Recently I attended a conference on health disparities in communities of color. The National Health Policy Training Alliance for Communities of Color hosted over 40 journalists of all hues and ethnic origins to convene in New Orleans to discuss how we can better cover healthcare related issues and the health disparities that still plague our communities. For three days, we sat in a top floor of well appointed hotel in the lovely French Quarter, having a lively discussion on how we can get better and more thorough coverage of the issues.

Turns out the real story about health disparities and racial inequities was really 20 minutes away, across the bridge and down Claiborne Blvd in the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans.  The lower ninth ward was infamously destroyed during Hurricane Katrina five years ago. The area was the hardest hit when the levees broke and given the community poor residents, they were the last to get help. The images of bodies floating through the water still haunt me.

But you would never believe what is still going on in the lower ninth ward by walking through the downtown area of New Orleans. I too, enjoyed walking up and down Bourbon Street, looking at all the new apartments, shops and restaurants that were alive and bustling in the downtown area. There, you would think Katrina never happened.  The city looks like back to business as usual.

But I’ve never been one to take things on face value. It is my experience that in most urban environments there is almost always a tale of two cities, and the tale of the brown city that exists across the railroad tracks or the bridge or whatever socioeconomic divide exists in that particular locale, is almost always starkly different.

So when a few of the local community leaders came to address us, what they had to say about the lower ninth ward was appalling but not surprising. They said that of the $90 million that FEMA allocated to rebuilding, that the Lower Ninth Ward has not received any money. Nobody has been told a definitive answer as to why not. They said the lower ninth ward only has one working school for K-12^th grade with 750 students and a 450 student long waiting list. There are no hospitals in the area and God help you if you need emergency care and have to travel across the bridge and across town to get it.  They expressed their outrage that tour companies bring bus loads of people through the lower ninth ward everyday to gawk at their despair, yet never sharing any of their profits or stopping to support local businesses. They said that many displaced residents would love to return, but can’t because there are no schools and no real health care options for the elderly.

I wonder why.    

So, on my last day in New Orleans, instead of buying souvenirs, beads, and taking in the tourist traps,  I asked a friend to drive me to the lower ninth ward.  It looked mostly like a wasteland with a few nice new homes put up. I saw plenty of concrete steps that once led to a house, but now only lead to a field of 5 foot tall grass and weeds.  I saw where do-gooders like Brad Pitt and other organizations have helped rebuild new and colorful housing, that quite frankly,  just looks weird sitting next to devastation.

But what I mostly saw was the biggest disparity of them all—the wealth disparity.  Money given to help those who have and no money to those who don’t. In fact, it is clear that the powers that be have no intention of rebuilding that community. To them, Katrina has become a tragic opportunity to rid the city of some of its poorest residents—I mean, really, who wants them around anyway. So why rebuild so they can return.

There’s a new plan for the lower ninth ward and the message is clear: poor blacks need not apply. New developments and higher rents are on the horizon, but there are no jobs to support them. Even though blacks built that city, created its music and its food culture, the winds of economic racism have no regard for history.   So the displaced stay displaced. And the disparities linger. In health and in life.

Note: Hey y'all, please check out Spike Lee’s latest documentary, If God is Willing and Da Creek Don’t Rise on HBO  http://www.hbo.com/documentaries/if-god-is-willing-and-da-creek-dont-rise/synopsis.html for a real look at the Lower Ninth Ward and the impact of the BP oil spill. 

  

 

Please stand back. I’m about to blow.

 

I was so glad to wake up yesterday to learn that Fantasia has returned home after being in the hospital for some sort of accidental overdose, after news broke that she was caught up in a lawsuit, involved with a married man, and that there may be a sex tape to prove it.  O.M.G!  Her agent released a statement to the effect that, Fantasia thought the man, Antwaun Cook, was separated since 2009.  His wife, Mrs. Paula Cook, seems to say, not so much.

 

Deep breath.

 

Let’s just deal with the obvious stuff first: A sex tape? Really Fantasia? I’m hoping this is just conjecture and divorce settlement wrangling because I’d like to think that even Tasia is smarter than that.  Ladies, in the world of YouTube, Facebook, Twitter and other social media stuff that I don’t know anything about, anybody with anything to lose, and by anything I mean a house, car, 401K, or child should never make a sex tape unless you have been married (and I mean to the other person in the tape) for at least 10 years.  And even then, you might want to wear a mask, just in case (just tell him it’s for effect).

