Momhood

My Kid Wrote a Book...Really!

2009-04-03T12:39:00.003-05:00

One of the reasons that I haven't given up on Momhood is because it's an outlet for me to shamelessly promote my children and their various ventures.

My son, Dan, who is graduating in May from Ball State, just finished his first book. It's called "Explorer P Presents Sunflower: A Curaceus Crolium Official Report." (Or just Sunflower for short. It's AWESOME and you can buy a copy by clicking HERE. It's pretty cheap. He currently makes NO profit - really.

And if you think Dan is amazing, and you want to hire him to do audio or write songs or maybe even do some writing, here's his website, along with his resume - click HERE.

Hi. Remember me?

2009-03-22T08:23:00.002-05:00

Yeah, I know. I've been a total blog slacker...a "blacker" so to speak. But actually, not really. I've been blogging my brains out, just not here. And honestly, I'm not sure what to do with Momhood. It's my baby, my first-born blog. I can't just give it up. So in the meantime, I'm going to give you links to my other blogs and hope that you come and visit me there. Please....?

Examiner.com - My newest blog. I get PAID for this one, so click here OFTEN!

West Side Stories - This is my life...locally. I wish you all lived here. Many of you do. Aren't we lucky?

Driving Miss Cranky - Honestly, if I make it out of motherhood alive...scratch that...sane, then things will be good.

Thanks for visiting here, all 4 of you. I love you to pieces...really!

Students Make Music (and More) in Record Time

2009-02-20T10:10:00.001-06:00

There’s nothing like a deadline to get a college student going. And when the deadline is self-imposed, the most amazing things can happen. This is the idea behind Record Time IV, a project created four years ago by Ball State University Music Technology Seniors Dan Waldkirch and Mike Weber.

Record Time IV challenges all participants to write and record an album in one week – from Monday February 23rd at 12:00 am to Sunday March 1st at 11:55 pm. The “traditional” goal for Record Time is to write record 30 minutes of new and completely original music, in one week.

Prior Record Time challenges have yielded albums covering a wide variety of genres and themes, as well as several other interesting contributions, such as poetry, video and photography. Last year’s event resulted in 3.5 hours of unique music.

“This goal is not for the faint of heart,” explains Waldkirch. “However, there are NO rules whatsoever. If it’s your first time participating, maybe shoot for 20 minutes, or 10 minutes, or just one song. And it doesn’t even HAVE to be original!”

Waldkirch and Weber invite anyone and everyone to participate, primarily through a Facebook group. And participation is not limited to college students or musicians.

“If you’re not a musician, you can still participate. Write a story, or some poetry, or make a video, or bake a cake,” says Weber. “Do whatever you want. Then we will gather it all up and drop an avalanche of artwork all over the unsuspecting internets.”

One of the more interesting aspects about Record Time is that although it is a challenge, it is not a competition. There are no winners except for the participants who feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment upon completion.“Like I always say, it’s not about quantity OR quality, it’s about remembering what it feels like to get something done,” says Waldkirch. But don’t put it past a resourceful college student to use this extra-curricular activity to his advantage. “I’m working on a thesis about speed composition,” says Waldkirch, “and if you decide to participate in Record Time, I’ll want to interview you!”

For those interested in recording a CD, Waldkirch and Weber ask for a few things:All tracks in MP3 format, lyrics in some kind of text file and album artwork. But they insist that recording quality is not important whatsoever. They encourage participants to work with whatever resources they have.

Waldkirch and Weber have one final suggestion: “Invite your friends, and don’t chicken out, or you’ll regret it! People always do…”

For further information about Record Time IV or to participate, you can contact Dan Waldkirch via e-mail at djwaldkirch@bsu.edu.

When Folding Laundry Becomes a Guilty Pleasure

2009-02-18T11:19:00.000-06:00

I have a secret…shhhh….I sometimes watch crappy TV…and I love it. No, I’m not talking about “American Idol” or “House” or “Lost” or “Survivor” or “Desperate Housewives.” I’ll readily admit to viewing those.

I’m talking about the shows that I’d be a teeny bit reluctant to share. I call these my Laundry Folding Guilty Pleasures. They are: “The Real Housewives of New York City,” “Rachel Zoe Project,” “Project Runway” and “Ugly Betty.” I feel about these the way my mom probably felt about “Days of Our Lives.”

God bless the DVR. It allows me to record these shows in our bedroom where I fold clothes. Suddenly, laundry isn’t as tedious or boring as it used to be. In fact, I kinda look forward to it. Is that weird?

I have no interest in becoming “A Real Housewife” and Rachel Zoe and I have nothing in common. But I can’t get enough of their lives…or at least the parts of their lives that producers want us to see. It’s escapism at its very best. And Ugly Betty? I think she’s beautiful, inside and out.

What about you. What are your guilty pleasures?

Please Pass the Geritol

2009-01-28T10:01:00.000-06:00

When I was a kid, the true sign of getting old was if you needed Geritol. We had no idea what it did, but the commercials on TV showed old people taking it and suddenly feeling great.

I am happy to say that I have not yet taken Geritol, although based on their website, maybe I should.

Nowadays, there’s a new sign that you’re, well, maybe not old¸ but well on your way: You and your friends are getting a colonoscopy. Although I have a little bit of time before getting my own, today, I’m taking my husband for his colonoscopy. If this means he’s old, then I’m right behind him.

Hopefully, this will be a boring day (for me) and an equally boring and a not too awful and uneventful experience for him.

And if you haven’t considered getting a colonoscopy, allow me to share the wit and wisdom of the always hilarious Dave Barry on this, um, awkward subject. Yeah, sounds like fun, doesn’t it?

Willard's Knocking

2009-01-21T08:37:00.001-06:00

Most days, I don’t really think about what the President is doing. Occasionally, I’ll see him on TV and think deep thoughts like: “Ooh, that was awkward.” Or, “I wonder if somebody wakes him up in the morning or if he has an alarm clock.”

Today, we have a brand new president. I hope he can fix anything and everything, but I know he can’t. Nevertheless, here’s the daunting thought that entered my mind:

I am older than the President of the United States. Seriously. We’re talking nine months and 19 days. Whoa.

Who cares about the country - when did I get that old? Honestly, I’m only two steps behind the Smucker’s seniors that Willard Scott rambles on about every morning.

It never fails to amaze me how I can take an international event and make it about me.

I Can't Help It!

2009-01-16T10:41:00.001-06:00

This has turned me into a totally obsessive stage mom. Can you blame me? Check out my daughter in front of more than 10,000 people:

Peace

2008-12-19T07:42:00.002-06:00

I have no idea how to explain it, but when my kids are here in the house, sleeping safe and sound, all is right with the world. It’s as if any worries that I have for them just disappear. There’s only one word for it – peace.

Attack of the 50 ft. Stage Mom

2008-12-09T21:34:00.001-06:00

OK, so I have three blogs. And I try to use them judiciously. I try not to say stupid things or make fun of people (too much) or embarrass my family (too often.) But this is probably my least read blog and, so therefore, I’m going to pimp it out and use it like the total stage mom that I am.

Click here and vote for Maria. Why? Because she’s my daughter but mostly because I think she did a GREAT job. (And kudos to my son Dan who did the most excellent recording.) We’re having a blast with this and I hope you enjoy listening to her.

Thanks, and if you’re so inclined, pass the word on to anyone and everyone.

No More Faux Ho Ho Ho

2008-11-25T09:31:00.001-06:00

If there’s one thing you can say about America, it’s that we have a penchant for taking something nice and beating it to death until it annoys the hell out of everyone. A fine example of this is Christmas.

It’s tough to find one person in our bloated nation who is not aggravated by something about the holidays. Some hate the music, some hate getting together with their families, some hate shopping, some hate decorating, some hate cooking.

Me? I hate fake happiness shown in advertising. I hate seeing commercial after commercial showing fake families being fake happy. I hate seeing that girl open a gift from Sears and scream like she just got a new Lexus. I hate the commercial where the wife gives the husband a Lexus. Can you imagine a scenario where you could do that? I hate the family parties with the perfect people in the perfect house.

I hate the Christmas morning scenes of pretty people opening pretty presents – all of them perfect…and pretty. No morning breath. No bed hair. No gifts that completely missed the mark.

I hate that all of the wives are slim, trim and smiling and that all of the men seem truly interested in talking to everyone.

I hate the kids who seem comfortable in their too-cute clothes and their unbridled enthusiasm for every single gift.

I hate the commercials that preach to us about how we should feel about Christmas. I think Christmas is, at best, a mixed-bag filled with presumptions and imperfections and stress and people that are trying their hardest but often fall short.

Basically, I think we need to all lower our expectations and it should start with the commercials. Let’s put a moratorium on faux-everything. For just one year, could we show real people and if we don’t, then make them animated? I have no problem with Santa sledding on a Norelco shaver. I do have a problem with a guy handing his wife keys to a brand-new BMW.

Just for this Christmas, let’s be real.

For Good

2008-11-18T08:33:00.003-06:00

I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...

Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good

"For Good" from the musical Wicked

Twenty-two years ago, we became parents. On that day, Andrew came into our life. At the time, it was certainly devastating – not at all what we were expecting. Things like that happen to other people, right. Nevertheless, it did happen to us.

But today, looking back, I feel at peace. Because I firmly believe that Andrew is at peace. I believe he came into our lives for a reason. Some of the reasons I know. Some, I will probably never know. What’s important is that Andrew touched all of us in some way and we are forever changed…for good.

Happy birthday, buddy. Watch over us. We love you.

Love-Hate Cell

2008-11-14T10:47:00.001-06:00

I have a love-hate relationship with cell phones. I love the fact that I no longer have to use germ-infested public phones. I hate the fact that my kids can reach me anywhere with annoying questions like: “Mom, did you wash that special sweater that I told you I needed to wear to the Pulitzer Prize ceremony tonight?”

I love texting, but I hate getting texted when I’m driving because then I’m tempted to text and drive which is about the same as downing a bottle of Scotch before driving. I have, very responsibly, pulled to the side of the road and texted. But I admit that I have texted while driving, but only while personally vowing never to do it again.

Anyway, what I hate about cell phones is people that talk on them…A LOT. I would almost guarantee that I have never had more than a 20 minute cell phone conversation. Part of this is because I hate talking on the phone and part of it is because I hate talking on the phone in public places. Apparently, most people don’t feel the same way that I do. Apparently, most people suck.

Today, I’m sitting in the waiting room of my friendly car dealer. I have about 90 minutes to kill. I managed to tune out the annoying morning show blasting on the television. (Am I the only person that has no interest in dressing my children like Madonna’s daughter Lourdes?) What I cannot tune out, however, is annoying cell phone bitch. We’ll call her ACPB.

So, ACPB dials up her friend and says she’s so excited to get the party invitation and she’s been such a bad friend not staying in touch and she will be able to attend the party. I’m thinking: “Good, RSVP done. Hang up now.” No, then we all have to hear about her friend’s dire kidney issues. “That kidney fought the good fight!” And, “So are you eligible for a transplant?” And, my favorite: “You should celebrate! You’re 40 and you’re still here!” Un-freaking-believable.

Then, we hear about ACPB’s daughter who is in and out of rehab. Honestly, is this information you want an entire waiting room to hear?! She wonders to her friend why the daughter has a crappy boyfriend and a crappy life. Could it be because the mother is a crappy example of having no boundaries or social etiquette?

This went on and on and on and on for at least 30 minutes. I finally turned on my iPod to try and drown her out. (I really wanted to just drown her.)

Seriously, WTF?! There was a giant showroom into which ACPB could have wandered to chat about kidneys and rehab. No, that would have been far too considerate. And here’s a nice wrinkle: She’s a nurse…apparently a neonatal nurse. Yes, this dope works with tiny, frail babies who need intensive care. That’s scary. She can barely raise her own daughter.

Anyway, here’s my word to the wise…and the unwise: DO NOT TALK LOUDLY ON YOUR CELL PHONE. I really shouldn’t have to tell anyone that, but I will. There…I feel better.

Can You Feel A Brand New Blog?

2008-11-13T10:03:00.003-06:00

Wow, it's kinda pink, isn't it?! Yeah, well I was bored. And, admit it, you were too. I haven't been here in like six weeks and this poor little old blog was getting more stale than the leftovers in my fridge.

You see, I've created this triumverate of blogs. I have a community blog and a blog on a local "mom" site and then I have this blog. This used to be my one and only outlet for writing. Then the others came along. Momhood is sort of like the oldest child. Once adored and now often ignored. Along the way, I started getting stumped on how to fill each blog. Most of the time, I did nothing. Lazy and pathetic, I know.

And I do understand that my "readership" has fallen off. There are so few of you - perhaps even fewer. I think I can count on Tom, Mary Ann, Dan and Judy. That's probably it. Thank you to all of you. I appreciate every nice thing you've ever said and every critical thing you've kept to yourself. You're all the best.

OK, now for the good news. I'm changing things up. Momhood will always be here and will always be called Momhood. But I'm changing the direction. There will be, hopefully, more posts. But they'll be short and maybe a little bit out there. This will be the depository for the endless stream of odd thoughts that pass through my head. Why? Because I'm about more than just children and motherhood. Although both have defined me, I'm still a babe with a brain, if you will, and if you visit here, you get to find out what's going on in mine. Are you ready? OK. Here goes:

Exactly how old do you have to be to die of natural causes? As I've mentioned before, I'm a little bit fascinated by obituaries lately. I read them daily. I love reading strange ones and, for some reason, I always want to know what happened. Often I run into the phrase: "He died of natural causes." When it's an older person, I completely understand. But when somebody is, say, 55, isn't that a little bit young to be dying of natural causes? Isn't every death natural unless machinery is involved?

Facing the Change

2008-09-26T14:50:00.003-05:00

I’m kind of relieved. I thought it was me. And per usual, I took a side trip down Worst Case Scenario Road. Turns out, I’m not the only one. I’m also not the worst person in the world, nor am I insane, nor am I going to forget where I live in the near future. The answer, my friends, is perimenopause.

Look, I’m only on the cusp of 48. I think I’m pretty young, very healthy and fairly fit. Thanks to an addiction to tennis, I exercise regularly. But there was no denying that something was up. The times, and my body, were a-changing.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say that until I read this article in More Magazine, I had visions of a bleak future. One where family holidays would consist of me sitting in a room alone and my kids and husband in another room, having this discussion:

“I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I think it has to do with 8th grade.”

“Yeah, well, she called me by your name today. We’re not even the same sex!”

“You think that’s bad? I forgot to rinse my dishes this morning and you’d think I’d thrown away her new People Magazine.”

“Yeah, well it doesn’t matter what you say to her, she can’t hear it and she’ll never remember it. She’s turned into a human black hole.”

Ugh, you get the picture. Memory loss, irritability and a whole host of unpleasant odds and ends are making day to day life with me rather, um, challenging. According to the article, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. A journey, which I’ve only just embarked upon.

Wish me, and more importantly, my family, the best of luck. We’re going to need it.

Junk Drawer

2008-09-14T16:56:00.003-05:00

One of the reasons I wrote this blog is to, once in a while, strike a chord with other women. Perhaps say something that they had long been thinking but couldn’t quite put into words. Sometimes, I can do it. Other times, well, it’s not for lack of trying.

So I’m going out on a limb. I’m sharing with you one of my deeply rooted embarrassments. There it is.

That, my friends, is the family junk drawer. Do you have one? Seems like most people do. At least they say they do, but who knows. Sometimes thin people say: “Oh, I ate like a pig last night,” really having no idea what that means.

Last night my daughter had an impromptu party. It wasn’t a big deal, but suffice it to say that I had high school juniors wandering around my house a bit. At one point, for some reason, they needed some string. “Sure,” I said. And I opened the junk drawer. My daughter’s friend was nearby. The minute I opened it, I regretted it.

For some reason, I was feeling all house-warm-ey and open and, you know, ”mi casa es su casa.” But really. There’s no way anybody’s going in that drawer. Until last night. When I opened it and looked for string…in front of another human. Gulp.

Here’s a random list of just a few of the items you’ll find in my junk drawer:

Deck of cards
Flashlight
Allen wrench
Two calculators
Hands-free earpiece for telephone
Wrist rest for computer
Rosary (I’ll probably go to hell for that)
Phone jack cord
Rope (not string)
Expired Pizza Hut coupons
Church contribution envelopes
At least 4 pads of paper
More return address labels than I will ever need in my lifetime
Half-empty packet of purse Kleenex

Needless to say, if I lost it in a flood, none of this would even be missed for a nanosecond. It’s one of those great, black holes, where things in my kitchen that don’t belong anywhere, go forever. You know, the keychain that somebody won. I throw it in the drawer where it will languish for years.

So, why don’t I just clean it out? Because, honestly, if I said that I cleaned out the junk drawer, it would take me an hour or two, but I wouldn’t feel any more productive than before I did it. It’s a mild annoyance – like a mosquito bite on your finger.

What about you? Do you have a junk drawer? Why? Do you ever clean it? Why not? Seriously, I think we’ll all feel better if we open up about this. Oh, ok, fine. I’ll feel better if you open up about this.

Empty Nest Test

2008-08-30T15:06:00.001-05:00

Alright. It’s 2:50 pm on a Saturday. Our son is at college and our daughter is gone for the weekend with a friend and her family. For the next 48 hours or so, we have an empty nest. How do I feel? Well, frankly, this is REALLY weird.

Sure, when our kids were toddlers, I dreamed about this. I used to sit in the rocking chair at 2:50 am and imagine the days when I wouldn’t have to wake up at that hour and when I could leave the house whenever I damn-well pleased. Ahh…sweet freedom.

What’s that annoying thing that people say? Be careful what you ask for?

Like I said, it’s weird. It’s also pretty scary. Hubby and I will celebrate our 25th anniversary in December. Are we really prepared to spend the next 25 years without kids? Can anyone possibly put up with that much ME?!

Technically, we have 6 years before our nest is really empty, but this weekend almost feels like the end of college. Remember those days when you had no clue what your future held? The one thing about being a parent is that it’s so engrossing, so all-encompassing that the idea that your kids will be gone one day is simply preposterous. And yet inevitable.

It’s a good thing this is only a test. If this had been an actual empty nest, someone would have to point me in some direction. Because honestly, for the second time in my life, I’m a little lost.

When You Go

2008-08-21T16:23:00.002-05:00

Only a moment ago we had nothing but time
Everything lasted forever and you were all mine
Only a dream I know
Thinking you'd never go
Tearing off pieces of myself
Just for the time it buys me

Fold my heart up small
Or break it into pieces
Find somewhere and keep it there
Take it when you go

“When You Go” – Jonathan Coulton

Here we are again, saying goodbye. It’s not the end of the world, but as you begin your final year of college, I find myself panicking to remember everything I should have thought about long ago.

Have I made enough of our time together? I wish I could say yes. Have I said all that a mother should say to her child? Of course not. Have I taught you everything? No, but have I taught you enough? Again, probably not.

How can I even begin to prepare you for where you will be at the end of this school year? I try and remember what my senior year was like. Truthfully, it was far more focused on on socializing than planning the rest of my life. And when graduation rolled around, I was terrified. Somehow, improbably, I landed on my feet. I think God and your Dad are totally responsible for that.

Three years ago, you left here a boy. I remember that day we dropped you off at that gigantic campus filled with nothing but strangers. You looked like were you going to your execution. But you stayed the course and, in time, found your niche, your friends and so many gifts.

Today, you’re a man. How the heck did that happen? There’s absolutely nothing in any parenting manuals to prepare you for the day that you look up at your child and realize that he is an adult.

I think you know that we’re proud of you, but you probably don’t realize that we embarrass ourselves sometimes at social events by talking about you to excess. Perhaps we’re living vicariously through you or perhaps it’s just hard to believe that we’re related to someone so talented and so humble. Either way, we feel blessed and we hope you do too.

So here’s what I really need to say: Forgive me if I hold on too tight, if I “over-mother” at a point when I should start loosening my grip. As with every other parenting challenge, I’m just making it up as I go along. It worked pretty well for the first 21 years. I’m hoping it will work for the next 21.

Shameless

2008-08-15T10:36:00.003-05:00

You know what? Dina Lohan's got NOTHIN' on me! Watch me shamelessly promote my kid and his project!

So, here's the dealio. My son wrote a song called "I Want To Talk To You On The Internet." His friends spent this summer creating a music video for the song. It's amazing. Seriously. I really think you'll love it. Click here to see it.

That song is from his album Love Songs To My Future Girlfriend: A Music Request For A Female Companion. You can watch another music video from that album, "Be My Girlfriend," by clicking here.

