couldn't remember if her stuffed bunny was in the car or had been forgotten, and was almost hysterical by the time we went back to the car over the possibility that her stuffy had been lost. Bunny was fine and my daughter eventually calmed down. It might not seem like something to get into a state about, but to my daughter, it was.

I have responsibilities and I juggle choices and priorities. I take my commitments seriously, and sometimes those commitments clash with what I'd like to do. As much as I wanted to have lunch with my friend, if I don't make my deadlines, I won't have more work. As much as I wanted to go to my cousin's memorial, my husband, my mother and daughter needed me more. And as much as  I would have like to personally attend Jack Layton's funeral in Toronto, I had committed to be at 5pm mass, and I have articles due on Monday. It was not for a lack of desire that I attended via television rather than in person, (And wrote an article at the same time) and I don't think my tears and grief have any less validity because they were shed in my basement instead of Roy Thomson Hall.  It had nothing to do with being from Ontario, which apparently to some, means I don't understand the concept of social democracy (and for the record, I'm from Quebec. I live in Ontario). It had nothing to do with lack of desire, motivation or a sense of malaise-I had other stuff going on that meant I couldn't go. And for the record, it sucked.

The message of inclusion that Jack Layton lived was more than words. He believed it, he demonstrated it and he truly believed that it was possible. Homeless people stood shoulder to shoulder with Bay Street business people as the hearse took its final journey. People from all across Canada, from every race, colour, creed, ethnicity, sexual orientation and demographic category shed tears of sadness and disbelief when the news broke that Layton had died. Politics didn't matter, because people recognized that Jack Layton was that rarity-a genuine person committed to making a difference. I think it was Peter Mansbridge (possibly Brian Mulroney) who said that Layton didn't go to Ottawa to be someone, he went to Ottawa to do something. Layton stayed away from personal attacks, and focused on his vision of Canada. His passionate support and concern for ordinary people resonated across the nation, whether you voted for him or not. (and for the record, I did.)

We need to heed Layton's message. We need to look beyond the superficial and try to see the reasons behind it. We need to make less snap judgements and take more time to see the real reasons behind a behavior. We need to make less sweeping generalizations and look more to the individual rather than the demographic, socio-economic, or geo-political entity. We can disagree about a policy or a strategy, but respect the person voicing the other opinion. We can disagree with an idea without denigrating the person. It's the best way to honour Jack's memory.

RIP Jack Layton, and this business of grief

Jack Layton, NDP leader and leader of the official opposition in Canada died of cancer this morning. He stepped down as leader a month ago to focus on his cancer battle, but anyone who has watched someone fight cancer were shocked and scared for him. Cancer sucks. I know as  writer that's not particularly eloquent or profound, but it sums it up. Cancer sucks.

I never met the man. I wish I had. He always struck me as a man of integrity, honesty and moral righteousness, but in a good way. Friends of mine who did know him attest to those qualities. He cared passionately for people who did not have a voice. He cared passionately for the homeless, the poverty stricken and people other people forgot about or didn't care about. I was comforted by the fact that ordinary Canadians would have a fierce fighter in the House of Commons to represent our interests. The mere fact that Mr. Layton chose to write a letter to Canadians, in effect to say goodbye, shows me the measure of the man. I also think he would have been a grand person to have a conversation with.

 I think this is hitting me particularly hard today because I'm already very emotional. One year ago today, I was sitting waiting for the news that my brother of my heart, Murray, had lost his battle with Hep C. Like Mr. Layton, Murray chose to put others ahead of his health, in his case, taking care of his darling boy Allie. By the time Murray sought medical attention, it was too late.

Grieving has no time frame.  Just when you think you've bested it, something will happen-you find a picture, or hear a song or return to a special place, and grief rushes in full force and overwhelms. There is no right or wrong. There is only grief, and how ever long it takes. Today is a day I feel sad and fragile. It's okay. It shows I care, I loved and was loved.

RIP Mr. Layton. Thank you for your service, your dedication and your example. Murray, I miss you. I keep expecting to hear your gravelly voice on the phone and I still can't believe that won't happen again even though it's been a year. Be at peace.

The Pink Ribbon Sorority

I was interviewing Dr. Craig McFadyen today for an article for Waterloo Region Openfile.ca about the Grand River  Regional Cancer Centre. I have personal experience with the Breast Cancer Diagnostic Centre, so I post this blog in honour of the women of the Pink Ribbon Sorority, and all the patients I saw at the centre today. God give you strength and courage.