 

Now we all know Fantasia’s troubled past, how she survived abuse and battled illiteracy, so I think we have sympathy and a little compassion for Fantasia that she may be vulnerable, easily manipulated and looking for love in all the wrong places.

 

And I would also like to ask, how many of us, when dealing with money problems, man problems, the kids, and the job haven’t been near a breakdown point?  I know I have. And who of us hasn’t been sidetracked, thrown off your game or straight up derailed (even temporarily) by a man. I know I have.

 

But since getting divorced and stepping into single motherhood, I have a new respect for and a keen awareness of my mental state. My mental health.  

 

My mental stability is one of my most valuable assets as a single mom, and I protect it fiercely.

 

This is especially true when it comes to the men who enter my space. I enjoy male company as much as next mama trying to get her groove back, but I let them all  know that when you bring drama, emotional games or anything else that messes with my mind, you’ve got to go!

 

When you mess with my mind, you mess with my work, which means who mess with my ability to create and  provide for and take care of my kids.  And not to quote Sarah Palin, but I will get “grizzly” on you when you mess with my kids. You can ask their father.

 

The truth is, as mothers we can’t let men or our work or anything else interfere with our most important task—raising our children.  No matter how flakey you might have been, as mothers, we expect a certain level of “get your isht together-ness” that needs to automatically happen once a placenta leaves your body.  The thought that Fantasia was so selfish that she wouldn’t consider her daughter as more than enough reason to put the pills down, makes my blood boil.

 

When you are a mother you have given up the luxury of that sort of selfishness.  It’s just that simple. And the lesson learned here of what can happen to you when your “self” is incomplete is beyond anything I can write.   

 

And this whole new definition of what is married needs to stop. People confuse separated with divorced. They are not the same.  I know this because my husband had a baby’s mama when he was still legally my husband.  But “he was separated” is her constant refrain. They are not the same, boo.

 

 I mean, seriously.  Separated is still married people. And I'm not making a moral judgment, I'm just saying, beware of what your are stepping into. And brace yourself.

 And Rule # 1 about men. And your mama told you this at age 12: Some men will say anything they want to get what they want. For many men, “truth” is a moving target.   At the end of the day, we have seen too many sisters sidetracked and derailed by trifling men.

 

The tragedy of Fantasia belts out that this nonsense has got to stop.

A little over a week ago, I wrote a blog for Momlogic about the high drowning rates and low swim ability rates among African American kids. Literally, a few days later, 6 teenagers tragically drowned in the Louisiana river when one of them waded over a drop-off point and the others (none of whom could swim) tried to save him. Meanwhile, the family stood helplessly unable to swim themselves and save the drowning youth. This is a wake up call to all African Americans.

Here's what I'm doing: I'm giving away swim caps and tee shirts from Make a Splash. org, autographed by black Olympic swimmer Cullen Jones, to the first people to comment on this post. Make A Splash works to get more minorities into affordable or free swimming lessons, a cause that Cullen, who nearly drowned as a child himself, is very committed to.

Here's what I wrote:

More Black Kids Drown. Are Parents At Fault?

 

I have a swimming pool at my house. A big ole 18 x 38 inground pool, that’s 8 ft deep on the far end and a diving board to boot, swimming pool. And I don’t know how to swim. Well, I won’t drown, (though I’ve never tested that theory) but I’m certainly no Olympic hopeful.

 

The pool was my ex-husband’s domain. He is a fish. I’m a black woman with hair issues. And now that he’s gone, I’m here alone with the big pool and his fish-like progeny. That means every summer brings on the anxiety of supervising my kids in the pool. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve taken every swim safety course I can find and keep all sorts of rescue tools nearby. But most importantly, when spring hits I put both of my children in swim lessons long before swimming season starts just to refresh their skills. When my budget allows, I’ve also had a certified swim instructor come to the house.  

 

Still, I’m haunted by the statistics.

 

Black children are 3 times more likely to drown. And 70% of African American Children and 58% of Hispanic Children have low or no swimming ability, compared to 40% of Caucasian children, putting them at a greater risk of drowning, according to a new report by USA Swimming which works to lower minority drowning rates and draw more blacks into the sport.

 

Let’s face it, our history with swimming pools is somewhat complex. For many years pools were segregated or not available in our communities. Just last year, 60 black and Latino campers were kicked out of a private Philadelphia swim club they contracted to use for the summer, because there was concern they would alter the "complexion" and "atmosphere" of the club.