Enjoy!

(Oh, and no, that's not my son in the video...in case you were wondering.)

Girl!

2008-07-27T18:51:00.002-05:00

Have you ever seen the Bud Light ad campaign called “Dude”? Basically, it’s a peek inside a guy’s world. But what is fascinating is that it’s a guy calling a guy when he’s doing something that is SO not cool. All he says is: “Dude!”

I was thinking about this concept and I think that we moms need something like this to call each other when we’re over the top or totally missing a mom moment. What do we call it? “Chick!” Or…”Mom!” Or, better yet - “Girl!”

Here’s a scenario: You’re in a grocery store and you’re standing in line like everyone else. There’s a mom next to you. She’s on the cell phone, talking incessantly. Her kids have completely lost it and she’s not noticing. They’re whining incessantly and bugging everyone around them. You look at her and say: “Girl!”

Or, you’re in Target and you see a mom with one of her kids. They do what every kid in the universe does – they ask for something they neither need nor deserve. The mom snaps. She starts screaming at the child and drudging every last transgression this kid has ever committed. You look at her and say: “Girl!”

Or, you’re at a restaurant. It’s a sports bar. You’re kind of dressy casual. A woman walks in with her kids in tow. She’s trying hard to look younger. She’s working the 4 inch heels and wearing a completely inappropriate Hooters’ t-shirt. You eye her apparel and just say: “Girl!”

Or, you stop in at your kid’s school before the school day starts. There’s a mom there who is convinced that her child is a bonafide genius. She’s cornered the teacher and is listing all the reasons why her kid should be treated differently than the other kids. You look at her and just say: “Girl!”

Or, you're waiting for the school play to begin. There's a mom who absolutely cannot stop "styling" her kid, who is obviously totally annoyed by it all. The mom's primping isn't even helping the kid look even better. You lean in and say: "Girl!"

Or, you’re at a kids’ soccer game. One of the other moms thinks she’s Mia Hamm. She’s coaching from the sidelines, even though she is NOT a coach. She’s yelling at her kid and the other kids on the team and trying to tell them where to go and what to do. You yell back at her: “Girl!”

So, would you do it? Would you call a mom who’s being a crappy mom for acting badly? I can’t help but wonder: Wouldn’t we all be better if we did? Have you ever "called" a mom for acting badly?

Extreme Teen Makeover

2008-06-30T07:59:00.005-05:00

In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t imagine my daughter associated with the items in this picture. She is the girl who screams, I mean SCREAMS when a fly buzzes near her head. She and the outdoors are like oil and water. Getting her to clean her room is a lesson in futility. But these boots, hammer, work gloves and measuring tape belong to her. And she earned them.

My sweet 16 year-old just returned from a trip to Kentucky where she and a bunch of other local teens built and rehabbed homes for the underprivileged. She signed up, but I’m not sure she really understood what she was getting into. She reluctantly surrendered her cell phone and a week of her time to help others.

I’m not sure what I expected upon her return. To be honest, not much. And the change is subtle. But it’s there, buried underneath the tired eyes and the farmer tan. She’s done some things and it’s made her a better person.

The story that sticks in my head is one that started as her explaining to her fellow teens that the word is “wheelbarrow” not “wheelbarrel.”

“But we didn’t have a wheelbarrow so we pretty much had to lie on the ground and mix the cement with our arms in the foundation holes,” she said.

“Didn’t it dry on you?!” I asked.

“Nah, it won’t dry instantly and besides, that’s all we could do,” she replied.

Huh. This cannot be my daughter. This isn’t the person we dropped off a week ago who kinda, sorta didn’t want to go. That girl is gone. I like this new girl. She’s got spunk. I hope she stays.

The Book of Love

2008-06-23T09:38:00.001-05:00

“You marry the cover, but you live with the book.”

My husband and I heard this a couple days before a big family wedding. My brother got married for the second time – to a lovely girl, I might add.

But this philosophy, so to speak, made we think….as did the wedding. I can’t help it. When I go to a family wedding, I pull out my scorecard. I start taking mental notes. Their family versus our family. Of course I know it’s not a contest, but I can’t help comparing my family with all of its quirkiness to the other family with all of its shiny newness. They’re pretty and perky and seem to do everything right. We’re awkward and shy and keep tripping over our own feet.

Sound familiar? You bet it does. A family wedding is like a mini version of a high school prom. There are insiders and outsiders. Populars and unpopulars. Prom king and queen (groom and bride) and the rest of us. Some will embarrass themselves. Most others will be wallflowers.

But back to the book, which is, essentially, what a family is. We’re the book inside the couple’s cover. Sure, they, and the world, look amazing for that one day, maybe longer. And there are several chapters in this book, each representing part of the family. Each chapter grows as life goes on and I’d even say that sometimes you have to re-read a chapter or two because your impression has changed based on other events.

And that is exactly why a wedding is a terrible time to judge a family. There are speeches of gratitude and love and support for and from the couple. Funny stories are shared. Some people meet and some get reacquainted. It’s easy to compare family dynamics and find one side or the other lacking in some quality.

But for me, looking back on 24 ½ years of marriage, the real story is when things go south. And I’m not talking about vacation. When the chips are down and sad and bad things happen. When life and people get really, really messy (and they will), that’s the worth of a family. That’s when somebody proves their love - when they are willing to step up as others need to step away.

I wish my brother and my new sister-in-law a lifetime of happiness. I hope their newlywed glow continues as long as possible. But when it fades, and it will, and the pages of their book get dark or scary, I hope that both sides of the family do their part…whatever that is. To, me, that will be a happy ending. And I’m a sucker for happy endings.

The Summer of My Discontent

2008-06-06T16:45:00.001-05:00

So, it’s summer time again. And don’t get me wrong, I LOVE me some summer…especially after the winter we had. But I feel like I’m having a really tough time adjusting.

On a positive note, I’ve finally figured out how to keep up with the extra laundry that another body (a.k.a. College Kid) brings. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how that woman with 17+ children is doing it, but that’s her problem, not mine. (And I just want to ask her: “Have you ever uttered the word NO?” A restraining order might be appropriate. I’m just sayin’.)

But my first challenge is that I’m not much of a cook, so for me to put forth any effort in the kitchen is a big deal. And nothing rains on my Rachael Ray parade faster than College Kid or High School Kid deciding at the last minute to opt out of dinner. I understand that their plans are, how shall we say, fluid? But I have absolutely no idea how to run our house. I feel a combination of guilt and annoyance. I should be cooking memorable semi-home-cooked meals. But it seems like whenever I do, nobody is home. Whenever I don’t, they look at me like the orphans in “Oliver.”

The other thing that I’m struggling with is not just seasonal. It’s the beginning of the end. High School Kid drives herself…everywhere. This is great in so many ways. No longer do I have to haul her to and from lessons, appointments, etc. I’m free to do my own thing….which is very liberating…but again, somewhat guilt-ridden. I feel like I should be there parenting her. She, of course, resists any and all of my attempts to do so.

It’s a slippery slope where I am. I’m drifting between hanging on for dear life and reluctantly letting go. I chide myself for not putting forth an effort but wonder if it would be worth it anyway. And so, I’m reduced to latching onto family dinner opportunities wherever and whenever possible. Sure, I get plenty of time to play tennis and enjoy the warm weather, but not a day goes by without me worrying that I’m going about this all wrong.

I think what I really need is some Prozac with my sunscreen.

Totally Pimpin' and Shillin'

2008-05-15T07:25:00.003-05:00

OK, so like many people, I started blogging because of my intense need to write...anything. It’s been very cathartic and has opened up a wealth of opportunities for me. Along the way, people who have read my blog have said: “Oh, you should write a book.” Except the thing is, I’m not a novelist. And that’s OK. But now I can say I know someone who is…and her first novel comes out on May 20th. (OK, truth be told, I don’t really know her, but she seems so sweet that I feel like I do!)

I don’t have a blogroll (I can’t figure out how…), but if I did, Jess Riley would be at the top of it. Her blog, Riley’s Ramblings is hilarious and often causes me to laugh hysterically. And now, she’s written a book, Driving Sideways, and it looks good…really good. You can read a chapter here.

So, head over to Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore or Target and pick up Driving Sideways on May 20th. Why? Because I said so, that’s why. You should always do what a mom tells you to do, right?

While I’m standing on my pimp box, I think you should visit this site…every day…for the next 40 days. There’s this kid. He’s in college. But he’s home for the summer. And when he’s not carrying giant containers of pool chemicals to people’s cars, he’s writing a musical. And you can get a front row seat to his theatrics. It could be horrible, it could be wonderful. Either way, you’re with him for the ride. Kinda cool, huh? What’s that you say? I’m shillin’ for my own chillun’? WhatEVS!

OK, I must stop now. Buy the book and visit the musical blog. You’ll thank me later.

Don't Fade Away

2008-04-27T07:58:00.003-05:00

The other day I was out walking the dog.

Actually, here’s how that sentence should read in “mother-ese”: The other day, while a load of laundry was spinning in the old front-loader, I was walking the dog that our daughter begged us to get, promising that she’d feed, walk, and never neglect this animal which she has long-since done. (Never underestimate a mother’s ability to inject guilt into the most unlikely places.)

Anyhoo…poor sentence structure aside, I was walking the dog that I now refer to as mine. We were approaching a church near our house and I noticed an elderly woman sitting on the side stoop in front of the church. She looked perfectly happy. She started saying something to me. I ripped my ear buds out and politely said: “I’m sorry, what?”

“Is today Sunday?” she asked.

“No. Today is Wednesday, April 23rd,” I replied.

“I did it again,” she said in a disgusted tone. “I guess I’ll go back home.”

She didn’t seem frail or fragile, so I really wasn’t worried about her getting home, so the dog and I continued our walk. But of course, I started thinking about her and how she ended up sitting in front of a church awaiting a service that wouldn’t start for five more days. I figured that she probably lives alone and that time escapes all of us. We jokingly ask each other what day it is and talk about losing track of days. But who’s to say that one day I won’t end up sitting in front of my church?

There, but for the grace of God, go I. And nearly a week later, I can’t get that lady out of my head. How did she get there? What was her prior life like? Did her kids forget about her? Did she age quickly because she constantly had to walk and clean up after her child’s dog?

Welcome, my friends, to my mid-life crisis. Some people long for and/or purchase sports cars. Others have extra-marital affairs. Many opt for cosmetic surgery. I obsess over death and aging.

This new stage of my life has snuck up on me. I didn’t think I’d fall prey to it. I don’t color my hair - I highlight with grey. I have no plans to nip and tuck. (Although trust me, somebody could make a killing on this body.) I consider myself younger than I am and try to act accordingly…within reason.

I do, however, think about aging. I think about attacking it head-on. I make comments to my husband about how and where I’d like to live when I am less than ambulatory. I give him suggestions for my funeral. When issues come up with our own aging parents, I boldly tell him that we won’t be caught in that situation.

And it goes further than that. I read the death notices…every day. I love the notices with photos. I’m particularly fascinated with the trend toward choosing a photo from a younger and more attractive time in life. (Note to self: Do not use school photo from 8th grade.) I read these mini biographies and feel ashamed that mine will seem so short and unimpressive in comparison.

I’m especially perplexed by the memorials that appear on a daily basis. They always have a photo of the deceased, usually on a birthday or death anniversary, followed by a poem or short missive…to the deceased. They’re touching, but really, really sad. It’s people publicly not letting go. That’s what confuses me. No matter what we think about death, is that really the only way that we can stay in touch with our long-gone loved ones? The newspaper? Really? I want my family to know they can save the cash and send me an e-mail. I promise to read it, although I likely won’t respond…except in perhaps a somewhat mystical way like hiding the TV remote just to piss them all off!

Anyway, I have no idea how to really do it. Age gracefully, that is. I’m quite hung up on several things: 1) When I am old, I do not want to constantly talk about my medical issues. 2) I have told my friends that I will not be caught dead in a red hat and an ugly polyester purple shirt. Never. 3) I pray fervently that I won’t tell pointless, endless stories unless I’m sharing those stories with people that were there who can fill in the details and laugh stupidly along with me. 4) I don’t want my kids or my husband wiping my butt. Seriously. There are professionals who do that and I’d like to find the very best. 5) I hope to say outrageous things that will make my kids blush and make my grandkids want to hang around me…at least a little bit.

And I guess that’s the secret. To be remembered. Somehow. To make an impact and to never just fade into the wallpaper. To go out in a blaze of glory, whether it’s organizing wheelchair races at the nursing home or drinking beer and cheering on the Packers, long after I’m too old to attend games. I just want to be remembered.

And I don’t want to sit outside church on a Wednesday. But if I do. Here’s what I’ll say: “Oh, shit! I did it again.” Mission accomplished.

College Road Trip 1.0

2008-03-30T08:43:00.001-05:00

We started early. She’s only a sophomore in high school. But with college boy, we started late. And because being a mom is all about over-compensating, it’s what we did. Plus, the girl teen and the hubby were up for it. So it was off to the Twin Cities for us to visit 4 colleges.

I have to say, this was a rather entertaining and revealing trip. Here are just a few of the things I learned:

Holiday Inns still suck. I held out hope that they upgraded. Apparently not.

There is a sameness about all college students. It’s sort of an unkempt-meets-don’t-try-too-hard look. At least with the girls. And some of the boys, but very few. Oh and the girls are WAY better looking than when I was in school. The guys look the same.

It’s possible to make grand assumptions about a school in a moment or two. It’s not possible to make correct assumptions. But still, you try. It’s why you do these trips.

College costs a buttload of money. Serious cash. I’ve heard that the economy isn’t doing well. If that’s the case, how is it that 5,000+ kids and/or their families are paying private tuition that exceeds $25,000 a year? (That’s not even mentioning the schools that cost $48,000+!) There just aren’t enough scholarships to cover that kind of debt.

If you have infants or toddlers, START SAVING NOW. See above.

There is nothing quite as entertaining as making fun of people/students/tour guides as when you are on a college tour. Making up names adds to the enjoyment. Angry Girl, meet Stoner Boy. Yeah, we’re like that.

It is possible to oversell the school. If you use “quirky” multiple times during a tour, then perhaps your school isn’t as quirky as you think it is.

Every single school boasts a small student to teacher ratio. When I was in school, I didn’t want to know the teacher. They might find out I wasn’t smart.

Explain the point of walking in an empty classroom. College classrooms look exactly the same as high school classrooms, just more worn out.

College students still leave their laundry in the dryer, only to be tossed on top of the dryer, never to be claimed. Who has that many clothes that they’re not missing? Oh, right. The kids paying today’s astronomical tuition.

Here’s my old person rant: Today’s college kids have it TOO easy. They have giant libraries with lots of books but who cares when you have the internet?! They have way too many choices in cafeterias and they don’t have to wait for letters from home or friends to hear a familiar voice. Hell, they don’t even need dorm phones! They have more security than the President of the United States. These kids are coddled, I tell you. Coddled!

Apparently the next great frontier to conquer is to make your school “gender blind.” That’s right. When you sign up for housing, you may get a guy or a girl for a roommate…or perhaps a third option? I have no clue why that’s important, but it was a big selling point on the campus filled with angry young women. Maybe that’s why they’re angry.

There is no such thing as a “freshman” anymore. Now they are called “first years.” Where are we, Hogwarts? Was it because the phrase “freshman” wasn’t gender blind enough? Ugh.

Apparently college students are actually concerned about studying, interning, doing service and doing things that you are supposed to do in college. Wow. At least some things have improved over the years.

They still talk about good food on college campuses. Every college says their food is good. Is there someone out there, other than a culinary arts major, who chooses their college based upon the food? Really?

All colleges should be required to have a photo in their brochures of their school in terrible weather. Not fall. Seriously, the lovely fall photo of the campus is getting stale. There are leaves everywhere in the Midwest. Perhaps this impresses the kids from the west coast.

There is an unspoken law in which colleges must choose students who are from 1000+ miles away to appear in their promotional brochures and videos. Resist the urge to be impressed by this. Every Midwest campus will have a handful of kids from far away. Big deal.

If you are going to be a college tour guide, you must cultivate the ability to walk backwards and talk at the same time. Done well, it’s rather impressive. Especially if you manage to get through an entire tour without tripping.

“First years” should not be college tour guides. Once they tell you that they are a freshman (ha! I said it!), everything after that loses credibility. They know nothing about college. Nothing.

I know I’m not the one going back to college, but I can’t help creating this bizarre scenario in my head where I redo everything wrong that I did in college. I’m smarter, more savvy, actually study and GET INVOLVED. I wonder what middle-aged-me would be like if I actually did that.

Despite all of the “resources” available, I think choosing a college today is much more difficult. There is such a thing as too many choices. We’re still two years away from making that fateful decision, and I’m already overwhelmed.

Homeland Security

2008-03-13T08:29:00.000-05:00

A truth revealed itself to me this morning. We mothers spend a fair amount of time wishing our kids would be home and get home safely. We spend roughly the same amount of time secretly wishing they would go away…just for a little while.

The truth is, we love our children. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that we like spending time with them. Given that my nest is sometimes empty, I’m cherishing every family meal as if it were the Last Supper. As surprisingly educated verbal lobs bounce across the table (who knew they were actually learning something in school?!), I listen in amazement as they spout opinions and ideas that have merit and thought behind them.

But it definitely goes without saying, in fact, we parents are afraid to say it, that teen and young adult children make our lives kinda complicated. As parents, we’re not really sure what we’re supposed to do. (Shhh, don’t tell them this. They think we’ve actually thought this through.)

If you ask the kids, they’d say that we have no business being in their business. Sometimes they’re right. We should leave them alone to make their own mistakes, dress badly, wake up late and find their own jobs. But seriously. When have you met a mother who has minded her own business? I’ve never studied Greek or Latin, but I’m pretty sure that “Mother” means “I care too much” in both of those languages.

The high school child has told us, in no uncertain terms, that our opinions have no value, our comments are unwelcome and the information dissemination will be on a need-to-know basis. (Need-to-know can be interchanged with need money.) Frankly, the Geneva Convention should have a section on “Humane Conversations with a Smart-Ass High School Kid Who Knows Everything.”

Once the college child, a.k.a. Human Cyclone, has arrived in one piece on terra familia firma, they spread their crap and circumstance all over our formerly well-ordered households. They are Peanuts’ Pig Pen to our Martha Stewart. Suffice it to say, you know they’ve arrived.

But that’s not the tricky part. What throws our yin and yang into cosmic imbalance is that while they were away, despite our best efforts, they started doing things their way. God, that’s infuriating! How dare they fold clothes differently than dear old Mom! The nerve of them to hang their jacket on a dining room chair!

When my kids were little, I remember feeling bamboozled when I would pick them up from child care and they would fall apart in front of me. The ever-competent teachers would assure me that the kids had a marvelous time that day and were smiling and laughing mere seconds before I walked in the door. So why wasn’t I greeted with a flurry of hugs and kisses instead of tears and whining? It’s because they waited for me to fall apart – an odd concept that continues to prove itself over time.

You see, our kids go out into the cold, impersonal world and put on their best faces. They act brave and funny and interesting and social and perhaps even polite. And then they walk in the door of our home, take off their wall of defense and spew back all of the low self-esteem, inadequacies, anger and injustice they’ve been holding in all day or all semester.

That’s the hard, cold truth. They save it for us, because right now, we’re their most important people. The ones they trust to keep loving them despite their attempts to make us feel otherwise.

I guess that’s OK. I’ll take what little I can get, while I can still get it.

But dammit, washing a dish once a week won’t kill them, will it?! Oh, who am I kidding?

Pick Me. Choose Me. Love Me.

2008-02-28T10:51:00.005-06:00

What you’re looking at is one day’s mail for an average high school sophomore. I think there were 17 schools that were parading their wares in front of her that day. We have a drawer-full of similar mail that continues to come in daily.

Let me repeat – she’s a sophomore. A nice girl, with pretty good grades. But she knows about as much about what she wants to major in for college as she does about how to run the washing machine.

She checked "music" as a possible major on her PSAT tests and so now she is being courted by a host of venerable institutions that would impress even Yo-Yo Ma. That's great, but she's more American Idol and less Yo-Yo.

Still, they’re out there, bidding for her attention. She just turned 16. She drives, but has not yet filled up the gas tank without me to guide her. Thinks she knows everything, but deep down, understands she hasn’t yet touched the tip of the iceberg of life.

How the hell is she supposed to pick a college?

They’re creative, these colleges. Some send pretty envelopes. Some send folksy, homespun letters. Some try and dazzle her with promises of doting professors and rock-climbing walls (seriously) and stunning campuses that I’d like to live on. Each one wants her to believe that when she gets there, she’ll be special.