The Pink Ribbon Sorority 

As I combed out my hair after the shower that morning, I contemplated the fact that if I needed chemotherapy and my hair fell out, that my hair was going to grow back gray instead of my “natural” brown, and that was really going to suck. Given the fact that I was facing a potentially life-changing event, it seemed an odd thing to cross my mind, but there it was. You see, in 2006 I became a member of a unique sorority. Membership is automatic when certain conditions are met. It is not optional, but it may or may not be a lifetime membership. In 2006,  I joined the Pink Ribbon Sorority when I discovered a lump in my breast.

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with “the Girls”. They developed early, and like a pretty friend who’s had too much to drink at a party, commanded all the attention. I lost count of the number of times that people conducted whole conversations with “the Girls.” People assumed an inverse relationship between my cup size and my intellect; I am a smart woman-it annoyed me.After years of groping and constant back pain, I had a breast reduction.

           

I didn’t want to deal with the lump at first.I ignored pain in my nipples for a couple of weeks, even though I’d had no sensation in my nipples since the breast reduction. When the lump became visible in the mirror, I had it checked. I went to see the nurse practitioner at the doctor’s office, who sent me for an ultrasound, which located the lump and called it a “fibroadenoma”. The nurse practitioner advised that they were usually benign, but the radiologist had suggested further investigation was warranted. While the breast reduction had alleviated some of the unwanted attention, it had left me with scar tissue which made a definitive diagnosis of the lump difficult. I was referred to the Waterloo-Wellington Breast Screening Centre for a detailed examination. This Centre was a kind of “one stop shop” where a woman could receive an ultrasound, a mammogram, have the results read by the radiologist and see the surgeon the same day. It was designed to streamline the diagnostic process, and the associated stress and uncertainty. 

            I decided at the outset that I wasn’t going to say anything to anyone until there was something to say. My family members are all world-class worriers. If my mother, for example, didn’t have anything to worry about in the present, she would go back and re-worry the past. My husband tended to go immediately to worst case scenario and I didn’t want him spending the insurance money prematurely. My family would worry themselves sick until I had a diagnosis, and I didn’t feel that I could carry them, too. My close friends were dealing with their own share of problems (including two friends whose mothers were fighting breast cancer) and I didn’t want to burden them with something that might or might not be a problem. I’ve always supported everyone else and shouldered my own burdens- it’s just my way.

            Random thoughts flitted through my brain periodically as I waited for a definitive diagnosis. Was it cancer? Who would take care of my family if I needed treatment? Could I sew well enough to alter my clothes if I needed a mastectomy? Would God really give me my daughter only to take me from her? And then there was the gray hair bit-bald I could handle; gray not so much. There wasn’t any logic to my musings; I’ve always tended towards the morbid and the dramatic.

            After my referral to the breast screening clinic, I told my husband, my mother and my in-laws. I told them out of necessity since they were watching my toddler while I went to the various appointments. They handled it better than I expected, but reacted much as I anticipated. It added to my stress but had to be done.  Chocolate and wine helped.

            The morning of my appointment at the clinic was harried. My daughter slept in and my husband decided at the last moment to drive me, as I was walking out the door to the appointment. Since we still had to shoe my toddler and wrestle her into the car seat, I arrived at the clinic 10 minutes late and frazzled. As I stood at the reception, health card and ultrasound films in hand, another woman stood quietly waiting to talk with the receptionist. As the  receptionist hung up the phone, the woman leaned forward and said “it was okay. It was fine!” The receptionist’s face lit up and she thanked the woman for sharing the news. She was obviously well known to the staff-I wondered if her results had always been “it was fine.” Somehow, I didn’t think so.  That small exchange broke the dam on the nerves that I’d been keeping at bay-now I was scared.

            There were two waiting areas. One had coffee, a television and a few chairs. It was right beside the reception and was designed for short stays. A couple of men and a few women sat there. This was the area for the routine screenings and for companions.

            I was ushered to the other area. No explanation was needed when I walked in; this was the area for women who had Found Something. We were all there to find out what the Something was. Four or five women sat in pink flowered hospital gowns, idly flipping through the usual assortment of magazines, or making small talk. I donned my gown and joined them. The gown was designed to provide access and privacy at the same time…and there were pictures inside the dressing room explaining how to put it on properly. It was perky and flowery and I hated it on sight. Periodically, the efficient and cheerful staff summoned one of us for an ultrasound or a mammogram, and then we returned to wait for the surgeon. As the wait for the surgeon lengthened, we contemplated sparking a fashion revolt or possibly a new fashion trend by leading a parade to the cafeteria in our pink-flowered hospital gowns, but thought better of it.