 

In recent years, the media has always pointed to a lack of pool access or financial concerns as the major reasons for the “swimming gap” between black and Latino kids and Caucasians.  But a new study rips the lid off these ideas and shows that key cultural reasons – parental fear, lack of parental encouragement (attributed to the fact that many parents have no to low swim ability themselves) and concerns of our physical appearance (chlorine’s effect on our hair & brown skin) are at the root of the gap.

 

While financial factors do come in to play for some families, FEAR trumps FINANCE in every group tested, the study found.  Even if lessons were free, many parents would still not put their kids in the pool. Now that’s a problem.

 

As one mom in a Detroit focus group said, “You’re already uncomfortable and scared. You’re like, ‘I‘m paying them so I can have heart palpitations on the side-lines. It’s not worth it. It really isn’t. Why should I have to pay money to be afraid?”

 

Recently, I had the pleasure of talking with Olympic swimming gold medalist and world record holder, Cullen Jones. Cullen nearly drowned in a water park as a child, but his mom used that experience to get him in the pool more not less. Today, Cullen is a world-class swimmer and the second African American to win a gold Olympic medal in the sport. He also serves as a spokesperson for the Make a Splash initiative and teamed up the USA Swimming and ConocoPhillips to help close the swimming gap and get more blacks and Latinos in the pool.

 

But the onus lies clearly with black parents. I admit to my swimming fears, but I don’t project them on my children. We can stop losing our children to the water. 

 

Check out some of the my pool pics so far this summer. And leave a comment here to win a freebie. The first five people to comment will get an autographed swim cap (check out two of my favorite girls, Niyah and Shakira sporting theirs on the home page) and an autographed tee shirt.

 

 

 

The girls play water ponies "]

]

It took a long time to get this shot! the girls create their fountain of youth!!

 

Kayla takes a break from swimming for some cotton candy at her first pool party of the summer! ]

"My backyard taken over by a pool party. That\'s the lifeguard I hired on the left in the white T-shirt.]"Michael and I pose for the camera

After the pool, take a ride on the jumbo slide. I DID!!

SPECIAL THANKS TO CUZIN'S DUZIN'S/CUZIN'S KIDS FOR DOING A GREAT JOB AT OUR PARTY WITH THE SLIDE, COTTON CANDY, POPCORN MACHINE AND SNOWCONES!!! THEY WERE ON TIME WITH AN INCREDIBLE STAFF!

"Oh and what\'s a pool party without a little eye candy for me!! Thanks (single) Dads!]

 

When she called and told me the title of her essay, I was immediately intrigued.

"Priorities," she said. 

That's something that I have struggled with for years. Not the big ones, like family and faith. Ok, maybe sometimes faith. But stuff like my health, taking time for myself and juggling my many business related responsibilities. Especially, when it comes to work and balance, I often feel like my priorities are out of whack.

Lashieka Purvis Hunter and I are former colleagues at Essence magazine, both former editors who worked long hours at the office and then hit the Long Island Railroad for an one-hour commute home. We worked together for months before we accidentally ran into each other on the train and realized that not only were we both Long Islanders, but we lived in the same town ! Shame!! And I could walk to her mother-in-law's house. That is, if Long Islanders ever did such a thing.

But like many women, when Lashieka had her baby boy, her priorities changed and like many moms who struggle with being there for our children and nurturing the careers we worked hard for, Lashieka left Essence for something closer to home and more suited to her current priorities: mothering.

And though we live in the same town and have yet to meet up for lunch at one of the many new "hot" spots in Bay Shore (yes, we have a few!) that we keep talking about meeting up at, I was really proud to see Lashieka doing her thang and earning a spot in a powerful new collection of essays, Souls of My Young Sisters. 

The Souls of My Sisters series is a best selling series of books where successful black women share their unforgettable personal stories of faith, hope, and healing. This new book is for young sisters. And for those young in heart.

Lashieka's moving essay takes you through how watching her grandfather die changed her life. Changed her priorities.

When I asked Lashieka what inspired her to write the essay, this is what she said: 

"I have to tell you that seeing my grandfather pass away right in front of my eyes really changed me. It made me appreciate the people around me and it made me appreciate life. It made me realize that the things you worry about on a daily basis are minute. As he was dying, I know that there were things my grandfather wished he could have done, and things he wished he could have said, but he didn't get the chance to do that because he was probably doing what we all do, run, run, run, just going through the motions of life without really living it.  Now I realized that you absolutely cannot just simply go through the motions. You have to really experience and appreciate life."