I’m her mother. I know she’s special, but the reality is, once she’s a freshman on one of these campuses, she’s just another number. Special only in that she will have a unique student number to which they will attribute various and sundry fees and services for which we will pay a pretty penny.

I come from a generation whose parents commonly didn’t go to college. They were clueless in how to advise us. We had a choice of one, maybe two schools.

Today these kids are blitzed with choices when they are not even halfway through high school. They’re asked to make decisions, BIG decisions, which will result in life-changing consequences. Honestly, no matter how informed you are, it’s a crap shoot, at best.

We’ve been through this lottery once. It ended differently than we expected, but for the best. Our son is at a great place for him. Could it be that luck will strike us twice? I can only hope.

Sweet Before Sixteen

2008-02-10T10:58:00.000-06:00

Quite a pair we were this weekend – you and I. It wasn’t at all what we had planned. You were supposed to be traveling with your girlfriends in Minneapolis on a choir trip. I was supposed to be hanging out in Vegas with Dad, relaxing with a cool drink and a book.

Instead, we were stuck at home, rendered useless by the stomach flu. When we weren’t in the bathroom, we were sprawled out on the couch watching below average movies with below average expectations.

I’m certain that, for you, it will go down as one of your least favorite weekends. For me, it turned out to be kind of nice.

No, I have not become an influenza enthusiast. It’s just that at this time of our relationship, when you’re chomping at the bit to get away, I had you to myself for three inglorious days.

Because you were a victim of circumstance, your friends largely left you alone. Lucky me. For a few days, you hung out with me. I tried valiantly not to annoy you. You tried valiantly not to remember that I was annoying. For about 72 hours, your teen angst and attitude was missing in action. For me – jackpot.

Yesterday, finally feeling on the mend, we went to a movie. I tried hard to remember how you hate it when I whisper snarky comments during films. But at some point, you allowed it and we giggled a bit. At that moment, I could almost see a bright future between us when someday we could be friends.

And after the movie, when your friends finally acknowledged your existence and invited you to a gathering far away, I instead encouraged you to invite them to our house so you could reconnect and feel like a teen again. It was nice to hear young voices bouncing off the basement walls.

Today, we’re getting back to our routine. You’re off with your friends and I’m hanging with the laundry. That’s OK. I’ll always have this weekend.

Oh and one more thing: Happy Sweet Sixteen. I love you.

The Countdown to Let-Go

2008-01-21T09:57:00.000-06:00

It occurred to me the other day. If things go the way we hope, I have about 25 days before it all changes. The beginning of the end. Welcome to my midlife melancholy melodrama.

In about 25 days, Valentine’s Day to be exact, my “baby” will go for her driver’s test. If all goes well, and I think it should, she’ll earn her driver’s license. She’ll be able to drive on her own.

Now, the license isn’t a guarantee. She might get a crabby tester or she might forget to signal or stop improperly or parallel park badly or a combination of all of the above. But even if she doesn’t pass the first time, she will inevitably take it again until she does and then things will change. Sooner rather than later.

What a strange place this is for me. I can remember when she and her brother were very young. I’d have these little daydreams where I’d wonder how fabulous it would be when I could leave the house when I wanted. In my mind, it all seemed like such a fantasy.

What’s that they say? Be careful what you ask for?

I know that this is the beginning of a whole new set of worries. Things to obsess over far worse than whether bathtime and bedtime will again be a giant battle of wills. My worries now turn to headline-inducing nightmares. Drunk-drivers. Mechanical failure. Toxic temptations. Bad people and choices out and about in the world, crossing her path.

And I’m not saying that what I’m giving up is all sunshine and roses. Seriously, another car ride in which I feel like I’m part of the Spanish Inquisition just trying to find out how the school day went is not a walk in the park. But at least it’s something.

In 25 days, she’ll drive away. She’ll come home every night and at least at first, she’ll probably be ecstatic and talkative. She will still need me for lots of things but for one small thing, transportation, she won’t. And for that, I’m a teeny bit sad. It’s the beginning of the loosening of my maternal death grip. Sigh.

The Calling

2008-01-07T19:48:00.000-06:00

What are you doing the rest of your life?
North and South and East and West of your life
I have only one request of your life
That you spend it all with me

What Are You Doing the Rest Of Your Life?
-Music by Michel Legrand Lyrics by Alan and Marilyn Bergman

The rest of your life. Think about that - right now. What are YOU doing the rest of YOUR life? Pretty daunting thought, isn’t it? Yeah, in fact, I think if somebody asked you that question, you might be kind of irritated. I would be.

Yet, for some reason, we basically ask this question of college kids all the time. It’s no wonder they sleep past noon and grunt in response. They’re avoiding that question, dammit!

Everybody loves college kids. We live vicariously through them and beg them to share wild college stories when they come home on break. It stirs up our own fond memories of those crazy carefree days.

But were they ever really that carefree? As I watched my own college kid when he was home on break, I suddenly remembered back to those days – a quarter of a century ago. (Gulp.) There’s one thing that I’d forgotten – that prevailing sense of fear. The idea that sure, college is fun and all, but what the heck am I going to do when I get out of this place?!

I was raised Catholic and the nuns, in their never-ending attempts to lure us into a life of “serving the Lord,” spent a lot of time talking to us kids about “getting the call.” They’d ease us into the idea by saying that everyone has a “calling.” A special job that God created us to do. Some of us were doctors or lawyers or, gasp!, priests and nuns! Back then, I took things pretty literally. Not that I had anything against the clergy, but let’s just say that I avoided the phone like the plague. What if I got the call?! I don’t want THE CALL.

Eventually, I worked past that and spent years trying to find my passion. And although I had some fits and starts, I think I did figure out if not my destination, at least the direction I should be headed.

For some reason, it all seems tougher today. As much as we had choices 25 years ago, you can take those choices and multiply them ten-fold. And because of that, I think there’s an assumption that this makes it easier on college kids. I think it’s tougher. To me, it’s like shopping for eggs in the world’s largest grocery store. You just want eggs. Not choices – eggs.

As parents, this is where it gets really frustrating. We want nothing more than our kids finding something that they are passionate about. Because we know that the years wear on you and if you don’t love what you do 40 hours a week, life gets a lot harder. But there’s absolutely nothing we can do to help them. Nothing. No really. Despite our best efforts, they’ll either find it or they won’t and it will have almost nothing to do with us.

What we can do is encourage them, even if we don’t understand or like what they’re doing. (OK, sure, you can draw the line at illegal, but I’m just saying that we should be open-minded.) And we can probably stop asking them that question, because we already know the answer.

The Art of Letting Myself Go

2007-12-15T07:58:00.000-06:00

It’s official. The middle ages are here.

No, not those middle ages, MY middles ages. I’ve arrived and it ain’t pretty.

How did I come to this realization at the ripe young age of 47? (What you really want to ask is why it took me 10 years longer than it should to discover the obvious.) Easy. I’m letting myself go. Let me explain.

You know how young minds are easily influenced? Well, when I was a very young woman – probably early college years – I read an interview with Princess Grace of Monaco, a.k.a. Grace Kelly. In this interview, she mentioned in passing that she believes that women should always look their best when they go out because it shows respect for other people. If you look nice, then you’re telling the people with whom you come in contact, that you like yourself enough to look good for them and you.

I have no clue why, but that made an impression on me.

I was raised by parents that had a distinctly different philosophy. Unless you were going to a fancy restaurant or working in an office, then your apparel should be all about function. My dad lives in sweatshirts and my mom, who is, shall we say, “vertically challenged” has always had an affinity for jersey knit Capri pants. Both enjoy the comfort of white sweat socks, and that’s just fine.

I am not a formal dresser, but I’d say that, for most of my adult life, I took a fair amount of time to get ready for going out in public. I’d think about what I was wearing, put on makeup, do my hair and feel like I looked my best, even if it was jeans and a casual shirt.

Until recently.

It’s not like anything happened, but I realized that I’ve stopped caring a little bit. I’m willing to venture into a grocery store without makeup. We’ve got lots of snow here and my “rubber duck shoes” are rather practical. I often wear them with white sweat socks. It’s definitely a Glamour don’t.

Oh my God, I’m turning into my parents! Could it be that they too once took great care in their appearance, but worn down by the ravages of raising three ungrateful, snotty kids, found it so much easier to don workout wear?

The old me would use this epiphany as a starting point for a mini-makeover. The new me is cutting itself a bit of slack and choosing not to feel judged based on appearances. It’s the manifestion of fashion apathy.

Here’s where I draw the line – embarrassing my teenage daughter. Although I have relaxed my personal dress code, I won’t go out of my way to make her run away in shame or disavow our family ties due to my clothing choices. That would be cruel and unusual and our relationship already has its own challenges.

Instead, I choose to embarrass her in other ways such as talking to her friends and asking them lots of questions when I’m driving them around. Sometimes, gasp, I even participate in conversations and tell jokes! Jeez, I’m so annoying.

Be Careful What You Ask For

2007-12-06T10:56:00.000-06:00

What is it about parenting? You work with your kids really hard on something. You expend blood, sweat, cash and perhaps some tears. They finally achieve that goal and what do you do? You worry. You cry. You sort of wish you could have them back the way they used to be.

My teenage daughter and her friends are all in various stages of preparing for or getting their driver’s licenses. When I’m not doing the white knuckle ride in the passenger seat of the vehicle formerly known as mine, I’m listening to my daughter dream about the day she gets her license.

For me, this is rather bittersweet. On the one hand, I’m anxious to be relieved of chauffeur duty. The last-minute schedule changes and the weekends that are hijacked by high school parties in subdivisions near and far are starting to drive me a little batty. I look forward the day when my husband and I can do what we want when we want.

But it’s not that easy.

I’m certain that the day that my daughter gets her license will be a joyful celebration. I’m also certain that on that same day, when she backs out of the driveway alone for the first time, my mind will be with her and not cavalierly booking theatre tickets or planning weekends at B&Bs.

That day will begin the days of endless worry. When sirens that pass by our house are no longer just aural annoyances but further reasons for concern until she walks back safely in the front door. I went through this once with our son and it’s not really fun. It just is what it is.

I felt the same way about our son going to college. Together we worked hard at the college selection process. Sure, he did the actual work, but we were right there with him, giving encouragement and saying a few extra prayers that he’d end up at the right school. And then when he did, I couldn’t help but feel sad that I couldn’t just tuck him in his bed and keep him safe at home.

It’s what we parents do. We raise them to leave us. The irony is that we never really leave them. Damn.

The Motherhood of the Misguided Empath

2007-11-28T10:42:00.000-06:00

In my lifetime, I have seen one and only one episode of Star Trek. (I think this is a good thing.) It’s the one called “The Empath.” It’s about some aliens that Capt. Kirk and the gang discover in their travels. Apparently, an Empath can heal people by taking on their pain. (Back off, Trekkies, I’m doing the best that I can.)

My friends, I have decided that I am an Empath. A maternal Empath, if you will.

I’ve talked, in the past, about how we mothers feel our kids’ pain more than they do. When they experience heartbreak, disappointment or sadness, we feel it ten-fold. In return, our kids think we can’t possibly understand what they’re going through. They couldn’t be more wrong.

Well, today, I figured it out. I’m nothing more than an Empath. A misguided Empath, because I have this bizarre notion that I can somehow fix my kids’ problems by feeling bad. It’s stupid and I can’t help it.

Today, my daughter was having a particularly challenging day. She was down and out. So down, that she couldn’t explain what she was down about. She takes after me in that way. Her gloom was palpable. Apparently, so was mine.

My husband tried to ask what was going on with me. I explained that it was because our daughter was bummed. He looked puzzled.

“I’m an Empath,” I said.

“Ahh. Star Trek reference. I get it,” he said. “That’s just one of the reasons that I love you.”

And that is why we have been married for nearly 24 years. We are both a little geeky, a little quirky and a little misguided in the notion that we have any control over the emotions of a teenage girl. (Well, at least one of us is.)

Capable, Confident Daughters

2007-11-13T08:33:00.000-06:00

My daughter and I have similar upbringings. We went to virtually the same type of grade school – small, parochial. We went to the same type of high school – small, Catholic, all-girl. (We have yet to see whether she’ll follow my path in college.)

Anyway, when I was in high school, in the mid-70s, (practically the middle ages), girls sure seemed different. Of course fashion was different, although I can’t help feel like we’re going through a bit of fashion déjà vu recently.

What I’m really getting at is that girls today are incredibly confident. I mean CONFIDENT. In fact, even for this middle-aged mom, they’re a little bit intimidating.

This past weekend, my sister and I went to my daughter’s school to watch her in the high school musical. As we sat in the theater, we watched the parade of girls march by, chatting and giggling. We both remarked how these high school girls look and sound so…old compared to when we were in school.

I know they’re not. They still can’t get up in the morning and they whine when they don’t like dinner and forget where they put their gym uniform and they burst into tears at the smallest things. But, at least on the outside, they seem so sure of themselves. Maybe it’s a façade, but I don’t remember looking or feeling that way AT ALL back in 1975.

Back then, I wasn’t even a dork. To me, the dorks were the kids who were smart and cared little about their appearance. But at least they had an agenda and a purpose.

No, I was sub-dork. I was so unbelievably unsure of myself that I could have easily ended up with the worst of the worst, in terms of friends. Thankfully, I didn’t, but I think it was only good fortune that I got out of there alive.

First of all there was hair. Since the beginning of time, hair has been such a huge part of a teenage girl's identity. I was in high school when curling irons were just barely invented. (Pre-internet, post-horse and buggy.) Nevertheless, they didn’t help me. I had ZERO clue how to make my hair look attractive. My hairstyling skills consisted of washing my hair. That’s it. That’s the list.

Today, girls have GREAT hair. They all seem to know how to make it look GREAT…all the time. Even when it’s unstyled and casually tossed up into a ponytail, it looks amazingly GREAT. How did they figure that out? Is it something in the water? No, I know! It’s programmed into their brain via the cell phones that are always stuck to their ears!

And their skin – it seems flawless. Sure, a few have acne, but nothing like the acne I had. Dermatology must have made leaps and bounds in the last 30+ years because I’m not seeing girls that were as splotchy and self-conscious as I used to be.

But the biggest difference is the way they talk to boys. First of all, they actually talk to them. I think I can recall a total of ten conversations I had with boys back in high school. And no, not because we didn’t have boys at our school. It was because I had no idea what to say. I had no concept of how to talk to boys – how to be friends with boys. To me, they were a different species and the conversations I had with my girl friends would never be of interest to guys. And even when I tried to talk to boys, I did it so badly and so AWKWARDLY, that it had disaster written all over it from the word go.

The best part is that girls today don’t feel like they have to have a boyfriend to be cool. When I was in high school, that was not the case. Finding a boy to like and to like us was a mission…an obsession. It’s one of my few regrets in life – that I wasted precious time on that. My saving grace was the fact that I developed lifelong friendships that I still treasure today.

In any case, I’m glad to see that things have changed. I’m happy that my daughter and her friends are capable and confident and possess way more self-esteem than I had back in high school. The important thing to know is that even though the girls of today look great, they feel even better about themselves on the inside. And for that, their moms are very, very thankful.

Confessions of a Fading Maternal Brain

2007-10-26T14:59:00.000-05:00

Dear Children,
Last week I turned 47. Yes, I know – you both remembered and I thank you for that. And actually, that’s sort of what this is about – remembering.

You see, I’m pretty sure my mind is in a state of decline or depreciation, you might say. I have now reached that utterly cliché stage of life when I walk into a room and have no idea why. And just to add visions of my mother to my mind, I say out loud to myself: “Why did I come in here?” It’s quite humbling.

If that were the worst, that would be OK. It’s not. I have lapses. The other day, and I kid you not, I had a mild panic attack when I could not figure out how to properly write the number 4. In my mind, I kept flipping it back and forth, back and forth. All I could think was: “Oh crap. The end is near.”

I see people in the grocery store – people that I know. People that I have known for years. But dammit, I can’t remember their names. No wait, I do but it’s after I’ve driven out of the parking lot and I’m halfway home. And it drives me nuts.

Look, I’m pretty blessed in terms of health. I take care of myself. I avoid McDonald’s drive-through, have no interest in recreational drugs and am proud to have all my own teeth. (Except for those two molars, but those don’t count, right?)

The problem is, I’m not entirely sure that my mind is going to be in great condition forever. And what bugs me the most is the idea that you might write me off as just another loony mother-figure who can’t remember your name. Although that might be true, I want to write to you today and tell you that I wasn’t always this way.

(Oh and in case you were wondering, yes I've tried to do Sodoku and crossword puzzles and various mind games to sharpen my mental acuity. It works for about 5 minutes and then I get bored.)

In high school, where I was often overlooked and rarely popular, I used to know everyone’s name. I mean everyone. Not in a creepy-stalker kind of way, but more in the way that your friend’s little brother knows the entire lineup of the 1996 Green Bay Packers. Just loads of useless information that was never called upon except for my friends challenging me as we walked down the hall.

In college, I had pretty much honed that skill set to include teachers and influential people. After graduation, I knew everyone in every department of every company in which I was employed. Finally, I could put this mental lumber to use.

Then you came along. At first, my mind was still in tip-top shape. I remembered the important dates, your likes and dislikes, your friends, your teachers, your babysitters and even the characters in the inane TV shows and movies you watched repeatedly. I became your spare brain until yours could develop. And it did. And eventually, it eclipsed mine. And my brain was left standing by the side of the road, watching as your brain drove past.

I remember that like it was yesterday. You were in third grade. You got stuck on a math problem and asked for my help which I could not give because I apparently can't remember anything I was taught in 3rd grade. I didn’t let you know it then, but I knew that it wouldn’t be much longer until you were smarter than me.

I wasn't sure if this knowledge was reassuring or scary. More than anything, it was unavoidable.

In any case, here we are. One of you is in high school and the other is in college and I’m proud as hell of both of you. First, because you worked hard to get where you are and secondly, because that’s part of my brain you’ve got there. That’s right. It’s what we moms do. We sacrifice our bodies and our brains for you, our kids. We have no regrets, but we also have very few brain cells left after our work is done.

So I just want you to remember that when I’m shuffling into that crowded brunch buffet with you for Mother’s Day 2024 and I start telling that same story that I will be telling you repeatedly in the coming years and then I ask: “Why did we come here?”

Just remember, that someday that will be you too.

Love,
Mom

Bless This Mess

2007-10-17T12:27:00.000-05:00

So the other night, I asked my husband to unclog the toilet in the kids’ bathroom. Normally, I’d do something like this, but I’ve found that my arm strength is that of a T-Rex. I look like I could handle such a job, but I can’t do even one pushup, let alone handle the plunging of a toilet.

Later, he says to me: “That was really gross. I mean REALLY gross. I almost got sick. You almost had to deal with that.”

And I said: “You think I would have cleaned up your puke if you had thrown up?! Not a chance!”

Suffice it to say, he was disappointed in my lack of sympathy. From my point of view, I could not believe that he was playing the “gross card” because since we have had children, I have handled nothing but gross.

I’ve held kids’ heads while they threw up. I’ve cleaned up bathrooms and sheets and other inconvenient places to get sick. My favorite was driving to my parents’ house on Christmas morning when my son proceeded to vomit in the minivan while I was driving on the highway. The good news was that he had eaten cinnamon rolls and the interior of the car was tan. (OK, I confess, my husband was at home recovering from surgery, so he couldn't have helped me on this one.)

And of course, over the years, I’ve dealt with my share of messes from “the other end” as well. I remember diapers bursting with surprises, leaking all over clothing in the most embarrassing places and ways.

I’ve dealt with all of this, happily letting my husband hand the kids over to my capable care. And yes, he did change his share of diapers, but I’ve always prided myself on the containment and cleaning of hazardous messes. It’s what I do best. And when a sick kid runs to you, you are not going to say: “Go wake up daddy. It’s his turn.”

And it’s not bad enough that kids have accidents from time to time. We also have a cat and a dog and each of them has blessed me with their mess at the most inopportune time. I have acutely tuned hearing that can predict the cat vomiting up a hairball within moments of the first wheeze. And you haven’t experienced “ick” until you’ve hosed off a golden retriever with diarrhea. Makes cleaning up the kids seem like a breeze.

I’m not trying to act like a martyr. There are moms with way more kids and way worse messes than what I’ve had to deal with. It just makes me wonder why, in this age of enlightened women and interchangeable roles for moms and dads, it’s still largely left up to us moms to mop up the messes for the masses.

Mammos and Martinis Anyone?