            My turn came for the mammogram. I’d never had a mammogram before, and I was dreading it. I’d heard all the horror stories and was really not looking forward to squashing “the Girls” like a panini. Even though I’d had a breast reduction, “the Girls” are formidable, and they only compress so far.  Deirdre, the friendly, professional woman who shepherded me through the day, was also efficient. She explained that pain was not acceptable with the new digital mammograms-if it hurt there was a problem. She also explained everything every step of the way. By the time I had worked up a stress, the mammogram was finished, and I was sent back to wait with the others.

            For the most part, we were alone. One woman sat with her daughter, one brave man sat hand in hand with his wife in a sea of women. The rest of us were unaccompanied. As the hours dragged on and we waited for the surgeon, the room grew quiet and introspective. A cheery voice heralded the arrival of the surgeon, and the atmosphere changed. The tension was palpable.

            One of the nurses directed us one by one into the exam rooms. The woman who had been waiting with her daughter was the first to finish. As she left, she smiled at all of us and said “good luck.” Her face was unreadable; her daughter’s was relieved. Suddenly, it was my turn.

            The surgeon breezed in and asked me about my family medical history.  I don’t have a family medical history-at least not one that I have access to.  I was adopted in an era when records were sealed-I have no idea what’s swimming in my gene pool. After flipping through a couple of pages, he advised me that nothing had been found that required further investigation and I was free to go. He would send a letter to my doctor. He was out the door and on to the next patient before I had a chance to ask any questions.

            In the space of a few minutes my ordeal was over.  “It was okay, I was fine.” I was not to become a full-fledged member of the Pink Ribbon Sorority this time-I could keep my family, my health, my life…my hair and my “natural” brown colour. Odds were, for at least one woman in pink today, her ordeal was just beginning.  Cancer is the great equalizer. It doesn’t care who you are or what you do. Fame does not shield you; wealth affords you no protection. It will touch all of us one way or the other.

            I donned my clothes and hurried out the waiting area. All of the seats were now occupied on the Found Something side and the people had spilled over to the other side. As I left, I caught the eye of a woman in the telltale pink flowered gown sitting holding hands with her husband. Her face told the tale. I mouthed “good luck” to her, and she smiled, but it didn’t quite make it all the way to her eyes. Her husband nodded at me, and seemed grateful for the acknowledgement. As I waited for my husband and daughter to rescue me and take me home to my life and my future, I said a prayer for the Pink Ribbon Sorority. Sometimes, all we have to offer is prayer.  

The view from Working from Home

This post is inspired by the post by Heather Rigby over at Babble.com.http://www.babble.com/toddler/toddler-development/questions-for-parents-from-SAHM/

I thought I'd contribute a few of my own:

You know you work from home  as a writer if:

1. You know to the nano-second the broadcast length of every DVD in your child's collection, but have no idea what most of them are about because you haven't actually watched them. You also know what DVD is required to meet the required word count for an article. For example, a 1500 word article may require the "Phineas and Ferb Christmas" plus the "Suite Life on Deck with Hannah Montana." A 500 word article might be doable in a "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" or "Enchanted."
2. If your child will be in residence when you are planning on conducting a phone interview, you warn all of your interview subjects in advance that your child is at home, and apologize in advance for any interrruptions that may occur.
3. You have continued a phone interview with a subject, in your best engaging and interested professional voice while: A-taking the back off a sticker. B-changing the DVD (see item 1 above) C-pouring a glass of milk D-cleaning up a puddle of milk after small child was tired of waiting and tried to accomplish (c) by him/herself
4. Made threatening "mommy faces" to small child to chase them back to the living room while continuing interview in best professional voice (and taking notes).
5. Live in fear of a Skype two-person interview becoming a three-person interview when the small person peers into the webcam and announces "who dat? Who dat in your compooter mommy? Can we go to the park now?"
6. Often START your work day at 7pm when your partner has returned from work and can take a turn wrestling the kid(s) to bed while you make a large pot of coffee and work into the wee small hours.
7. Try to schedule as many interviews by email as possible to avoid items 1-5 above.
8. Have perfected the art of writing 1000 words in the 2 hour window that you have between start and finish of summer camp.
9. You have taken a child to a last-minute interview with a bribe of Build-a-Bear or junk food  if they behave. You also charged up the iPod in advance and let them play any level of Angry Birds, even the ones you already had 3 stars on.
10. Have a spouse who has grown accustomed to the look of panic when s/he arrives home and you discover that it's dinner time and nothing is planned.

These are just a few of my random thoughts. Have I missed any?