Sounds like powerful wisdom for  young sisters. And the not-so young.

I just picked up my copy and I'm impressed. Plus, I'm thinking about all the young women in my family and mentoring circle I can buy the book for.  While relearning a few key lessons from the 20s that I forgot in my 30s.

Check out an excerpt from Lashieka's essay here on MochaManual.com

And take some time this summer, before its over, to feed your soul.

It's one of my new priorities.

 

 

In motherhood,

Kimberly

Was I the only one holding my breath as I watched Alicia Keys climb her pregnant self all up and over that piano during the BET Awards? I mean, she was trying to revitalize a weak Prince tribute, but come on'. And then last weekend while performing at the Essence Music Festival, she fell off her 4-inch heels and landed on her backside.

Ok now, Ms. Alicia.

Now don't get me wrong. I love me some Alicia Keys.  On any given Saturday, you’ll find my children and I closing out our usual Saturday morning dance party with a stirring rendition of “If I Ain’t Got You”, where we substitute each other’s names in the chorus.  My kid-friendly  traveling CD features Alicia’s live-out-your-dreams anthem, “Unbreakable.”  And when I’m feeling unstoppable, Alicia’s lyrics from Superwoman, “Still when I’m a mess, I still put on a vest, with an S on my chest. Oh yes, I’m a superwoman” really speak to me.  Oh, and please don’t get me all riled up about my morning anthem, Empire State of Mind.

But I’ve got a growing problem or real concern about Alicia Keys and many black women like her when it comes to our pregnancies.  

I’m concerned because for over five years now, I’ve been on a personal mission to help black women have healthy pregnancies and healthy babies. I've said it 10,000 times before and I'll say it 10,000 plus and more, studies show that even successful, college educated black women are still twice as likely to have a low birth weight baby, twice as likely to have a pre-term baby and nearly three times more likely to die during childbirth than their white peers.  Nobody knows the exact root cause of these disparities, and why education and class don’t protect us from poor birth outcomes as it does for white women.

But one of the biggest self destructive behaviors among black women is what I call the Strong Black Woman Syndrome. The exact same problem Alicia sings about in her Superwoman song.  We notoriously carry our communities, we carry our families and we carry our pain, but we put an S on our chest and project a “strong” image regardless of how broken we are inside.  In our culture we are raised to view “weakness” as a character flaw. We must be strong. Period.   

Having that conditioning is helpful in so many scenarios. But it can be damaging during pregnancy. In my many years talking to black women about pregnancy, I am still struck by the number of black women who don’t see pregnancy as any deviation from their normal state of being.  They expect to be able to continue to work just as hard, to continue to carry others, and to not take special care of themselves.  We work and work and work because that’s what we do. And even while taking on the most phenomenal journey known to womankind, we act like indestructible machines that can just keep going and going, and not as fragile humans charged with shepherding a new life into the world.  

This really has to stop. Our babies need a better start. A stronger and healthier start.

Alicia, we love you! But as one hard working black woman to another, I’m personally begging you to ease up on work and the piano climbing and allow yourself to be still.

Still.

Respect the journey of pregnancy. We know you are a superwoman. But your baby needs you to be super careful, super mindful and super stress free. 

We’ve got plenty of your great music to hold us over, I (and every black woman rooting for you) just want you to focus on the most important production of your life.

This one has REALLY been bothering me for some time. And I was so upset, I decided to give my put-on-blast commentary to Momlogic.com (you know how that audience tears into me) where I am currently having my black behind handed to me. But I just needed to say it and I wanted to say it to the right people.  Damn, the consequences. 

So here goes:

For some time it’s been really bothering me (no, really!) that a large and still growing group of white women have built a successful blogging and publishing platform and branding niche around parenting while drunk. Or at least very tipsy.

A Black mom would NEVER be able to get away with making money by extolling the virtues of alcoholism and child rearing. If I receive one more mom book to review with a cute-sie title featuring some mom’s need for alcohol, I'm going to scream. Or have a very strong cocktail.

Witness:
Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay by Stephanie Wilder-Taylor. This is where it all began. She also penned the really funny blog “Make Mine a Double: Tales of Twins and Tequila. Wilder-Taylor followed up the huge success of her first book, with her second tome, Naptime is the New Happy Hour (just love the cover with two wine bottles in the diaper bag!)

Then came:

The Three Martini Playdate: A Practical Guide to Parenting by Christie Mellor 

Baby, Make Me A Drink by Lisa Brown. 