2007-10-12T15:33:00.000-05:00

It’s National Breast Cancer Awareness Month and with apologies to my husband, I’m about ready to cut mine off - my “girls” as I like to call them. I have stressed and worried and had them squashed between plastic grids one too many times. I’m done.

I had a re-check mammogram today. There was a “questionable area” 6 months ago when I had my annual mammogram and they gave me a tentative all-clear and said to come back in six months to check “righty.” Today was the day. I loathe this day. Most women can go to their mammos with smiles on their faces and maybe frown a bit at the discomfort and inconvenience. Me? I figure it’s another spin on the breast cancer roulette wheel.

My aunt died of breast cancer. My mother developed pre-cancerous cells when she was over 65, which somehow isn’t too much of a concern. Still, it means I have HISTORY and therefore must be careful. And I am. I go every single year without fail since I was 35 years old.

And every single year, without fail, I sit in those pretty pink rooms with the nice technicians that grab and smash me into that machine and I worry. I figure my time is up. I pray…a lot. I think about making deals with God, but then I think about all of the people that I know that need prayers more than me and then I feel guilty about praying. See how nuts I get?

Honestly, the girls haven’t been that fun lately. I constantly need to keep them in place and running up and down the stairs, now there’s an instant lesson on gravity and physics. I breast-fed exactly one child and I was certainly no poster child for the La Leche League. Me and the girls, well, we have a strained relationship, to say the least.

On the other hand, I know how incredibly blessed and fortunate I am. I think about the women that have had mastectomies and dealt with the ravages of cancer and again – the guilt. I have nothing to complain about…except my annual carnival of worry.

So, OK, fine. I won’t cut the girls out of my life. But I’d be ever so happy if somehow they made the mammos a little less stressful. Perhaps a martini bar in those cute little pink rooms?

Getting My Granny Panties in a Bundle

2007-10-04T16:46:00.001-05:00

The other day, I went to lunch with a group of friends and they gave me a birthday present. A thong. Actually, EIGHT thongs. It was and is a joke. Since I’m older than them, I’m sure the idea of me and these thongs was hilarious…and a little icky. But I have to admit, it’s pretty funny.

After we all stopped laughing, several of the women extolled the virtues of thongs and how great they are. Sorry, I’m not buying it.

The concept of me associated with a thong seems awkward to say the least. I grew up in the generation that thought of thongs as something you wore on your feet – i.e. flip flops. Back then, we had two kinds of women’s underwear – bikini and giant granny panties. I am so much more comfortable with the latter. The more coverage the better.

I’m all about comfort. I generally wear somewhat loose-fitting clothing. I like my pants to cover my butt, my “girls” under wraps and my necklines modest. If a shirt is tight, I feel self-conscious. I’m not hideous, but I won’t be mistaken for a swimsuit model in the near future and that’s OK.

When I see boys walking around with their shorts hanging down to their knees, I really want to yell: “Pull up your pants!” To me, clothes are either on or off, which is why the idea of wearing a thong is so incredibly foreign to me. Won’t it get stuck in places where you’ll end up tugging it out? Thongs are so small, what really is the point of wearing anything? To me, the phrase “comfortable thong” is an oxymoron.

They say that with age comes wisdom. I say with children goes your body. Unless you’re Angelina Jolie, Kate Hudson or Katie Holmes and have a personal trainer on retainer, your body will never be the same after you have kids. And I sort of think it shouldn’t be. To me, it’s kind of a badge of honor. Our hips widen, thereby giving our children a firmer foundation upon which to hang themselves when they are still carry-able. You think Angelina’s carrying those kids when the paparazzi are gone? Not with that bony ass!

And so I’m looking for creative uses for eight teeny tiny thongs. Here’s a thought: I’ll bet Martha Stewart picked up a few ideas in the slammer! Oh Martha…….!

Just Say McNo!

2007-09-28T14:16:00.000-05:00

The other day, I was talking to my sister who is a 2nd grade teacher. She relayed this conversation that she had with one of her students:

“Mrs. R., do you watch Grey’s Anatomy?”
“Why no Suzie, I don’t.”
“Oh, really. I’m surprised. Because you struck me as someone that would watch Grey’s Anatomy. My mom and I get so excited to watch it on Thursday nights. We get a big bowl of popcorn….”

I stopped her there. First, because this kid has pretty amazing verbal skills. But secondly because I told her to call social services. There is no way in hell that a 2nd grader should be watching Grey’s Anatomy.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Grey’s Anatomy. I’ve watched it from the very beginning. It’s a great show…but NOT for 2nd graders!

What is wrong with parents?! Are they trying to be buddies with their kids? This show is on (here in the heartland) at 9pm. That 2nd grader should be in bed and simply should not be allowed to watch this show. It’s too adult. It’s full of sex and innuendo and a bit of blood and gore. Why didn’t the mom just say NO?!

I have a 15 year old daughter. Last year, she begged my husband and I to let her watch Grey’s because all the girls at her high school were watching it. We had a long discussion and eventually decided it was OK. But we had reservations – and rightfully so.

I’m not a prudish mom. I’m probably way more liberal when it comes to language and movies and music than most moms. But common sense has to come into play at some point, doesn’t it?

When my kids were toddlers, I never got to watch Friends. Every Friday morning, I’d come to work and listen to all of the water cooler conversations about how incredibly funny the show was. We didn’t have a VCR or a DVR and so we used our parental judgment to know that having Friends on while our kids were around was not a good idea. We had to give up something in order to, in my opinion, properly parent.

These days, when you go to the movies, even at night, even at R-rated films, you’ll see entire families in the seats. Toddlers, babies, etc. I want to stand up and shake my finger at the parents and scream: GET A BABYSITTER! YOUR KIDS DON’T BELONG HERE! I’m sure it would be a waste of energy.

It’s times like these when I really wish people had to get a license to parent. Seriously? Seriously.

The Lost Housewives

2007-09-20T16:34:00.000-05:00

I found them. The lost housewives. Remember those women from when you were growing up? The ones that took their housewifery very seriously. The ones that spent copious amounts of time eliminating waxy yellow buildup? The ones that spent hours clipping coupons and making shopping lists? The ones whose hair was perpetually in a state of curlers covered by a bandana? The ones who wore sensible shoes and anklets on legs that were rarely shaved or moisturized? The ones who looked angry. All. The. Time.

I stopped at a grocery store yesterday – a few miles from my relatively yuppie neighborhood. It was on the fringe of the city in a modest area with modest little houses. I walked in and thought that I had stepped back into 1974. If I wasn’t standing next to the microwave popcorn, I would have sworn that I had time traveled.

Throughout the store were the type of women that I hadn’t seen in over 30 years. They were all middle-aged and seemed stuck in a time warp. They shopped s-l-o-w-l-y, making sure not to miss a store special on meat or the opportunity to cash in on a double coupon.

One lovely lady, in Capri pants purchased the first time Capri pants were in style, seemed deeply confused when I excused myself to get around her and get to the butter. She moved out of the way and then shuffled along, rifling through her coupons. She was either very tired from a morning spent scrubbing tile grout or over the limit on her Prozac dosage.

What impressed me more than the lost housewives’ sense of style or subdued nature, was the idea that these gals hadn’t had fun in a long, long time. I don’t think they’ve laughed since the Carter administration and I’m pretty damn sure that they don’t go to lunch with their friends. I’m betting that their hubbies haven’t taken them out to dinner since the refrigerator broke. I think it’s safe to say that they’ve sacrificed their own identities to maintain their well-run homes. I felt a little sad for them.

And after rushing past the butter blocker, I high-tailed it out of that grocery store hoping to never encounter the Lost Housewives again. There but for the grace of God go I.

June Cleaver Wasn't Real

2007-09-11T09:40:00.000-05:00

I blame it on June Cleaver. That picture-perfect mom who vacuumed in pearls and put up with Eddie Haskell’s crap without losing her temper. The moment that June came on the scene, women all over the country decided that’s how moms were supposed to be…all the time. The standard was set and then women began to be judged based on how they compared to June.

It’s ridiculous, this Madonna complex we have, this “Junification” of the modern woman. How else can we explain sites like True Mom Confessions where women clandestinely go to divulge their deepest, darkest secrets like “My kids would probably find me less embarrassing if I was a flaming clown.”

Girls, we have to start talking to each other and we have to start being a little bit honest AND accepting. I don’t mean to dump on men, but I’m pretty sure it’s not that way with them. There aren’t a group of dads standing watching a basketball game whispering to each other: “Can you believe he didn’t teach his kid how to set a pick?!”

We women are so freaking catty. We stand on playgrounds and in grocery stores aisles and on street corners and whisper to each other because Betty Sue allowed little Madison to go to school with a wrinkled shirt – gasp! We’re afraid to admit that when we make treats for our kids’ classrooms, sometimes we buy them at the store (slacker!) and then throw away the packaging so that they look homemade.

We’d rather go without sleep than drive the carpool in our pajamas even though our youngest was up most of the night projectile vomiting.

I think it’s time we call a truce, fess up and give each other a break. I’ll start. I hate ironing. It bores me to tears and I can never iron well enough. I go out of my way to never purchase clothes that need to be ironed. Never. Oh and my closets are a mess. Suffice it to say that opening one can be hazardous. I lose my temper...a lot. I sometimes say unkind things to my kids and husband. I'm a terrible cook.

I know, it’s not much. It’s not a sordid affair or cheating on taxes. But it’s me and it’s OK. What about you?

Dear Zac Efron

2007-09-05T16:29:00.000-05:00

Dear Zac Efron,

Dude, life is good right now, isn’t it? Suffice it to say, you are the man. People, Rolling Stone, Cosmo Girl, Time Magazine (OK, it was a teeny picture, but it is a news magazine)…what magazine are you not on the cover? Can I buy stock in you?

Your career is through the roof. High School Musical? Breakthrough! (OK, fine, you didn’t sing, but Natalie Wood didn’t in West Side Story either.) Hairspray? Awesome. That wink is killer, man. You actually made me believe that you fell in love with Tracy Turnblad. High School Musical 2? We’ll forgive you for the clamdiggers and the cheesy plot. This time you actually did sing and it was great – really!

Your girlfriend, Vanessa Hudgens is adorable. The two of you are cute as buttons. Kind of like a modern day Frankie and Annette. OK, I lost you there. Never mind.

In any case, I want to talk about your image. Sure, it’s squeaky clean right now. Supposedly you drive a modest car, live in a modest apartment and the only time you’re photographed in public is when you’re frolicking on the beach. Seriously? Seriously.

Right now, you’re not clubbing. You haven’t made the Lindsay/Britney/Paris mistake. You haven’t allowed your celebrity to overshadow your talent. Keep it that way, OK?

See, the thing is, I have a teenage daughter that thinks you’re the bomb. I know this because she’s got a pile of magazines with your face on it. Normally, I’d get annoyed because I’m always having to pick up these magazines from the floor of her bedroom. But I have to say, if I were fifteen, I’d have a crush on you too.

So my point here is, don’t let her down. Don’t become that poser wannabe who drinks until 4am and pretends that that, in itself, is important. It’s not. I’m not saying you have to be Brad Pitt and adopt a kid from every third world nation, but just don’t be pathetic and end up in rehab, OK? We’ve got enough of those people and we’re all sick of them.

That’s it. Keep it real. And feel free to drop by anytime. I’ll make you a batch of chocolate chip cookies and introduce you to my daughter.

Love,
Karen

Things the Parenting Books Won't Tell You

2007-08-29T12:02:00.000-05:00

I've been a parent for more than 20 years. I'm neither the best nor the worst parent. None of us are. And yet, along the way, we all learn something. Here are a few tidbits I've figured out over the years:

Don’t teach your toddlers rock songs unless you’re prepared to have them sing them loudly in public.

Don’t encourage your child’s sense of humor unless you’re ready to have it thrown back in your face at the most inappropriate, and unfunny, moment.

If you let your kids listen to show music in the car, know that you are forever doomed to have theatre kids and musicians.

The fast food you buy today to save time and sanity, may encourage a generation of picky eaters only satisfied by Happy Meals.

The first time that you run something over to school that your child forgot at home, will not be the last.

Once you have complained about something (i.e. church, boring meetings, getting up early), you have opened the door to a lifetime of the same from your child.

Never speak badly about a relative and then ask that same person to babysit your kids.

Neatness cannot be taught. Politeness can.

The sins of your own childhood will be returned to you tenfold throughout your parenting career.

Never, I mean NEVER share stories of stupid things you did as a teenager when your children are under the age of 21.

The expensive toys that you worked hard to acquire will never be as interesting to children as the broken toys full of lead and toxic paint.

The good behavior of your child is inversely proportionate to the amount of gossiping that you do about other people's children.

It is impossible to change your own fate through your child. It’s too late.

Despite your best efforts, your child will want to play the instrument that you would least likely prefer to hear played badly.

The day you expect a compliment on a dinner well-prepared or laundry well-done is the day that you will never receive one.

Whining can’t be corrected by yelling.

You can’t hug your child too much, even when they don’t hug back.

Kids Create the Darndest Things

2007-08-11T10:17:00.000-05:00

My college-aged son Dan and his friend Tom have a band called The Dart Throwing Bartenders. At least once a year, they get together in our basement and write a few songs. The music is eclectic and serves almost no purpose except to make them, and us, laugh hysterically.

And so, because I like to share, I proudly present the new musical from the Dart Throwing Bartenders – 5 Floors of Cash – music inspired by the movie Home Alone 2: Lost in New York.

If you haven’t seen the movie, much of this won’t make sense. On the other hand, it’s a fun "poke" at musicals and it was written and recorded all in one week. (Oh and it's definitely G-rated, in case you were concerned.)

Here’s a list of the songs, although they’re all combined on one track:

MIDNIGHT TONIGHT

KID ALONE ON CHRISTMAS

ANOTHER CHRISTMAS IN THE TRENCHES

DEAR MR. DUNCAN

STRONGER, BRAVER*

WELCOME TO NEW YORK

NOT ALONE ON CHRISTMAS

*My daughter is the female vocalist which gives me a glimmer of hope that one day my two kids might be able to get along.

Hope you enjoy 5 Floors of Cash! Oh and if you like it, feel free to send other people here to visit. Yeah, I'm that way. I'm a mom.

My Once-A-Year Sisters

2007-08-01T09:11:00.000-05:00

Eighteen years. Many marriages don’t last that long. A lot of friendships don’t either. But ours has…and so has our annual trek to a tiny cottage on a tiny lake in a tiny town in the middle of Wisconsin. It’s been eighteen years since we had our first “Ya-Ya Weekend.” (Yes, it’s a nod to the Rebecca Wells book, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.) Since then, we’ve fine-tuned our preparations and cut back on the groceries. Other than that, not much has changed.

It’s a weekend where we sit back, catch-up and sometimes reconnect with our own identities. It’s a time when we take a break from being employees and sisters and wives and mothers and, for once, just be us. I have to say, that’s the hardest part – not being defined by our relationships to other people. For a few days, we get to be ourselves – we laugh at the stupidest things and say what’s on our minds – without feeling like we’ll be judged for any of it.

We have traditions – craft night, Saturday night on the boat, setting goals for next year. (Never revealed to outsiders, rarely ever met and hardly ever criticized.) Other than that, we have blessedly few obligations. We update each other on our lives and swap advice on topics as mundane as child-rearing or decorating. Somehow we manage to always do the most important thing of all: We build each other up before we send each other off. I wish everyone could be so lucky.

*Yes, that's me, hanging out on the far right.

Back to School?! How About Back to Summer!

2007-07-16T12:03:00.000-05:00

I knew it was coming, but I thought we’d get a little further into July. No, of course not. Last night, I saw the first official Back to School (BTS) sign. It was on our local Best Buy store and I have this feeling that it has been there for a while.

It used to be that students and parents thought about going back to school about a week before the actual event. These days, if you’re buying school supplies in early August, well, suffice it to say that your kid will have the ugliest notebooks and pencil cases in the entire class. Good luck dealing with that meltdown!

I’m all for planning ahead, but for God’s sake, I’m not even tired of watering my flowers yet. I’m not even pissed off at the bee population. And, call the newspaper, I don’t even mind being around my kids. Trust me, by the end of summer, I’m the first one to scream: “Let’s discuss year-round school as a viable option!”

But this is mid-July, people. I haven’t even had my first ice cream cone. (OK, fine, I’m avoiding it because I’m on a diet, but I haven’t even craved my first ice cream cone.) I’m all for small government, but can’t we outlaw talk of BTS until at least August 15th?

Maybe my problem isn’t so much this talk of summer ending. Maybe it’s because I know, that once we let loose the BTS beast, then around the corner will be Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas screaming closely behind. So join me, if you will, in a full-scale denial of all things back to school. Is it worth it? Yes, even if the folders are hideous and the protractors are picked over. Just say no!

Like Getting Blood from a Turnip

2007-07-09T11:27:00.000-05:00

It’s no secret that raising teenagers is hard. And it’s not so much that you raise them, but rather that you survive their upbringing. And let me say that in the teen lottery, I’ve done extremely well. I have two amazing kids who rarely look for or get into trouble. For that, I’m eternally grateful. Yet even when you parent great kids, there are some tough times.

Currently, my greatest challenge is information. Regularly, my kids and I play a cat and mouse game of me attempting to get information and them doing their best not to divulge it. My feeling is that I need to know as much as possible. My kids’ opinion is that I’ll get that information on a need-to-know basis and they feel that I need to know as little as possible.

I believe that I’m not prying and any parenting expert will tell you that the best way to insure that your kids are OK is if you find out what they’re doing and with whom they’re doing it. Get to know their friends. Make a point of meeting their friends’ parents. Find out what they’re doing and where they went. Get details.

Ah, what’s that they say? The devil is in the details? Yeah, that right there is my problem. My kids are pretty good at giving me a bit of info about their plans, their friends and their relationships, but the emphasis is definitely on “a bit.”

And so I do what any other mom would do – I dig a bit. I’ve become an expert at asking questions – lots of them. I get creative with my interrogation. I pepper them with innocent little inquiries, usually while they’re doing something else such as eating or watching TV. I lull them into complacency and perhaps sharing a bit more than they intended. Sometimes it works, sometimes, not so much. Yet still, I press on and I’ll continue to do so, likely long past the days when they continue to live with us. Because the only thing more difficult than getting information from your kids is letting go of them.

Shock and Awe

2007-06-11T13:15:00.000-05:00

Long after we’ve taught our kids to drive, showed them how to do laundry, watched them get their diplomas and congratulated them on their first “real” job there is still one thing about motherhood that will haunt me – walking into my children’s bedrooms. It’s got to be one of the scariest things that I do on a regular basis – and then, only if I have to.

I do not consider myself a neat freak or hyper-organized. Still, I try to declutter throughout my house as often as possible. I do my best to live by the old adage – A Place for Everything and Everything in Its Place. Well, maybe I should say that I live by that adage in two situations: 1) Somebody is coming over. Or 2) There’s nothing on TV and I’m crabby as hell.

Nevertheless, it bugs me when I walk by my kids’ bedrooms and see more clothes on the floor than in a Gap dressing room. Or, my pet peeve - dirty dishes, empty soda cans or wrappers from food. Sometimes I think that a FEMA trailer might pull up in front of our house, hearing that there was a state of emergency on our second floor. But no such luck. (And seriously? I don’t think even those people would go in unless they were equipped with hazmat suits. Yeah, it’s that bad.)

For those of you with young daughters, I have two words of wisdom: Good luck. There is virtually nothing you can do to keep up with the flurry of clothing that will fly around your daughter’s bedroom and end up on the floor. The tricky part is figuring out what’s clean or what’s simply been tried on and rejected. This is where you’ll have to resort to smelling the clothing piled on the floor. Oh yes you will!

Oh and the answer is yes. I do go in and clean up my kids’ rooms. Yeah, I know. Every single parenting manual will tell you that it’s the wrong thing to do and that they’ll never learn responsibility. That manual will also not be there to deal the ants that will invade if I don’t. Or deal with a sobbing adolescent looking for “my favorite cami!”

And even if you do decide to go for hazardous duty and go into your kids’ bedrooms, you must still be prepared for the verbal attacks: “Mooooooom, where’s my (insert name of crappy but beloved piece of clothing here)?!” It’s always spoken in an accusatory tone, implying that you had the item, lost it and didn’t care about them (the child) or the item. And when the item is found at their friend’s house, don’t spend a moment thinking you’ll get an apology. It’s not gonna happen.

Still, I’ve decided that visiting my kids’ rooms regularly and making a feeble attempt to at least find the floor is good for my soul. It makes me feel a little less frazzled, I get an up-close peek at their world and once in a blue moon, I actually get to hear the words “Thank you.” To me, it’s worth it.

Sometimes Nagging Isn't Enough

2007-06-09T09:21:00.000-05:00

50 Things I Love About...Everything!

2007-06-01T13:09:00.000-05:00

Because I got some calls. Because some people were worried. Because I'm not a hater, I happily bring you this list.....

1. I love my husband and my children.
2. I love puppies, especially Golden Retrievers.
3. I love chocolate of any kind, except white chocolate which I think is an oxymoron.
4. I love books in which I can get lost and that I can’t wait to get back to reading.
5. I love fall – the cooling weather and stunning colors.
6. I love football – primarily Green Bay Packers, but when desperate will watch almost any kind…unless it’s soccer in which case I have no clue what’s going on.
7. I love music that takes me by surprise and make me want to dance, even though, seriously, I can’t dance.
8. I love good red wine.
9. I love the smell of clean clothes.
10. I love sitting down to a home-cooked meal that I haven’t cooked.
11. I love laughing until my stomach hurts.
12. I love the sound of my children’s laughter.
13. I love watching my husband laugh so hard that he cries.
14. I love a movie that makes me cry at the end.
15. I love looking forward to watching my favorite TV shows.
16. I love waking up in the morning before everyone in my house. It’s my favorite time of day and I don’t have to talk to anyone.
17. I love reading the daily comics.
18. I love good friends that can fill in the gaps of my ever-failing memory.
19. I love sitting next to a pool on a hot day, listening to great music.
20. I love playing tennis – anywhere, anytime.
21. I love receiving compliments, even though they fluster me and I rarely say the right thing in response.
22. I love the smell of babies.
23. I love deep conversations in which you get lost…unless they’re way over my head.
24. I love not taking myself seriously.
25. I love unexpectedly finding something in common with someone new.
26. I love comfy shoes and clothes.
27. I love blue jeans, especially when they’re stretchy – brilliant idea!
28. I love falling asleep on a clean, cold pillow.
29. I love children that like me. How can I not?
30. I love a day where I’ve accomplished several tasks, no matter how menial they are. This explains why I’m a stay-at-home mom.
31. I love a fantastic meal eaten outside at a picturesque spot – or just a nice patio will do.
32. I love surprises.
33. I love change, unless it involves taking away someone that I love.
34. I love being alone in my house, as long as everyone is eventually returning.
35. I love Fridays when People Magazine arrives and I can sit outside and read it leisurely with great music playing on my iPod.
36. I love being in a crowd, cheering for the winning team.
37. I love listening to toddlers talk – hilarious!
38. I love back scratches.
39. I love getting mail – real mail, not junk mail.
40. I love my birthday. As I age, I try not to care, but I always do.
41. I love respectful, thought-provoking, challenging questions of faith.
42. I love making cookies on a chilly day…OK, and nibbling a bit of dough while I’m at it.
43. I love the smell of a wood fire.
44. I love a Broadway musical that gives me chills or makes me cry.
45. I love music festivals on a warm summer day when you find fantastic music and great people watching.
46. I love the sound of men’s wing-tip shoes on a marble floor. (Yeah, call me weird.)
47. I love watching Field of Dreams. Anytime, anywhere. It’s the only movie I can watch over and over and over.
48. I love the feeling of pride I get when my kids do something talented, incredible or just plain nice.
49. I love how smells and songs take me down memory lane in an instant. If a woman walks by me wearing White Shoulders perfume, I immediately think of my mom getting ready to go out somewhere nice with my dad.
50. I love the deep down feeling of contentment that comes when your children are safe, your priorities are in order and your worries are few.

50 Things I Hate About...Everything

2007-05-25T08:00:00.000-05:00

Maybe it's just the mood I'm in, but here's a little peek at the darker side of me:

1. I hate fingernails on...I can’t even say it. You know where I’m going with that.
2. I hate name droppers.
3. I hate people that are inconsiderate and don’t think of others around them.
4. I hate when people eat with their mouths open.
5. I hate coconut – the texture not the flavor.
6. I hate thinking that I’ve hurt someone’s feelings.
7. I hate cooking only slightly less than I love eating.
8. I hate houses with odors. If my friends are reading this and my house smells, please tell me.
9. I hate anything wooden in my mouth.
10. I hate when drivers tailgate the elderly – we’ll all be there someday.
11. I hate the thought that one day I won’t be able to play tennis.
12. I hate having to wait for something without reading material. It’s a test of my patience, or lack thereof.
13. I hate talking loudly so that people can hear me.
14. I hate feeling unappreciated.
15. I hate saying goodbye and avoid it at all costs. If I don’t say goodbye to you, it’s because you mean a lot to me.
16. I hate waking up without something to look forward to.
17. I hate when I say something stupid in front of someone that I don’t know.
18. I hate people that don’t shovel in the winter or don’t mow in the summer.
19. I hate that I’ve reached the point that I’m less interesting to my children than the snacks in our cabinet.
20. I hate when my kids expect that I’ll do something without them asking me and then get mad that I haven’t done it.
21. I hate small talk.
22. I hate people that grunt loudly when they work out, as if we’re supposed to be impressed.
23. I hate people that talk loudly on cell phones within 50 yards of me.
24. I hate anything violent or scary in movies or TV.
25. I hate people who let their kids run around any public place and make no attempts to control them.
26. I hate people that let their dogs take them on a walk and bother other people walking by.
27. I hate mean adolescents.
28. I hate when my family puts empty boxes back in the fridge, freezer or cabinets.
29. I hate bees and wasps.
30 Actually, I pretty much hate all bugs.
31. I hate watering the flowers that I plant every year.
32. I hate dirty snow.
33. I hate daytime television.
34. I hate loud TV on in a room when I’m not watching it.
35. I hate the music of the Beach Boys, Elvis and Rush.
36. I hate when people use my name a lot when they talk to me. It makes me feel like they’re trying to sell me something.
37. I hate acne and how it makes people feel.
38. I hate arrogant athletes.
39. I hate people that flaunt their wealth.
40. I hate the so-called sport of boxing.
41. I hate the phrase “There’s no such thing as a stupid question.” Of course there is. There’s stupid everything.
42. I hate when I get so crabby that I can’t stop myself.
43. I hate that all country music sounds the same to me. Same thing for rap.
44. I hate that I get easily distracted when I talk to people and then can’t listen to them. If you have a crumb on your face, don’t bother talking to me. I’m worthless.
45. I hate that I have such a short attention span that I haven’t read much of classic literature.
46. I hate when people that I’ve met several times act like I’m non-existent.
47. I hate that there’s a woman that walks by our house every day who picks the apples of our tree in the fall…without asking.
48. I hate watching George Bush speak unscripted, but I don’t hate George Bush.
49. I hate television news because what isn’t “breaking news” these days?
50. I hate that I sometimes feel more passionate about things that I hate than things that I love.

Alpha Mom, Beta Mom - It's All Greek To Me

2007-05-17T09:27:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wonder if we mothers don’t go looking for trouble. When my mother was raising us, the battle was between the June Cleaver moms and the Joan Baez moms. You either had spotless floors or a spotless conscience and never the two shall meet.

By the time I started raising a family, a battle waged between Working Moms and Stay-At-Home moms. The working moms wanted a little slack since they were burning the candles at both ends while they “had it all,” and the stay-at-home moms wanted some credit for sacrificing everything – job, income and identity – for the sake of her family.

Today, the latest war is between the Alpha Moms and the Beta Moms. The Alpha Moms are taking that advanced degree and years of experience climbing the corporate ladder and putting it to work in their own home and their kids’ lives. They’re using spreadsheets to organize soccer teams. They’re creating organizational charts for the PTA. They’re applying their finely-honed business skills to the business of running a family.

The Beta Moms, nicknamed The Slacker Moms, are not sweating the small stuff. They’re more into this maternal gig for the experience, organization be damned. They know that the Alpha Moms will keep micromanaging their children and they’d rather stay out of their way and not conform to their hyper-inflated standards. Basically, they’re telling the Alpha Moms to take a big chill pill.

So who’s right in this war of words and women? In my opinion, they’re both right. A little organization never killed anyone. What’s so wrong about using current technology and techniques and applying them to previously disorganized activities? If your child has ever been on a team or performed in a group, there’s nothing to ruin your day faster than lack of information and organization. If it can save you a trip to a playing field or a rehearsal hall, then bring it on.

But the Slacker Moms also have the right idea. Who says we have to be perfect in this mothering thing? There’s no surer way to secure your kid a lifetime of therapy than you inserting yourself into their life not allowing them to live it. Don’t we read them books every night that talk about how “special” they are and how everyone has their own skills and gifts?

The point is that we should put away our pointer fingers. There isn’t always a right way or a wrong way. We each make our own choices, sacrifices and contributions. What’s right for me is not always right for the mom next door. Just shut up and live your own life. Appreciate the differences and pick up a tip or two along the way. But don’t feel like you have to prove anything to anyone other than yourself. Isn’t parenting already hard enough?

Not Hating the Haters

2007-04-26T09:55:00.000-05:00

The other day I was chatting with a friend of mine who happens to have five children. I mentioned that I saw an adorable t-shirt at a boutique near our house. The t-shirt was cute and pink and said: “Happy Mom” on it with a little smiley face. She looked at me and said: “I can’t wear that shirt. My son hates me.” I didn’t argue with her because I knew exactly what she meant. To mother is to be hated and I have to tell you that it sucks.

When I got started in parenting, I’m sure that I stood up on a bit of a soapbox and said that I was going to discipline my children and not worry about whether they liked me or not. I can now say that I did discipline them, but I spent more than a little time worrying about whether they liked me. What I don’t know is whether I did a good job hiding that second part.

I’ve been told by my children that they hate me only a handful of times. I know, however, that I’ve been hated by my children more times than I can count. I have to tell you, it never gets easier. Every time they proclaim their distaste, I wish I could be ready with a tear-inducing speech about how they’ll regret their loathing and indifference and wish they had been more loving and caring and less self-centered. They won’t. Why, because they’re heartless? No, because they’re human and I was the exact same way.

Recently I was talking to my mom about parenting. I mentioned something about my daughter being less than crazy about me. She nodded her head and said: “Yes, I was the same way to my mother.” I was amazed. She skipped right over me and my horrible teenage years! Since my kids have become teenagers, I have attributed every tough parenting moment to big-time payback for my less-than-stellar past behavior. Yet, here was my mom, either having a major senior moment, or blessedly telling me that it’s all in the scheme of things:

“Dad, tell me about the Circle of Life.”

“Well Simba, besides being the name of a cheesy Elton John song, it’s the theory that what goes around comes around. We eat animals and poop them out. You treat your mother and I like crap and your kids will do the same. It all works out in the end.”

So although I still hate being hated, I’m slightly less panicky about it. I see a glimmer of hope for the future. Someday my kids will respect me or at least tolerate me. And one day, they’ll have their own little haters to handle. Seems fair, don’t you think?

The Craptastic Adventures of an Imperfect Mom

2007-04-08T08:09:00.000-05:00

Today is Easter and I have done nothing for my kids. No, wait, that’s not true. I made brunch reservations. Does that count? No, probably not. But there are no baskets, no candy, no annoying plastic grass, no treats…nothing. Truth be told, I feel a little guilty. I feel like I’m letting them down. They’ll say they don’t care, but I’d bet that they’re expecting something, anything to be sitting on the kitchen counter when they wake up this morning. I guess I just ran out of steam and ideas.

It wasn’t too many years ago when I would be up at dawn hiding eggs all over the house and abundantly filling baskets with candy and assorted treats. I was so obsessive that if we went on vacation over Easter, I’d hide the goodies in our luggage and wait until the kids were asleep to do the Easter Bunny’s job. It was so important to me to perpetuate the fantasy. No, I don’t mean the Easter Bunny fantasy. I mean the fantasy that I’m a perfect mom.

I’ve been working long and hard on that story. I think it was borne out of my need to prove that despite the fact that I worked full-time, I still loved my kids as much as the stay-at-home moms did. It was so important to me that my kids and the people around us could see my devotion. Holidays were a big part of that. I attacked Christmas and Easter and Halloween with a fervor usually reserved for Olympic competition. If I wasn’t going to be at home for my kids then, dammit, we’d have so many holiday traditions that we’d just ooze warmth and cuteness.

And we did…for a while. I planned and I hid and I prepared and I shopped. I bought more crap at Hallmark (the hallowed headquarters of holiday excess) than I could fit in my house. I spent my lunch hours driving to malls and shops to find adorable kitsch to decorate our house and thereby demonstrate my love. When the kids were little, it really was fun. Their enthusiasm fueled my obsession.

Then little by little, things changed. Their excitement waned. They woke up later. They spent less time looking at my purchases and appreciating my preparation. They became more interested in text messages and IMs than where the eggs were hidden or what was under the Christmas tree. Basically, they started to grow up. Sigh.

This story doesn’t have a sad ending. I’m not completely giving up, I’m just resigned to zigging as they zag. I still have a few tricks left up my sleeve and the ability to surprise them once in a while, only it won’t be on everyone else’s holiday schedule. There are still care packages and mini shopping trips and small gestures that can warm even the most cynical teen. Although I no longer have the need to prove I’m a perfect mom, I’m still determined to show that I’m pretty damn cool.

Not Throwing in the Towel

2007-03-23T14:59:00.000-05:00

I admit it. There are several times during my 20+ years of parenthood when I have felt like maybe I’m not cut out for the job. When my kids were infants, a casual lunch with a friend might push me over the edge. She would glow and brag about how motherhood was just the best and how there weren’t enough hours in the day to spend with her golden child. It’s not that I didn’t love my children, but there were multiple times when, frankly, I had no clue what I was doing and it seemed like maybe the kids had caught on to that fact. This parenting thing, in case you haven’t noticed, is a rather inexact science.

When we brought my second son home from the hospital, I distinctly remember putting him in his crib, standing over him, staring and thinking: “OK. Now what?” It was one of the most important moments of my life and I felt completely alien to it all.

While some of my friends lamented leaving their children with a babysitter, I had one foot halfway out the door at the mere suggestion of giving us a night out. I wasn’t crazy about arranging for a babysitter, but if somebody offered, I’d be all over it!

I had a secret deal with myself: I would try not to criticize other parents out loud because I had no clue what kind of parenting genes I had. When the day care director told me that my son had hit a girl in his class, I dragged him to the car, drove him over to the girl’s house and made him apologize to the parents. Then I stood on their doorstep and sobbed. To me, it was evidence of my complete and utter failure as a parent. But it was not. Although my parenting skills were mediocre, I had once again gone overboard with disastrous results.

When my daughter’s impatience and frustration bubbled over into intense fits of rage, I assumed that I was soft and that any other more qualified parent could have prevented it from happening. Maybe that’s true, but then again, maybe it’s not.

Throughout the years, as I indulged my children because it was easier than arguing with them, catered to their culinary preferences and pretty much molded our life around them (often at our expense), I worried that I had fallen asleep at the wheel of the parenting minivan. Rarely a day goes by when I don’t wish that I would have done something differently.

Still, I look at my kids today and think: Somehow it all worked out. Despite my half-baked ideas and less than stellar efforts, my kids are pretty great. How the heck did that happen?

Expect the Unexpected

2007-03-17T09:46:00.000-05:00

There’s a book that hasn’t been written. If it were, it would go right alongside all the other “What to Expect…” books that are now collecting dust in my library. The title of this book is What to Expect When You Have a Teenager. Here’s a brief outline:

Chapter 1: Indifference
Chapter 2: Attitude and Lots of It!
Chapter 3: Stuff…Everywhere…And the Inability to Find Any of It
Chapter 4: No Information on Anything…Ever
Chapter 5: From Zero to Mad in Less Than 6 Seconds

I could on and on and on. Actually, I think the book should really be titled: What to Expect When You’re Not Expecting It because that is really what parenting a teen is all about. It’s about being blindsided on a daily basis by mood swings and hormones and fits of rage, inexplicably followed by moments of sweetness and laughter. It’s the roller coaster of parenting and it’s one hell of a ride.

The funniest part of it all, is that just when it seems like you can’t stand anymore, it’s over and you miss them more than you could ever imagine. In what other relationship in your life would you put up with this? Seriously, this has dysfunction written all over it!

Still, generation after generation of parents go along for this thrill ride. Many even get to ride it several times. That’s when aging mercifully gives us memory loss, diminished hearing and poor eyesight, shielding us from the bare, naked truth – parenting a teen is not much fun at all. (Except for never having to go to Chuck E. Cheese ever again in my lifetime. For that I am eternally grateful.)

An Abundance of Blessings

2007-03-06T12:10:00.000-06:00

You can disagree with me on this, but I'll argue till the end. I'm pretty sure that I have the best friends and neighbors…in Wisconsin...anywhere, actually. In fact, I'd take mine over anybody else's any day. Bar none.

This past week, while my family and I were dealing with the grief of losing a son and a brother, our friends swooped down on us, fed us, offered a shoulder to cry on, shoveled our snow, walked our dog, picked up our mail, house sat, helped us find photos and memories and were there for us at all hours. Rarely have I felt so loved and cared for in my life.

There is such an amazing community spirit here that it has truly eclipsed our sadness. To say thank you would seem trite. What we can say is we are so truly blessed.

Someday soon, I'll tell you all about the lady that hugged too long, the priest that cried during the entire sermon, the 80+ year old man that kept telling my son he was my husband's classmate and the darling young boy who when thanked for coming said: "Thank you for having me." Because even amidst sadness, I find humor lurking around every corner. But that's just me.

Andrew’s Story - Updated

2007-02-28T18:05:00.000-06:00

A couple of months ago, I posted this story on my blog. Today, I'm sad to report, Andrew died after a brief battle with pneumonia. My husband, daughter and I were with him in his final moments. Just as much as Andrew fought his way into this world, he also fought his way out of it. Andrew's life has been a long journey that has taken us to so many unlikely places. Andrew, you've touched so many people in your quiet way. Watch over us, buddy.

On November 18th, 1986, I gave birth to our first son, Andrew, via “crash” c-section. My husband and I had rushed to the hospital because my water had broken and we knew that something was wrong. When we arrived, the doctor on call hooked me up to a fetal monitor, gazed at it with a deep look of concern and then put her hand on my leg and said: “I’m sorry, but there’s no heartbeat.” Seconds later, she saw what she called an “agonal” heartbeat and I was rushed into an operating room where Andrew was delivered. For eight minutes, he did not breathe. Then, he barely began to respond. They hooked him up to a ventilator and put him into the neonatal intensive care unit.

As the day wore on and my anesthesia wore off, we found out that despite my unremarkable full-term pregnancy, I had something called vasa previa which essentially meant that part of the umbilical cord had branched off separately. Often, women will have vasa previa and it won’t be discovered until after they have a healthy delivery. In our case, it was different and oh, so wrong. My water broke at the exact point where the separate part of the umbilical cord had formed. Since it was a weaker part of the cord, it sheared and Andrew lost blood and therefore oxygen. The doctors assured us that there was no way to have known that would happen. We, and Andrew, were just unlucky victims of the odds.

Andrew stayed in the NICU unit where a battery of tests was run. Neuro specialists were consulted and within a day or two they told us that Andrew had virtually no brain activity. They and all of the medical experts felt that leaving him on the ventilator was to keep him alive by extraordinary means. And so, we made the gut-wrenching decision to have life support removed from our newborn son. First, we asked a Catholic priest to baptize him. The medical staff then asked if we wanted to be there when they removed the ventilator, but I couldn’t do it. The idea of watching my son die was simply beyond unbearable. And so we returned to my room and waited. And in a cruel twist of fate, Andrew started to breathe on his own. He was sustaining his own life without a ventilator. We suddenly found ourselves caught in the parental hell that is grieving over the fundamental loss of a baby while wondering why God was keeping his body alive.

As the days and weeks passed by, we started to adjust to the idea of parenting a developmentally disabled child. However, his disabilities were so severe; they were beyond that which we could handle in our own home. We spoke to social workers and staff who unanimously advised us that bringing Andrew home would rip our marriage and our future family apart because he would require around-the-clock medical care. He was likely blind and deaf, would never walk or talk, could not feed from a bottle or ever swallow food and his cognitive age would always hover around 1-1/2 months. He would never be able to recognize or acknowledge us. Essentially, he was and always would be in a vegetative state.

We were in such a fragile state of confusion about what to do next for our child who was essentially living in the shell of a body. At one point, we petitioned the hospital ethics board to ask what, besides removal of the ventilator, were considered “extraordinary means.” It was an agonizing path for parents to take but we did not want Andrew to suffer needlessly if his time with us was limited. The board basically said that all current measures should continue. We were comfortable with their advisement. Next we faced the decision of how to care for Andrew for the rest of his life.