And then a man gets in on it.  Daddy Needs a Drink by Robert Wilder.

And two of my non-mom favorites, but they speak to my white-girls-get-to-joke-about-being-alcoholics point:

You Can't Drink All Day if You Don't Start in the Morning by Celia Rivenbark

Crazy Aunt Purl’s Drunk, Divorced and Covered in Cat Hair and her follow-up book, Home is Where the Wine Is by Laurie Perry.  

Now don't get me wrong, I love humor and some caustic wit as much as the next mom who doesn’t take herself or parenting way too seriously.  I get it.  I also totally love my evening glass of wine as much as the next stressed out mom. And as my children know, when mommy has her "special cup" stay away for a few minutes, but a black woman would never be able to write a book promoting the virtues of PWD, parenting while drunk or even close to it.

Let me rephrase. She could write the book, but no one would ever pay to publish it. And she would likely become the poster child for the next Republican-led black mom bashing campaign.

And by the way, when Wilder, the poster child of PWD put up a post on her blog nearly a year ago that she needed to put down the cocktail and that she was done drinking, the clamor, outrage and cries of treason could be heard across the country. And there was a story about her quitting drinking…in the NEW YORK TIMES!!  In that story, Wilder talked about her “triggers.”  And I quote:

“Ms. Wilder-Taylor coped with postpartum depression, premature twins and, even now, an underweight toddler who needs an array of therapies — plus her writing deadlines.” OMG! Could any of these be  because of her drinking or is it just me???

And by the way,  I've been dying to write my own humorous tale of a black suburban mom on the edge, minus the alcohol problem. So far, I’ve got no nibbles. But I was thinking I should change the proposal to my secret working title, Hennessey in my Starbucks Cup (a little trick, I learned from the white moms in my daughter’s dance class. That is, putting alcohol in your Starbucks cup. The Hennessey was my idea) and maybe I will get more of a response.

But we all know that wouldn’t happen. 

The reason it works for white women is that with white women it is assumed she is educated and otherwise extremely capable to drink all the time and still parent, and really, only joking. Wilder-Taylor was not. She had a real problem. If a black mother joked that she drank all the time while parenting, somebody would call child protective services in a heartbeat. (Remember when my neighbor thought I was spanking?) White women are safe. There is no stigma attached to their drinking, in fact, there is even a trendiness and some lifestyle cache. My drinking would scream “unfit mother” in blaring lights.

Because black women are barely viewed as smart, savvy moms in the first place, the thought of us touting and even celebrating drinking on the job would be preposterous. And we certainly couldn’t build a marketable and profitable branding platform on the idea. Nobody, not even I (and you guys think I’m pretty bold), would go there.  I’m not that foolish to assume I have that luxury.

I love the liberty and freedom that white people have in this country. They get to be who they are without any preconceived stereotypes or judgments. I just wish that privilege extended to us all.

First of all, I am a very cool mom.

And as a woman, I still like to rock a little style. I'm still a shoe gal who loves her designer handbags and is rarely seen without some serious heels. It's just how I roll.

So you can imagine my surprise when Kayla recently tried to school me.

I was about to attend another one of her school trips. As a class mom, I've been to plenty. But this time, Kayla comes into my bedroom plants herself on my bed and asks me, to please wear "normal clothes" and "no heels." 

Excuse me, have we met???

"So what are normal clothes?" I asked.

"You know sweat pants or jeans with sneakers. Not jeans with high heel shoes," she said.

"Oh baby girl. Mommy doesn't do that kind of normal."

"Mom, this EMBARRASSING!!" she said as she walked out.

How could I be embarrassing??

I love my mother. Lord knows I do. But when she showed up on my school trips with a perfectly sponge-roller set pageboy, a red blazer, slacks and mid-stacked pumps looking like she was ready for the law office and not the aquarium…that was embarrassing!!

Then it dawned on me, that these kids growing up with young (in mind, at least) fabulous moms, don't have any clue about what an embarrassing mom looks like or acts like. I'm not talking about inappropriately dressed with tight shirts with the twins hanging out or other Mom No-No's, I'm talking about rocking your mommy style till the wheels fall off. 

My daughter has no clue about real embarrassment. 

So I'm collecting stories so she will understand. Please share yours, so we show these youngins how Moms used to roll. 

I'm giving away a $50 Target gift card to the person with the best, "My Mom Embarrassed Me When…." story.  

Whatcha got??