We found out that our options were to find a foster family specially trained in caring for developmentally disabled individuals, or apply for a placement at a state-run center about an hour from our home. We chose the latter, feeling that they would be better equipped and trained for his care. That would also allow us visit him in comfort and convenience and give him access to the very best therapies and medical care available without having to leave his surroundings. Administrators from the center visited Andrew at the hospital. His appearance was deceiving since he was such a beautiful baby. His constant seizure activity had not yet started and years of immobility had not yet wracked his body with spasticity and brittle bones. They found that he was appropriate for placement and on January 7th, 1987, after he was fitted with a feeding tube, we drove him out to the center.

The initial days after January 7th are a blur. I remember visiting Andrew every weekend for several weeks to make sure he was getting the best care possible. We found the center to be a place filled with residents that had a wide variety of horrific disabilities. Some of the older residents had Down’s syndrome and had been placed there decades prior. (Something, of course, that would not be done today.) Others had dramatic and horrible birth defects. Still others were victims of strokes or near drowning or asphyxiation. These were the kids that you don’t see in the Special Olympics. They were special alright, but without mobility or communication or many very basic human skills that would allow them to interact with or benefit from mainstreaming in the community. Frankly, it was disturbing to go there. Not because it was a depressing place, but because the residents were so deeply damaged physically and developmentally that the first instinct was to turn away.

The gentle and competent staff embraced Andrew with enthusiasm and joy, something that had been woefully missing since he was born. To them, there was little point in discussing what was wrong with him, because he was what he was. Their goal was to take this tiny, damaged infant and treat him with the utmost dignity, respect and love that was possible. To this day, I think of them as angels on earth because of the way that they swooped down and gently cradled Andrew when we, the parents, were at our most vulnerable.

Weeks, months and years went by. When Andrew was first born, one of the neonatologists estimated that he wouldn’t live beyond five years, due to his many medical complications and his potential for life-threatening respiratory issues. He did indeed suffer through many bouts of pneumonia when he was young. Once Andrew passed his 5th birthday, we stopped asking for long-term prognosis. It seemed obvious to us that God had a purpose for Andrew here on earth and although it was beyond our comprehension, we just had to do our best to keep him comfortable and well cared-for to the best of our abilities. We feel very strongly that the center has fulfilled this mission for Andrew and for us.

Andrew turns 20 this weekend. His birth and his life have changed us immeasurably. My husband and I are better parents to our two other children who are now 19 and 14. They have become very compassionate, kind and sensitive young adults, no doubt as a result of visiting their profoundly developmentally disabled brother regularly since they were born.

When I tell people the story of Andrew, I usually condense and soften it. Not surprisingly, it’s a conversation stopper and it’s the difficult answer to the question: “So, how many kids do you have?” Mostly I do this to try and protect the person asking because sometimes Andrew’s story elicits tears. Most of the time, it makes people really, really uncomfortable because they have no idea what to ask next. I completely understand that reaction and work really hard to avoid it. Nevertheless, I always try to tell people that Andrew’s birth was both the most tragic and beautiful thing that has ever happened in my life. While we were still reeling over the blow that life had dealt us, friends and family from far and near descended upon us and helped us through that first very difficult year. Their love and support has touched us to this day and continues to sustain us and Andrew.

Doomed Love

2007-02-11T11:16:00.000-06:00

“I’ll tell you something about motherhood. It’s the most impossible love. You tell me when it ends. You tell me when it stops.”
- Diane Keaton in Because I Said So

One of my neighbors had a baby last week and as I gaze across the street at her house, I remember back to those days when we brought our own children home. I think about that all-encompassing, soul-sucking, time-saturating state of being when every minute revolves around that child. And then I fast-forward to now, when my kids are teens and rarely have a physical need for me, let alone an emotional want of my companionship let alone my advice. I have to say, it’s a little rough on the psyche.

And no, this won’t be a long-winded rant about “where has the time gone?” and “when did they grow up?” In fact, my thoughts about motherhood are less about mourning the loss of their youth than it is about avoiding the inevitable mortality of my role as a mother. The question that looms over our house is: I know that I’ll always be a mother, but if nobody needs mothering, then really, what am I?

Really, it seems a little ridiculous that I would even have this discussion with myself. It’s one of life’s inevitabilities along with death and taxes: Our kids will grow up and no longer need us. And worse, they will be less interested in us than we are in them. Jeez, that hurts. I almost understand why aging senior citizens sometimes unexpectedly act up and make a big deal out of small aches and pains. They’re looking for a little attention. And, of course, it’s also why women obsess over their grandchildren – so that they can relive their maternal years.

Still, there is virtually no other relationship, except perhaps employer-employee, where nice things will be said, but both parties know that it will be time to move on. Sure, we’ll get the employee newsletter and the obligatory phone call once a week or two, but it has changed. The relationship has fundamentally changed, never to be the same again.

Yet, I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat – every anguished moment of worry, every raging breath of anger, every tear shed over their broken hearts – it’s worth every single second.

My “baby” turns 15 this week – my own personal Valentine on the day before. It’s different to watch a daughter growing up. You fight with yourself over warning her about life’s trials and tribulations or stepping back and letting her experience them in her own way and her own time.

Excuse me now. I have to go and call my mom.

Speechless

2007-02-06T09:08:00.000-06:00

Those of you who are regulars...oh, who am I kidding? There are so few of you that I could probably name everyone personally. Anyway, you're probably wondering where I've been. Oh, I've been here. Me and the hubby and the girl-teen, hunkered down up here in the frozen tundra. Seriously, are we actually thinking that Global Warming is a possibility because I've got negative 12 reasons why it probably isn't. Yeah, it's that cold. (OK, all you greenies, don't get all up in arms! This is sarcasm. I'm in agreement that all this crap that we do is probably blowing a gigantic whole in the ozone. Don't be haters - OK?)

Anyway, I have to be perfectly honest and tell you that my creativity-meter is on low. Why? Well, because it's usually fueled by interaction with my children, which is why my blog is titled "Momhood." The problem is, if I don't interact, I have nothing to write. And lately, interaction has been at an all-time low. No, we are not in a fight. That actually would be interaction. We are in a state of suspended parenting. Yes, I am currently living through that glorious phase where every single thing I say is hated. Words barely leave my mouth before they are swatted away as useless, annoying dribble. I haven't felt this worthless since my son needed to learn to pee standing up. Basically, I can't say anything right and so I've chosen not to say much at all. Yes, I have a spine. You see, I'm picking my battles and this is one in which I'm Switzerland. It's just better if I back off a little bit and say as little as possible.

It'll be OK. I have my writing, my TV and, thank God, my husband. That man deserves a Purple Heart for being in the middle of this estrogen-fest. In the meantime, go check out my archives. Or just send me an e-mail and say "Hi Karen. I feel your pain!"

Testing the Stress

2007-01-25T12:22:00.000-06:00

The other day, I had a stress test. Don’t worry, I’m fine. I had been having some teeny little twinges and such and the doctor just wanted to be sure and so he sent me to the local “heart group.” (Today’s medicine no longer involves going to doctor’s offices. Now you visit “groups.” It’s like kindergarten, but a lot less fun.)

It was an interesting experience, to say the least. When I walked in, I felt very much out of place for several reasons: 1) I was younger than every other patient by at least 30 years; 2) I didn’t have a walker; and 3) I didn’t have a baseball cap with the name of the battleship or fighter jet I fought in during the war. It was one of the few times when feeling out of place was a good thing.

If you’ve ever had a stress test you know that this can be a maddening experience. For one thing, you can’t have caffeine for 24 hours prior to the test. 24 freakin’ hours! Not even decaf anything, because decaf doesn’t mean decaf to the “heart group.” Then, when you finally get there, they make you wait a long time and the only things they offer you to read are Prevention Magazine, or pamphlets that say: “Angina feels like indigestion, gas, or an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.” So then, you are certain that every major artery to your heart must be completely blocked. To make matters worse, if you choose not to read, you can look around at the other patients who seem to be hovering at or near death’s door.

Anyway, once I made it past the waiting room, I was brought into an exam room by a nurse who must have recently had her personality surgically removed. She asked me a series of questions in a tone that implied that maybe I wasn’t as out of place as I thought. She then took out a Sharpie and put black dots all over my chest. I’d like to point out that I spend a fair amount of time lately telling my daughter to stop writing on herself during school. Apparently, in the “heart group,” this is perfectly acceptable behavior. Then, the personality-challenged nurse attached receptors to my chest that must have been coated with black Crazy Glue because I am still washing it off, four days later.

I was then directed to waiting room number two which had a TV and was filled with people that were getting the nuclear stress test. Yes, the people sitting next to me were filled with nuclear liquid that would allow the “heart group” to pinpoint their blockage. At this point, I couldn’t help but be a little concerned. I watch “24.” Should I be sitting next to people that are currently radioactive? It seemed a little counterproductive.

While in Waiting Room Number Two, a man my age walked in all glowing with radioactivity. (Not really.) But he was a loud talker and as he chatted with the man next to him, I found out that he has six children and a family history of heart disease. When he was initially seen for his chest pains, the doctor asked him what part of his life causes him the most stress. He said that he really loves his job, so it must be his home life. At that moment, I wanted to stand up and shout: “Yeah, duh! Did you think that having six kids was going to be a walk in the park?! Your wife should probably be in here too!”

Finally I was called into the treadmill room by personality-challenged nurse who was assisted by a physician’s assistant with a bit more personality. They hooked me and my receptors up to the heart monitor and put me on the treadmill. At first, it was pretty easy. Then every three minutes, they would take my blood pressure, speed up the treadmill and raise the incline. After about 9 minutes, I felt like Spider Man trying to scale the Empire State building. All I could think was: "Do they really make 80 year olds do this, because I can barely stand up straight, let alone walk at the same time." Nevertheless, I tried to remain cool, calm, collected and NOT stressed. When they finally slowed and lowered “the beast,” (my pet name for that treadmill) the physician’s assistant said that everything looked normal. Hallelujah.

As I collected my belongings, I had only one thought: I gotta get me one of those hats.

Being the Bee in the Bonnet

2007-01-20T07:38:00.000-06:00

The other day I scolded my sister. She’s much younger than me and her daughter is 3-1/2 years old. As toddlers go, this child is spectacular. She’s got brains and beauty. OK, sure I’m biased, and, I have, in fact, referred to her as my “practice grandchild.” Anyway, my sister and I were chatting on the phone and her daughter wanted her attention – several times. My sister truly has the patience of a saint. She teaches second graders, which tells you a lot about her ability to deal with children. And so my sister said to her daughter: “Please stop now. Can’t you see I’m on the phone?! Go and play!” It really wasn’t a huge deal, but I told her that one day, my niece is going to be 14 and she won’t want to be anywhere near her mother and that in a few short years, my sister will actually miss those interruptions.

I told my sister this because I know. I am living on the other end of the spectrum. As the mother of a 14, almost 15-year old, I am both my daughter’s worst enemy and best friend. Just last night, as she actually sat and watched a movie with my husband and me, she, at one point, said: “Oh my gawd! Do you guys realize how annoying you are?!”

I try to be a lot of things, but annoying isn’t one of them. But, according to my daughter, I’m very gifted in that area. What is it about me that repels her so? From my point of view, I’m like a personal assistant/chef/chauffer/ATM all rolled into one, big cuddly body. I’m there at her beckon call. I wash her clothes, even when they’re not dirty. I actually understand why she doesn’t want to wear the same dress to two dances. I let her have sleepovers. I try not to speak when her friends are in the car.

Last week, my daughter and I spent an entire day together. We had tickets to a college basketball game and a musical in the same day. I said to her: “Are you sure you want to spend that much time with me?” She kind of shrugged as if to say: “Trust me. If anybody else were available, you’d be outta here faster than a seat filler at the Oscars.” And so I geared up to do my best to be less annoying than usual. It didn’t last long. During the game, I sometimes text message a friend of mine that sits on the other side of the arena. This annoyed my daughter because I don’t text as well as she does. Then, I tried to chat with my daughter about the players and the game in general. I apparently said something monumentally stupid. And so I sat there, silently steaming, thinking: “Look kid. I may be incredibly lame, but I’m all you’ve got today, so don’t ruin my day too.”

And then I thought back to my teen years. To say that I was moody would be a gigantic understatement. My moods changed more often than Britney Spears’ hair color. I was up one minute, down most of the others. I’m certain I was downright surly for a majority of my adolescence. How did my mother survive and why does she still speak to me?

That’s when it hit me. What I remember was that my crabbiness was borne out of incredibly low self-esteem. I had a nice childhood, but I had not much confidence and so I hurt the ones I loved….or at least those that would take it.

So as I sat next to my daughter at that game, and later during a nice dinner and then the musical, I held back a little. I used a softer approach and skipped the stupid jokes and just enjoyed being with her. I can’t force her to like me as much as she likes her friends, but I can teach her to like herself. I guess it’s why I’m here.

Rejected and Red in the Facebook

2007-01-08T09:44:00.000-06:00

Because I have a blog, I may be just a teeny bit more tech-savvy than some of my fellow moms. Emphasis on the word “teeny.” They can kick my ass in the cooking and doing pretty much anything else domestically department. I’m pretty good at navigating the worldwide web and that’s about all.

So during the holidays, my family and I were having a nice family dinner. During the meal, I brought up the subject of Facebook, the social networking website that has become very popular. I have two teens in my house, and, for them, Facebook has eclipsed MySpace for staying in touch with friends. I was asking them about Facebook when one of them said: “Well, you could sign up for Facebook, Mom. Anyone can.” What they probably meant was: “Mom, technically you could sign up for Facebook, but if you go near it, I’ll hate you forever.” What I heard was: “Mom, go on Facebook and sign up!” Can you see where this is going?

So, one lazy morning during vacation, after the paper was read and the e-mails were checked and while everyone else was still sleeping, I decided to venture over to Facebook and see what was involved. Registering for Facebook is deceptively easy. It takes scant seconds. And then the fun begins. Through some Bill Gates-enhanced cyber spy feature, one of the first things that Facebook does is reach into your e-mail address book and find everyone in it that has a Facebook page. I found this interesting. Of course my kids and a couple of their friends popped up and even one of my college roommates who teaches in college. I thought I was being careful not to invade my kids’ privacy. Apparently not. I signed up and gave up as little information as possible. Really, I just sort of wanted to look around the place and see what it was like. Silly me.

About two hours later, I heard my sleepy daughter walk over to the computer and start typing. I was in the kitchen reading a book, having finished with my brief Facebook field trip. Suddenly, she roared: “MOM, NO!” Since I had used a different computer earlier, I really didn’t know what she was yelling about. It soon became apparent.

“I’m rejecting you as a friend!” she said.

“How can you reject me? I didn’t even ask you to be my friend! And you’re the one who said I could go on Facebook.”

“MOM, NO!”

Apparently, all those people in my address book were inadvertently invited to become my friend. Yes, I pathetically implored teenagers that I knew to become my friend. Talk about embarrassing. At least that’s how my kids made me feel. I told my son about it in advance and told him that he could reject me too…and he did.

I had pretty much made the decision to delete my Facebook account when I ran into a couple of the other kids that had received my “invitation.” To my great surprise, they did NOT reject me and thought it was kind of funny. I didn’t exactly feel validated, but I felt less like the creepy stalker mom that my kids had painted me to be.

So today, my Facebook account is still barely alive. I added a photo and a little bit more information. My college roommate “wrote on my wall” and I have a whopping 5 friends. I’m still rejected by my own kids, but then again, isn’t that what motherhood is all about?

Day of Reckoning

2006-12-27T11:54:00.000-06:00

I believe in box cleaning. I wish, many times a year, that I took my free time (of which I have a lot) and used it to clean closets, cabinets, drawers and unused rooms. As we are on the cusp of the proverbial empty nest, you’d think I’d relish such projects. I don’t. Instead I box clean, which simply means that when someone important (i.e. anyone other than immediate family) is coming over, I madly rush throughout the house and throw things in boxes and laundry baskets and then hide them. In the past, I have box cleaned so well that I have either never found the boxes or really didn’t need their contents. This would come back to bite me in the ass when we decided to move so that we’d have more room for our crap. Suddenly, I came face to face with crap I’ve hidden, didn’t need or should have taken better care of long ago. You’d think I’d learn my lesson and stop box cleaning and start real cleaning, but NO. I continue in my madness. Since I am, unfortunately, all worked up over what people think of me, I have pissed off many members of my family in one of my box cleaning missions.

This Christmas, I worked my butt off box cleaning. One of the biggest targets of my efforts was the laundry. Prior to Christmas, we had visited family and had gone to a football game. It was cold, wet and rainy. I was well-prepared for the weather, but not so prepared for washing the resulting winterwear. Before we left, I was so damn proud of the fact that I washed every last piece of laundry, giving me that relaxing feeling during the holidays. Dammit if it didn’t all come screaming back at me. You can see the results above. And so, when we had family coming over on Christmas Day, I had to box clean my laundry. I hid it and crammed it into every laundry chute and clothes hamper I could find. Today is my day of reckoning. I can no longer avoid the mountains of stinkiness. Crap. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be in the laundry room.

Christmas Dawn

2006-12-25T06:53:00.000-06:00

As I write this, it’s very early Christmas morning. I am the only one awake. Just me and the newspaper delivery guy who never gets a day off. The house is blissfully quiet. And yet, I can’t help but think of Christmases past when we’d be well into our unwrapping extravaganza by now. Last night, as hubby helped me haul the gifts from their hiding place, he made the simple comment: “Huh. You’ve done it again. You’ve gone overboard.” When he said it, my first inclination was to be offended. But instead I thought to myself: Yeah, I did go overboard. Because it’s what I do.

In about 5 minutes, (after all, it IS almost 7:00 am!) I'm going to go and wake them up, because that's also what I do.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and New Year Blessings to each and every one of you. Oh, and the photo above is a peek at our tree before the Christmas fun begins. I can’t wait!

25 Christmas Things About Me

2006-12-14T21:12:00.000-06:00

I'm finished wrapping and I'm starting my weekend with some just-for-fun holiday shopping with a friend. While I'm gone, enjoy this little list!

1. I open Christmas gifts (from immediate family) on Christmas morning. I cannot imagine doing it any other way.
2. I do not have the ability to sleep past 6:00 am on Christmas morning. When I was younger, it was 4:00 am. In fact I have always awakened before my children. As you can tell, I’ve improved…and yet I’m still a child.
3. I believed very strongly in Santa until the age of seven when my mother sat me down and told me to be sure not to “ruin it” for my younger sister.
4. When my kids were younger, I used to address their gifts from Santa with my left hand so they couldn’t recognize my handwriting.
5. For Christmas every year, we have Beef Wellington, which my mom has to help me prepare because I am so hopeless in the kitchen.
6. The song “O Holy Night” makes me cry whenever it’s sung well.
7. Then I heard this version…and I cried for a different reason.
8. The song “Angels We Have Heard On High” makes me impatient. The words should be Gloria in Excessive Deo. Seriously, that tune never ends.
9. I don't think I have ever wassailed. I have no idea what it means.
10. I never want to know what someone has given me before I have opened it. That would ruin everything.
11. When carolers come to our door (which they haven’t since 1972), at first, it’s cool. Then it’s just annoying. I have no idea what to do. It’s like standing directly in front of the band at a concert. I need personal space when someone is singing to me.
12. I still have a bit of Yuletide Greetingitis. I’m always afraid I’ll wish someone the wrong thing – i.e. Merry Christmas and they’re Jewish or Happy Holidays and they’re devoutly Christian.
13. I feel guilty writing “Merry Xmas.” I cannot do it.
14. I’m usually ready to take down our tree and decorations by December 26th.
15. Every year, I make a batch of Grandma Weezie’s Eggnog. (That’s my mother-in-law.) It’s amazing, dangerously caloric and so packed full of booze it should be illegal.
16. For me, it’s not about the gift, it’s about the effort. Not that you saw something and thought I would like it, but that you thought about something I liked and then went to find something related. Even misplaced effort is good. Really.
17. I admit it, I send out a Christmas letter thingy. In fact this year, there was just a letter and no card. I’m sure many hate me for this and I’m sorry.
18. The Vince Guaraldi Trio’s “A Charlie Brown Christmas” is the best Christmas album ever.
19. I think people that leave their holiday lights up past January 31st should be ticketed. Seriously.
20. Christmas is way more stressful and way more fun when you share it with little kids.
21. We have an artificial tree. The last year that we had a real tree, when Christmas was over, it was too wide to get through almost any of our doors, except the sliding doors to our deck. My husband finally launched the tree off the deck (from the 2nd floor) and it ended up upside down in a snow bank where it sat for a month.
22. My favorite Christmas move is “Elf.” My second favorite is “Home Alone.” Both are brilliant, in my opinion.
23. For the second year in a row, I have written a letter from Santa to my sister’s 2nd grade class. (She’s a teacher.) Apparently, I am very good at this. Now, if I could only turn it into cash.
24. Although I adore Christmas morning, nothing beats the anticipation of Christmas Eve, especially sitting around watching “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
25. On Christmas morning, like many American families, we like to watch the Yule Log on TV while we open our presents.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Happy Holidays to you and your family!

The Diary of a Teenage Girl’s Clueless Mother

2006-12-06T14:32:00.000-06:00

Dear Diary:
Today I was reminded, once again, just how clueless I am. M and I were at Victoria’s Secret to redeem the coupon we had for a “Free Pink Cami.” M grabbed a “Red Cami” from the rack. I gently reminded her that our coupon was for a “Pink Cami.” Much eye rolling and tsking ensued. Silly me. Pink is a brand, not a color. When will I learn?

Dear Diary:
Did you feel it? The shaking, I mean. Seriously, didn’t the earth move? M was in a good mood today. No, scratch that. I mean a GREAT mood that included complete sentences and actual conversation. And, be still my heart, I actually got a smile this morning. I feel like I could walk on air. Maybe we’re past that moody phase after all!

Dear Diary:
Never mind.

Dear Diary:
Today I wanted to curl my hair. My curling iron was in M’s bathroom. After I retrieved it and curled my hair, I went to use my hair spray. What a coincidence. It too was in M’s bathroom along with my eye shadow, my fingernail clippers and my tweezers. If anyone is still looking for Jimmy Hoffa, I have a suspicion where he might be.

Dear Diary:
I’m confused. It’s been pointed out to me many times that I know very little about fashion. Yet, I’m constantly finding pieces of my clothing on M’s floor. I wonder how that happens. Could it be that the dog is dragging them in there?

Dear Diary:
Today I spent an inordinate amount of time smelling the laundry. Not because I’m sick or kinky, but because much of the clothing that is in the laundry isn’t really dirty. It’s simply been tried on and thrown on the floor. Gosh this job is rewarding.

Dear Diary:
Yesterday I had cash in my wallet. Today I have none. On a typical day, I spend zero cash, do laundry (see above), eat leftovers and read month-old magazines. On M’s typical day off, she eats out with friends, goes to see the newest movies and buys hardcover books at Barnes & Noble. Where have I gone wrong?

Hold On Loosely

2006-11-28T06:27:00.000-06:00

I have reached somewhat of a crossroads in my parenting career. Our nest is practically empty. And, as you may know, I get pretty excited when the college boy returns home, as he did this past weekend. This is year two for our adjustment to having a child in college. We’re better at it. I no longer carry my cell phone around constantly in case he needs to call at any moment. I still worry when he travels the 6 hours to and from school, but I’m letting go…a little.

I’m also not so old that I don’t remember what it was like to be in college. That fierce tug of independence fighting against the nagging obligation of paying due diligence with the parents. One seemed so cool and a bit scary and the other was mildly annoying and sometimes a little rewarding (food, laundry, nice bed.)

Let me add that our son is really good about checking in with us so we don’t worry needlessly. He calls a fair amount and he doesn’t spend too much money. In the child lottery, we did very well.

What stumps me is that I suddenly feel awkward around him because I can tell that he’s much more interested in being almost anywhere else than with us. In fact, it feels, for me, a little like high school when I would make feeble attempts at talking to boys all the while knowing that there was really nothing I could say that would captivate them. It’s as if I’ve completely lost the ability to converse and find myself taking desperate shots at saying something, anything, interesting. In the process, I feel him drifting away and I worry just a little bit that it might be the beginning of the end, so to speak.

And yes, there is a longtime girlfriend of three years that figures into this equation. She probably seems more like family than we do on most days, which is why we try our best to include her in family outings. I want both of them to feel really comfortable around us and perhaps therein lies the problem. I think I’m trying too hard. It’s as if I’m running around saying: “Look at us – we’re FUN!” It’s pathetic, I know. And probably about as appealing as a trip to the dentist.

I need to just relax and let him live a little. I can’t make him want to be around us any more than I can make him clean his dorm room. I just have to trust that it will work out and we’ll get our time with him. And, in the meantime, I do have a high schooler here every day that I can still cling to. Let’s see, what can I do to annoy her today?

Nice Work If You Can Get It

2006-11-20T10:50:00.000-06:00

Recently, I received an e-mail from a friend:

“I remember you used me for a reference when you applied to be a Girl Scout leader. Do you mind if I use you for a Cub Scout application? I can't believe I was talked into doing this! It's for ONE YEAR AND ONE YEAR ONLY. I swear.”

As I sent her a taunting message welcoming her to the black hole that is Volunteering, I thought back to the many volunteer jobs I’ve had since my kids were young. To be perfectly honest, few of them were something that I’d put on my list titled “Things That I Enjoyed.”

I was a Girl Scout Leader for about four years. I have to say, often, it was hell. In fact, my family, including my daughter who was in the troop, came to hate the days we had Girl Scout meetings because it meant that Mom would be very, very crabby and would later require a large glass of wine.

I liked my co-leaders. They were all fun, extremely intelligent career women. By day they were Controllers and Occupational Therapists and Federal Judges. By late afternoon, we all turned into glorified babysitters yelling at girls to listen and stop picking at each others’ hair. I signed on because I felt the tug of guilt knowing that people were volunteering for my child’s benefit and I probably could also make time to help out. Some, like me, answer the call of that guilt. Others, perhaps more wisely, choose to ignore it and sign on only when begged. Their sanity is probably still intact, but that may be at the expense of their community social standing.

If you’re new to parenthood, here’s what you need to know about volunteering. It’s the initiation rite of parents. It’s also the primary line of information and communication regarding your child and their experience at school and/or extra-curricular activities. That is to say, if you’re not volunteering, you are out of the proverbial loop. You haven’t met the parents that run the school, the dance studio, the team – you, and your child, will be one step behind. Sure, the teachers and administrators are giving out grades and the coaches are creating the game day lineups, but the fact that you are around – making phone calls, preparing snacks, chaperoning field trips, ordering supplies – gives you first-hand knowledge behind the scenes. And as we learn in the business world, knowledge is power.

It’s a slippery slope, however, because the old adage “if you want something done, give it to someone busy,” is so true, it’s scary. Although there are lots of activities for which you can volunteer, there are relatively few people volunteering. You’ll find that you see the same faces at hot lunch, at cub scouts, at rehearsals. This is both good and bad. It’s good if you don’t wish to volunteer, but it’s bad because if you don’t, you are now at the whim of those that do. One of the great things about being a Girl Scout Leader is that I could influence the number of times that we camped (blessedly few) and length of our troop meetings (often short). Parents were always extremely grateful for the time that I put in and I felt like I was paying my dues but my secret agenda was always to have some control over things.

The bonus was that I made a lot of great friends by volunteering, so in that way, it was SO worthwhile. The time I spent collating newsletters at school was my time to vent and share issues that I couldn’t solve on my own. It was effective therapy with the only cost being elbow grease and a willingness to surrender some free time.

What I should probably tell my friend is that volunteering is like eating potato chips. You can’t sign up for (or eat) just one. Once word gets out that you’re nice, competent and not insane, you’ll be a target for several committees. And if you’re fun, it’s even worse. Everyone will want you. It’s a great ego booster and a gigantic time-sucker. The choice is up to you, but I do recommend that once in a while you exercise your right to say “no.” After all, you shouldn’t be having all the fun.

Andrew's Story

2006-11-16T07:15:00.000-06:00

The following story is sad but true. I generally stay away from sad topics, but it just seems like the right time to talk about a very important person in our family. Happy Birthday, Andrew. We love you.

On November 18th, 1986, I gave birth to our first son, Andrew, via “crash” c-section. My husband and I had rushed to the hospital because my water had broken and we knew that something was wrong. When we arrived, the doctor on call hooked me up to a fetal monitor, gazed at it with a deep look of concern and then put her hand on my leg and said: “I’m sorry, but there’s no heartbeat.” Seconds later, she saw what she called an “agonal” heartbeat and I was rushed into an operating room where Andrew was delivered. For eight minutes, he did not breathe. Then, he barely began to respond. They hooked him up to a ventilator and put him into the neonatal intensive care unit.

As the day wore on and my anesthesia wore off, we found out that despite my unremarkable full-term pregnancy, I had something called vasa previa which essentially meant that part of the umbilical cord had branched off separately. Often, women will have vasa previa and it won’t be discovered until after they have a healthy delivery. In our case, it was different and oh, so wrong. My water broke at the exact point where the separate part of the umbilical cord had formed. Since it was a weaker part of the cord, it sheared and Andrew lost blood and therefore oxygen. The doctors assured us that there was no way to have known that would happen. We, and Andrew, were just unlucky victims of the odds.

Andrew stayed in the NICU unit where a battery of tests was run. Neuro specialists were consulted and within a day or two they told us that Andrew had virtually no brain activity. They and all of the medical experts felt that leaving him on the ventilator was to keep him alive by extraordinary means. And so, we made the gut-wrenching decision to have life support removed from our newborn son. First, we asked a Catholic priest to baptize him. The medical staff then asked if we wanted to be there when they removed the ventilator, but I couldn’t do it. The idea of watching my son die was simply beyond unbearable. And so we returned to my room and waited. And in a cruel twist of fate, Andrew started to breathe on his own. He was sustaining his own life without a ventilator. We suddenly found ourselves caught in the parental hell that is grieving over the fundamental loss of a baby while wondering why God was keeping his body alive.

As the days and weeks passed by, we started to adjust to the idea of parenting a developmentally disabled child. However, his disabilities were so severe; they were beyond that which we could handle in our own home. We spoke to social workers and staff who unanimously advised us that bringing Andrew home would rip our marriage and our future family apart because he would require around-the-clock medical care. He was likely blind and deaf, would never walk or talk, could not feed from a bottle or ever swallow food and his cognitive age would always hover around 1-1/2 months. He would never be able to recognize or acknowledge us. Essentially, he was and always would be in a vegetative state.

We were in such a fragile state of confusion about what to do next for our child who was essentially living in the shell of a body. At one point, we petitioned the hospital ethics board to ask what, besides removal of the ventilator, were considered “extraordinary means.” It was an agonizing path for parents to take but we did not want Andrew to suffer needlessly if his time with us was limited. The board basically said that all current measures should continue. We were comfortable with their advisement. Next we faced the decision of how to care for Andrew for the rest of his life.

We found out that our options were to find a foster family specially trained in caring for developmentally disabled individuals, or apply for a placement at a state-run center about an hour from our home. We chose the latter, feeling that they would be better equipped and trained for his care. That would also allow us visit him in comfort and convenience and give him access to the very best therapies and medical care available without having to leave his surroundings. Administrators from the center visited Andrew at the hospital. His appearance was deceiving since he was such a beautiful baby. His constant seizure activity had not yet started and years of immobility had not yet wracked his body with spasticity and brittle bones. They found that he was appropriate for placement and on January 7th, 1987, after he was fitted with a feeding tube, we drove him out to the center.

The initial days after January 7th are a blur. I remember visiting Andrew every weekend for several weeks to make sure he was getting the best care possible. We found the center to be a place filled with residents that had a wide variety of horrific disabilities. Some of the older residents had Down’s syndrome and had been placed there decades prior. (Something, of course, that would not be done today.) Others had dramatic and horrible birth defects. Still others were victims of strokes or near drowning or asphyxiation. These were the kids that you don’t see in the Special Olympics. They were special alright, but without mobility or communication or many very basic human skills that would allow them to interact with or benefit from mainstreaming in the community. Frankly, it was disturbing to go there. Not because it was a depressing place, but because the residents were so deeply damaged physically and developmentally that the first instinct was to turn away.

The gentle and competent staff embraced Andrew with enthusiasm and joy, something that had been woefully missing since he was born. To them, there was little point in discussing what was wrong with him, because he was what he was. Their goal was to take this tiny, damaged infant and treat him with the utmost dignity, respect and love that was possible. To this day, I think of them as angels on earth because of the way that they swooped down and gently cradled Andrew when we, the parents, were at our most vulnerable.

Weeks, months and years went by. When Andrew was first born, one of the neonatologists estimated that he wouldn’t live beyond five years, due to his many medical complications and his potential for life-threatening respiratory issues. He did indeed suffer through many bouts of pneumonia when he was young. Once Andrew passed his 5th birthday, we stopped asking for long-term prognosis. It seemed obvious to us that God had a purpose for Andrew here on earth and although it was beyond our comprehension, we just had to do our best to keep him comfortable and well cared-for to the best of our abilities. We feel very strongly that the center has fulfilled this mission for Andrew and for us.

Andrew turns 20 this weekend. His birth and his life have changed us immeasurably. My husband and I are better parents to our two other children who are now 19 and 14. They have become very compassionate, kind and sensitive young adults, no doubt as a result of visiting their profoundly developmentally disabled brother regularly since they were born.

When I tell people the story of Andrew, I usually condense and soften it. Not surprisingly, it’s a conversation stopper and it’s the difficult answer to the question: “So, how many kids do you have?” Mostly I do this to try and protect the person asking because sometimes Andrew’s story elicits tears. Most of the time, it makes people really, really uncomfortable because they have no idea what to ask next. I completely understand that reaction and work really hard to avoid it. Nevertheless, I always try to tell people that Andrew’s birth was both the most tragic and beautiful thing that has ever happened in my life. While we were still reeling over the blow that life had dealt us, friends and family from far and near descended upon us and helped us through that first very difficult year. Their love and support has touched us to this day and continues to sustain us and Andrew.

Adoration and Suffocation

2006-11-14T06:38:00.000-06:00

I'm giving myself a little blog vacation. And so, in that spirit, I offer you something from the archives, about two years ago. Funny how I'm still feeling the same. Enjoy!

I have wanted to be a mother since that day, 33 years ago, when my little sister was born. I was 12-1/2 years old and expected that a baby in the house would be nothing more than another irritation. I didn't think it would affect me in the least. Instead, I fell completely, instantly in love. Here was the one person in the entire world who loved and adored me no matter what. She didn't think I was fat or uncool or had buck teeth. She worshiped me. In return, I showed her off like a new toy. I took her everywhere and bored friends to death discussing her cuteness. Why couldn't they see it too?

And so when I embarked on real motherhood, I assumed that it would be more of the same. Whoa. Reality bites.

My mother didn't tell me that there was more work than walking the baby to the park every day to show my friends. Who knew that infants stayed up all night? Suddenly I knew the deep, ugly secret. While I slept a blissful, pre-teen slumber, my sister screamed the night away. No doubt I provided respite for my exhausted over-40 mother, but I definitely got the better end of the deal.

On the good side, my own children did adore me...for a time. I was all they ever wanted. They clung to me for dear life in good times and in bad. Sometimes to the exclusion of my poor husband who just wanted a baby to hold and love and sit still. They also told me everything - every story from day care, every like, every dislike, every single thought. Who knew that kids could talk this much? Sometimes, in a selfish state of exhaustion, I'd go to work in the morning and sit at my desk, thankful that nobody there wanted to touch me or tell me a story that lasted 30 minutes and came to no conclusion.

And now that my kids are in their teens, I'm wondering where all of that unequivocal adoration went. I know that they didn't stop loving me, but when did they stop liking me? When did their hurts become beyond my expertise? How come I can no longer make it feel better?

They push me away and sometimes it wounds me to the core. They come home from events and I find myself giving them the 3rd degree. Not because I don't trust them, but because I want to know about their lives. What did they do? What do their friends do? What do they think about everything and anything? I just want them to talk to me.

I realize that I need to suck it up, mellow out and end the pity party. It's time for me to give them space and know that they'll come around. If you love something, set it free.....

Stealing a Moment

2006-11-05T07:40:00.000-06:00

We stole an evening from our daughter Saturday night. Shhhh. Don’t tell her. We’re hoping she won’t notice. If she did, I think this is how she would describe it: “Nobody was around and nobody called me, so I sat home with the parents (ugh), watched a movie and ate Chinese food. B-O-R-I-N-G!”

Here’s how I’ll describe it: “Our daughter had no plans and neither did we and so we went to Blockbuster, chose a movie that we could all agree on (The Greatest Game Ever Played), and picked up Chinese food. It was really nice. For a couple hours, it felt like we were a family again, instead of a splintering unit headed in different directions connected only by cell phones.”

I treat these “stolen” moments like gold. They’re rare and really special to me. I completely understand that to a 14-year old, an evening like that is on par with a visit to the dentist – slightly painful and quickly forgotten. To me, it’s precious. For two whole hours, my daughter forgets that she doesn’t like me much or that I annoy her to no end. Too bad it can’t last.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the movie was great. Watch it with the whole family, if they’ll let you.

Awkward Turtle

2006-10-30T11:23:00.000-06:00

I learned something new from my kids this weekend. I actually learn a lot from them, but don’t always acknowledge it. Here’s what they taught me: The Awkward Turtle. It’s both a gesture and a commentary. You take your hands and put one on top of the other with the fingers curled under. Then you extend the thumbs to the side and wiggle them. You use this gesture when you are in one of those situations where there is a looooong, uncomfortable pause and you have nothing else to say. It’s ironic that they taught me this, because lately, I could actually be doing the Awkward Turtle around them…a lot.

As I’ve mentioned before, I have teens. Conversing with them can be exhilarating one moment, frustrating the next. When they want to open up and are in a good mood, they share all sorts of things, like, for instance, the Awkward Turtle. But when life is bearing down upon them and they see me as the embodiment of all that is annoying, then there are lots of those long, silent pauses. It seems that the information they divulge is strictly on a need-to-know basis. And, since I feel that I need to know as much about what they do as possible, there are many times that we are having one of these conversations:

“So, how was school.”
“Good.”
“How did your test go?”
“Fine.”
“Anything new going on?”
“No.”
“Are you upset about something?”
“Gaaaaaaaaaaaah, MOM! Just stop talking! Leave me alone!!”
(Insert awkward turtle here.)

Now, in any other area of my life, I would take this as a sign to never venture down this conversational road again. However, teens are fickle. One day you’re amazing, the next you suck. It’s not personal, it’s just where you are relative to where they are divided by the number of hormones blasting through their system at that very moment. It’s quantum physics with many, many variables. In other words, don’t take it personally. When it doubt, try, try again. And if it fails, remember the Awkward Turtle.

Club Dread

2006-10-25T08:46:00.000-05:00

The realization that you’re a parent doesn’t hit you on the head, like an “aha!” moment. It usually comes to you in fits and starts. At first, it’s when you’re up nearly all night with a colicky infant. You look around at your messy living room while a bad movie plays on cable TV and there are baby accessories lying all around. You sigh deeply, shake your unwashed head and think, “So, this is parenting.” It’s definitely not the glorious love and roses that you had anticipated as the pregnancy test strip turned blue. Still, it’s where you belong at that moment. And as bone-wearying as the exhaustion is, you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

To me, the dawning of parenthood is in a bad moment. Not because you don’t prove your mettle unless you’ve worried, but because in those moments, you demonstrate to yourself the depth and breadth of your love. My sister had such a moment this week and when she relayed her story to me, I simply said: “Welcome to the club.” She chuckled and knew exactly what I meant.

My sister is a teacher and her 3-year old goes to preschool where she teaches. She had dropped her daughter off and then headed to her own classroom. As the entire school gathered for a prayer service, she looked for her daughter and her preschool class to walk into the church. The class walked in, but there was no sign of her daughter. She looked at her daughter’s teacher with questioning eyes. The teacher looked at her and said: “She walked in right in front of me. She was here just a second ago!” To make a long story short, panic ensued, sending my sister running around the entire school searching for her daughter. My brother in-law was called at work to aid in the search, as were several parents that were volunteering that day. And just when full-scale terror was about to commence, another teacher found my niece, hiding mischievously under a church pew. Gigantic sigh of relief.

I’d say that virtually every parent has had such a moment – when the worry eclipses absolutely everything in your life. Suddenly every TV movie with dire consequences flashes before your eyes and you hope and you pray that your worst fears will all be for naught. Sometimes they are and sometimes, unfortunately, they’re not.

I think the point is that, ironically, we feel more like parents when things are going badly than when everything is fabulous. Is that because the negative impresses us with the full gravity of the job description or is it because, as parents, we’re used to taking none of the credit and all of the blame?