Just when I was getting the hang of my post-divorce, single-mom life with some ease and swerve, the "wasband" throws me a major curveball. "I'm moving back to London," he said one Friday night on the phone, all nonchalant like he was going to Cosco. (I don't know how to write that screeching sound of a needle scraping across a record but please insert that sound in your mind here). And he was leaving that Monday!! (yeah, do the sound thing again).

My first thought was for my children. They were used to seeing their Dad every weekend. And this abrupt change in their routine wasn't going to be good. My second thought (and I gotta admit, it was VERY close to my first) was, "What About Me???"

I had become very accustomed to our Friday night to Monday morning routine. I needed the break! It was my time to breathe for a minute, run naked in the house and, honestly, get a lot of work done. I allowed myself bike riding, board games or Wii breaks with the kids during the week as the my work piled up because I knew I could make it up on the weekend. I cut down on mid-week babysitting expenses by mostly booking speaking engagements and book signings on the weekend. The weekends were my time to get my hustle on if I needed to, catch up on my work if I needed to and enjoy the quiet, as I always needed to.

I really didn't see this coming.

But here I was, about to be on 24-7 duty with no family nearby, no child-swapping girlfriends nearby and local childcare costs that made me feel like I'm only leaving the kids with a sitter if I'm going to make money.

The first few weeks were ridiculous. I had a number of weekend book events that had been previously arranged given that  Mr. Wasband never gave me a heads up he was even considering moving out the country. I was scrambling to patch together child care and when I couldn't, I had to cancel and walk away from the money.

I had lost all touch with weekend moms and weekend kids event because I rarely had my kids over the weekend. We did our ice skating after school. Now, the weekend came and I had four eyes looking at me for activities.

But mostly, I was resentful of being left holding the bag like that with 24 hours notice. Needless to say, the non-existent child support continues to be just that. The childcare costs are rising because I do have to work and have clients to see. And Mr. Man is off in London having tea setting up shop for his new family, I suppose.

Now I really know what single motherhood is about. And it ain't pretty.

But we are adjusting. And we've been having some amazing weekend experiences.

You know how we do….why exactly do we do how we do single moms???

Oh yeah, because we have to.

If you have some tips for me on how manage the 24-7 life of single motherhood, I'm asking nicely. My "me time" is a faint memory.  And the little quiet I used to steal while the kids were at  school ends this week, and I will have two sets of puppy-dog eyes to satisfy.

Help!!!

 

In motherhood,

Kimberly

 

I'm a daddy's girl. Through and through.

My father has always been my biggest cheerleader and my biggest fan.

He has always believed in me, even at times when I didn't believe in myself.  He continues to support my dreams, invest in my future and let me know when my head is not on straight.

I'm eternally grateful to you, Dad and love you beyond words.

 

With all my love,

Kimberly

 

My Dad, in front of his quote in an exhibit at the Schomburg about desegregation in the South. His school district in Clarendon County, South Carolina was the county that began Brown vs. Bd of Education.

 

 

You gotta admit!

If you put together 15 women who've mostly never met in person before and put them together to work, plan and play for three days straight, even at the most beautiful, The Breakers resort in Palm Beach, you don't know what you will get!! Those Lifetime folks are risk-takers!! But they did it. They brought all of us Lifetimemoms.com channel leaders together. And it was wonderful!

First of all, I must say that I am honored to be included among this fabulous group of women. Not only are they dynamic writers but these ladies are serious businesswomen–they know how to work their websites, they know SEO, they know social media marketing, and they know brand building. I learned a lot!! And I think the Lifetime execs were impressed by how much we all knew about the business side of our websites. 

And I made a new friend I hope to feature on MochaManual in the next few weeks, Angela Burgin Logan of http://www.ladiesliveandlearn.com/  who has a phenomenal, life-changing story that I can't wait to share.

In between our working sessions, we sampled the best of The Breakers, hitting the spa ( I had the 50 min massage. Heaven!!), and the hair and makeup salons just before our exciting photo shoot (see the pics below), we enjoyed a private bungalow on the beach one afternoon and had a lovely dinner at the steakhouse.  I'm telling you, Lifetime knows how to put together a retreat for busy moms! 

 

I was happy to have a bed to myself and to take a shower without anyone knocking at the door, so everything else (including the very luxurious surroundings and the limo ride to and from the airport) was just gravy!

 

[caption id="attachment_279" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="My favorite corridor at The Breakers. The architecture is sick!! "][/caption]