I find it amazing that we have to get a license to fish, hunt or drive a car, but raising a child, one of the most important things you can do on earth, requires only two warm bodies and does not offer any type of instruction manual. It’s a seat-of-the pants endeavor that can be the stuff of legends or nasty memoirs. Sometimes it astounds me that so many do it so willingly. Because in those terrifying moments of lost or sick children, failing grades, behavior problems, substance abuse or any number of things you hope never to endure, you really earn your stripes as a parent. Welcome to the club.

The Crabby Mom's Guide to Waiting Room Etiquette

2006-10-16T10:49:00.000-05:00

The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you get one more yard
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part
-Tom Petty, "The Waiting"

I think it’s time that we address an issue that affects all of us – young, old, moms, dads, non-parents, marrieds, singles. I’m talking about how to behave when in a waiting room.

At one time or another, all of us spend time in a waiting room. Whether it’s an appointment for the pediatrician, orthodontist, dentist, optician, attorney, music lessons, rehearsals, auto service – no matter where, there is usually a waiting room in which people…well...wait, of course. It seems to me that with all of our new-fangled technology, people are forgetting their manners and imagining that the waiting room is like their car – private and soundproof. Folks, it’s not. In fact, it’s exactly the opposite. Everything that you do in a waiting room is magnified, amplified and viewed 100 times more than normal. The point is, you’re not alone and it’s time you stop acting like you are.

Cell Hell. I hate to beat a dead horse, but some of you have not gotten the message. Cell phones are annoying. Nobody, and I mean nobody wants to hear you talk to your boyfriend on the phone. It’s not amusing, entertaining or pleasant to hear you dish on that juicy piece of gossip. If you make or receive a cell phone call in a waiting room, either step outside the room or lower your voice. And just because you have one of those Bluetooth thingies in your ear, don’t think we’re impressed. For some reason, those only make people talk louder in a vain effort to wow others with their technological prowess. Yawn!

Personal Computers. If you bring a laptop, turn off the sound. Don’t be playing YouTube videos or comedy DVDs at top volume. It’s distracting and annoying. Oh, and again, we’re not impressed that you have a laptop. Many of us do and are able to unplug for an hour or two. You do not look as important as you think you do. We all have jobs. Get over yourself.

Chatting. This is allowable within reason in a waiting room. It’s OK to quietly and discreetly comment on something that everyone in the room has seen, such as the fact that Matt Lauer is interviewing Kofi Anon who has a huge fly on his face. You can comment to the person nearest you, as long as they’re not deeply immersed in reading and trying to get some peace or quiet. Make the comment and then let it go. This isn’t an opportunity for a monologue on what’s wrong with TV news or the United Nations. Save it for your knitting circle. And if you find someone who wants to talk about the fly on Kofi’s face, fine, just keep the volume down. Some of us are trying to read!

YourPod, not MyPod. Listening to an iPod is a great way to pass the time in a waiting room. But do not, under any circumstances sing out loud. It makes you sound like an idiot, reveals the bad singer you are and annoys the hell out of everyone.

Kids. I love kids. It’s why I’m a mom. But if you bring them into a waiting room, take care of them – they’re yours. In some cases, the people near you in the waiting room are not feeling well. Do not make them feel worse by allowing your toddler to wander over and put their gooey hands on people while you finish reading the “Enquirer” article on Britney and Kevin. Even if it’s not a doctor’s office waiting room, none of us want to watch or hear your kids run around screaming and fighting. Put them in straight jackets, use duct tape or leave them at home if the appointment is not for them. The point here is that the word “parent” is a verb as well as a noun. Try it someday.

Waiting Rules. In many waiting rooms, there are reading materials for everyone’s use. Sometimes there are also toys to amuse the kids. If you make use of either, put them back when you’re finished. This isn’t your kitchen table or your teenager's bedroom. When your turn comes, return the magazine or newspaper to where you found it (turned back to page 1, please) and put the toys back. It takes seconds and Nurse Ratched will wait for you. It’s part of her job.

Make Room in the Room. When you find yourself seated, alone, in the middle of a row of six chairs, and The Brady Bunch arrives, the polite thing to do is move to another group of chairs. It’s not going to kill you to relocate yourself. That’s why you have a book mark, so that you can stop reading, do something, and then start reading again.

Sit Quietly. In this world of constant entertainment and overstimulation, it’s become very difficult for people to simply sit quietly and do nothing. And so, when in a waiting room, they tend to annoy those around them. If this is you, stop it. Learn the zen of doing nothing. Do what Sr. Nila used to teach us: Sit with your hands folded in your lap. Think of it as your own personal mini-spa moment. Close your eyes and go to a happy place, but do it quietly!

See, that's not so bad. Now, can you pass me that copy of "Us" Magazine?

Stealing Time

2006-10-09T14:03:00.000-05:00

It is no surprise to my family that I am sometimes a little slow on the uptake…or the download…or the joke…or pretty much anything that requires moderate to heavy thought. It takes me a while to realize the full breadth of a situation until the time when the situation has passed and my presence in it or knowledge of it is no longer required. Which is exactly why I’m finding myself a bit behind the proverbial eight ball lately.

You see, I have teenagers and here’s what the front page of my newspaper should have read this morning: NEWS FLASH! YOUR KIDS WOULD RATHER SPEND TIME WITH THEIR FRIENDS THAN YOU. Sure, they like my husband and me just fine, but it threw me for a bit of a loop this weekend when my son came home from college for a visit and exactly none of his plans included us…until I said something…and then I think he just felt sorry for us and modified his plans. My teenage daughter no longer has any interest in attending movies with me unless her entire freshman class is unavailable or I’m taking her shopping afterwards.

I’m really not mad or sad or even disappointed. Really. It’s just that as I’ve been carving time and space out of my life for my kids, little by little, they’re squirming away. Sort of like escaping your aunt’s suffocating hugs at family outings. They’re nice and all, but enough’s enough.

I generally think of myself as sensitive to my kids’ likes and dislikes, but I have to say that it’s finally dawning on me that they are moving on which means that my time to do the same is frighteningly near. My husband and I and our house are merely a waypoint in their life – an oasis, a filling station, an ATM, a restaurant, a hotel and a laundromat. When they are here, it’s because their friends are busy. And that’s OK. It’s truly what I would have wished for my kids if I had been asked about this when they were toddlers. (Frankly, when they were toddlers, I would have sold them on eBay to the highest bidder in order to get 10 minutes alone.)

I’m pretty sure that these are the early warning signs for Empty Nest Syndrome. Also known as “You should really get a life because your kids already have.” So I will. But this doesn’t mean that I can’t use my maternal wiles to lure my offspring back once in a while. They’re human. They can’t always resist their favorite foods…free of charge. Or a basement with a television for them and their friends…complete with a stocked fridge. And personal laundry service – they can’t beat that. No quarters needed. Yeah, pretty much I’ve decided I’ll do whatever it takes to get those precious moments with my kids, regardless of whether they feel the same.

And, in case you’re wondering: No, I don’t play fair and no, bribery is not below me.

Are You Ready For Some...Excess?!

2006-10-01T08:21:00.000-05:00

If you haven’t dined out recently, you may not have noticed that it’s Homecoming Season. Yes, it’s that time of year when you can enjoy your dinner in jeans while the patrons at the table next to you are wearing formal gowns and suits. Last night, at a local restaurant, my family and I had front row seats for this seasonal spectacle. What a sight it was and how different from my high school days.

First, I was pleased to see a group of girls in lovely dresses dining sans dates. I wanted to run up to them and shout: “You go, girls!” How refreshing to see that these young women didn’t need a date to enjoy the dance. As someone who went to an all-girls’ high school and only went to one dance, I found this change to be welcome and long overdue.

Then, there was the traditional table of three couples who hadn’t been clued into the “boy-girl-boy-girl” seating tradition. The girls stuck together and giggled as the boys valiantly attempted conversation while garters cut off the circulation in their arms.

Finally, there was a very unique table of three girls, one boy and a dad. At least I’m pretty sure he was a dad. He had a well-groomed goatee, his suit fit better than the boy’s did, he looked a bit old for high school and I’m pretty sure that his credit card had his name on it. Somewhat surprisingly, the kids seemed OK with him being at the table, rather than awkwardly embarrassed at having to “hang” with a parent.

It’s fun to watch these groups as they embark on their special evenings, but I can’t help but shake my head at the “over-the-top” nature of it all. The dresses that the girls were wearing were spectacular, as were their jewelry and hairstyles. It was hard not to make a mental tabulation of the cost of such an evening. Don’t get me wrong, I love special occasions and I do love my shopping. But I wonder how difficult it will be to top these events as these kids become adults. Will their weddings be a letdown and is the Homecoming dance a breeding ground for future “Bridezillas”?

My son’s high school had a tradition for their winter dance. The boys would take the money that would be used for tux rental and donate it to a charity. I loved that idea. Why not have the dance, but scale back on the pomp and circumstance and give back a little at the same time? In our culture of more and better, it’s unlikely to be the next big thing, but it’s worth considering. Of course, I'll probably be first in line with my daughter to buy that spectacular dress when her turn comes around. And you are welcome to remind me to eat my words.

Special Child, Special Parents

2006-09-25T10:12:00.000-05:00

Being a parent means many things to many people. To some, it’s a calling. To others, a longing. To still others, it’s merely another title to add to the resume of life. There are good parents and bad parents and lots in between. However, if you’ve ever met the parents of a disabled or special needs child, you’ve probably met some of the best parents there are. My friends Sue and Brian are great examples of this and truly have become my parenting role models. This is their story.

Jessie was born 23 years ago. She was Sue and Brian's second daughter and they were thrilled to welcome her to the family. For a while, everything seemed fine. It wasn’t until Jess was several months old that one of Sue's friends took her aside and gently suggested that Jessie see a physician because something didn’t seem right. Since Sue was a nurse, this was especially difficult to hear. Jessie was indeed developmentally delayed with no particular cause or diagnosis. They knew their lives were forever changed. Nevertheless, they forged ahead. They enrolled Jessie in classes and programs and sought out every possible resource that could help them and help Jessie. They eventually had a son and then another daughter and somehow fit Jessie and her unpredictable nature into their hectic lives. They certainly faced daunting challenges that could have damaged their family life or their marriage. They never let that happen.

What I’ve learned from Sue and Brian's parenting skills is that they have a seemingly unlimited supply of patience and love. Despite the fact that they are at an age when many couples are beginning to enjoy the benefits of an empty nest, Sue and Brian are sitting patiently with Jessie as she watches Mister Rogers or Lawrence Welk, two of her favorite TV shows. Sue makes no bones about the fact that the life they lead is not easy. Once a special needs child graduates from high school, the programs and opportunities for parental respite are few and far between. Yet somehow, they’ve managed to wrap their lives around Jessie and make it all seem so easy and so worthwhile.

Still, what’s most impressive about Sue and Brian and their incredible love for Jessie is how many lives they have touched through their unique family experience. When I sit behind them in church, I watch as they give Jessie gentle pats on the back. I listen as Jessie sings along, often better than the professionals. She sometimes cries when the songs are too sad, but rather than segregate her from the congregation, they reassure her, as do her brother and sisters who do a terrific job modeling their parents. Now that Jessie's siblings are teens and older, they occasionally spend evenings or afternoons babysitting their adult sister, something most young people may never experience. In return, they too have been given the gift of kindness, compassion and generosity that have made them all outstanding and mature young adults.

My own kids have also been lucky to have been touched by Jessie and her bright smile and unbridled enthusiasm. To know Jessie is to know pure innocence and happiness. She always smiles and loudly proclaims: “It’s a sunny day!” She runs to greet nearly every visitor and has an infectious laugh that makes me smile every time she’s near. We know not to sit too close to her in church only because she just loves to socialize and wants to turn around to say hi and hold our hands. Often, Jessie's presence is simply the best part of church.

There are so many other stories like Sue, Brian and Jessie's but few that have made such a deep impression upon me. Although I too am the parent of a developmentally disabled child, Sue and Brian continue to motivate me to be more patient, more loving and more generous with all aspects of my life. And, of course, Jessie inspires me to be happier because in her world, every day is a sunny day.

Every Day Is Family Day

2006-09-21T08:59:00.000-05:00

In case it’s not on your calendar, (it definitely wasn’t on mine) Monday, September 25th is Family Day. It’s a day when we’re supposed to eat dinner together with our families. Supposedly, TV Land, the cable television channel, will go “dark” between 5 and 6 pm that day in support of our efforts and not tempt us with “Leave It to Beaver” reruns or something else more compelling than mealtime conversation with our kids.

It’s an intriguing idea and this is apparently the 5th year that it’s been done. I’m all for eating dinner together and the resulting benefits, although in a household of teenagers, here’s a typical dinner conversation:

“How was school?”
“Good.”
“How was practice?”
“Good.”
“Anything new?”
“Nope.”
“Something bothering you? You seem quiet.”
“OH MY GOD, MOM……!”

So you can see why I’m not necessarily putting up the Family Day garland in our house. We do try to eat together, but that’s not always possible, thanks to field hockey, music lessons, rehearsals and various meetings at school. And therein lies the problem, or the question: If one network shuts down for an hour, will anyone notice? Probably not, because nobody will be home.

Television isn’t the one thing that’s keeping today’s families from eating dinner together. I’d even hazard a guess that if somebody turns on TV Land Monday night and sees a dark screen, their first thought won’t be sharing a meal, but rather: “Dang, the cable’s out again.”

If Family Day is to be a reality and not a dream, then the lives of today’s typical family will have to come to a screeching halt. Sports programs will have to suspend practice and play, but then when else can the working dads and moms coach the kids? Rehearsals will have to be cancelled, but there’s never enough time to practice for an upcoming performance. Lessons will have to be missed, which will probably thrill the kids because they haven’t had the time or the motivation to practice. And meetings – PTO and PTA and School Board and Athletic Committee and Scouts and Auction Committee and every group that meets under the fluorescent lights will have to NOT MEET. It’s an absurd idea that sounds blissfully tempting if your weeks are blanketed with overlapping schedules and pickup points and carpools and commitments.

For so long, we’ve been told to raise well-rounded kids and to encourage them to try different things. And so we, and they, did…apparently all at once. We’re the victims of our own ambitions for ourselves and our children. I have no solution, nor am I preaching that we should stay home and play Yahtzee instead of watching our kids play volleyball. I think it’s great that kids participate in sports and play music and get involved in lots of extra-curricular activities. We’re doing a pretty good job juggling here in our house, but I can’t help but wonder how single parents, dual-working parents, and parents of large families handle the challenge. My hat is off to all of you – you rock!

I think every day is Family Day and although it’s nice that someone’s trying to make it an official event, I think it’s OK if we all celebrate it in our own little way. I’d rather not add anything to the list of things we parents should feel guilty about. So if you see us driving around while eating fast food, at least we’re eating together and you’ll know that we’re having our own “moving” tribute to Family Day. Hey, it’s the least we could do.

Second-Hand Hurt

2006-09-18T11:03:00.000-05:00

EE Cummings - i carry your heart
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Here’s something for the list of stuff they don’t tell you before you become a parent. There are probably thousands of things on that list, like how little sleep you’ll get, how often you’ll encounter vomit and how low your own self-esteem may get thanks to your children. Most of the time, experienced parents don’t tell you these things because it might scare you away. This might not scare you away, but it might surprise you.

Here it is: You will hurt more for your kids than you will for yourself. If you’ve ever been disappointed, been dumped, felt unattractive or been depressed, multiply that ten-fold when you watch your kids go through those emotions. And add a dash of helplessness to really make it difficult.

Maybe I’m naïve, but this I never expected. Now that my kids are teens, I encounter this on a weekly basis. Broken hearts, college rejections, hurt feelings, not being asked to the dance, low self-confidence…sometimes I feel like E.T. with a glowing heart when they go through these things and all I can say is “Ow!”

I realize that I weathered all of these same storms and made it through as a better and more well-rounded and perhaps empathetic person, but my first instinct is to throw my kids a Pity Party and try to fix whatever isn’t working. That’s the last thing that they want – my involvement. In fact, usually, my best course of action is none, which makes it infuriatingly frustrating. I usually have to sit back and hope they might want to talk to me till they feel better – they usually don’t. And so I wait and I heap on them generous doses of silent love and understanding and hope that it will be enough. It never is…for me or them.

100 Things About Me

2006-09-06T13:04:00.000-05:00

Nobody has asked me to do this, but I must take a computer break for a while. My carpal tunnel/tennis elbow issue is screaming for this. And so, I leave you with some unsolicited thoughts from my freakishly random brain. Feel free to read them a little at a time, all at once or not at all. Nevertheless, this is bits and pieces of me....

1. I am the daughter of a former amateur racecar driver.
2. I spent my childhood summers at racetracks throughout the Midwest.
3. I can throw a very good football spiral.
4. When I was young, there were three things I wanted to do when I grew up: Be a mom, work in advertising, work in an office. I was blessed to do all three.
5. My first job after college was typing McDonald’s commercial scripts.
6. My middle name comes from the main character in the musical “West Side Story.”
7. My daughter’s first name comes from the same musical.
8. Ironically, “West Side Story” was also one of my husband’s favorite musicals, even before he met me.
9. One of my totally useless talents is the ability to walk with a full cup of beer on my head. Don’t ask how I figured that out.
10. I can whistle the main melody and the counterpoint to the theme from “Bridge Over The River Kwai.”
11. I break out in a rash if I sit in the sun in jeans or denim.
12. I have almost no allergies.
13. I had no cavities until I was an adult.
14. I love chocolate, especially dark chocolate.
15. I hate white chocolate.
16. The thought of a wooden spoon or stick in my mouth makes my skin crawl. Therefore, popsicles are not appealing to me, nor are tongue depressors.
17. I applied to one college at the end of high school, even though I had never seen it. I went there because it was in Florida and my brother went there. I transferred the next year.
18. Halloween is my favorite holiday because it’s fun and doesn’t require presents, unless you count candy.
19. There is nothing, NOTHING, better in the world than the sweet smell of a baby. No, not THAT smell!
20. If I could do it all over again, I would have joined every club possible in high school.
21. Watching the news depresses me.
22. Hearing the sound of soap operas during the day depresses me even more.
23. I can’t stand Oprah and her self-absorbed pop psychology.
24. I would happily attend a taping of Oprah’s show if I knew she was giving away things. (Yeah, I’m that way.)
25. One of my secret dreams was to have People Magazine do an article on me.
26. I’ve always wanted to have my own newspaper column.
27. I’m horrible at arguing a point. I’ll back down faster than a cat confronted with a hose.
28. My oldest son is severely developmentally disabled and lives in a wonderful state-run institution.
29. His birth was both the most tragic and most beautiful thing that has ever happened in my life.
30. I believe there’s a special place in heaven for people that work with and for the disabled.
31. I’m terrible at and hate mingling at parties.
32. I’m pretty good at meeting new people if it is for a reason.
33. I’m much more shy than you would think when you meet me.
34. I love thunderstorms and severe (not dangerous) weather.
35. I’m obsessed with looking at the radar online.
36. One of the greatest feelings in the world is being completely lost in a great book. That has rarely happened to me.
37. I’m a lazy reader and am easily distracted, which is why I’m more drawn to “easier to read” books.
38. I’m embarrassed to admit that.
39. Math frightens me. When my kids were in sports and we had to do gym duty, I always got there early so that I wouldn’t have to work the concession stand. I cannot do math under pressure.
40. I get irritated when I have discussions with people that talk about themselves and never ask: “...what about you?”
41. I am not a good cook. Nothing I make tastes very good unless it’s out of a box.
42. I have a bad habit of cooking and/or ordering the same things over and over and over.
43. I’m a creature of habit. I do things the same way at the same time, over and over and over again.
44. I love change, but it’s really hard for me to initiate it.
45. Throughout my day, I often have the feeling that I have done something wrong, have said something wrong or have forgotten to do something.
46. Now that I’m older, I worry less about what I’ve done wrong, etc.
47. I hope to grow into a wonderfully eccentric old woman that loves life.
48. I hope to never dye my hair...unless vanity overtakes me.
49. I’d love to be thin, but don’t want to work that hard.
50. I have a ridiculous notion that I’m thinner than I am and am usually horrified when I see myself in photos. Duh.
51. I am rendered mute when in the company of celebrities. Therefore, I have no interest in meeting anyone famous.
52. I once had dinner with Mister Rogers. He sat next to me and showed me pictures of his kids. I could actually talk to him.
53. I am very irritating to shop with because I can’t stand moving at other people’s paces. (I’m often walking around people and passing them by.) My husband and I no longer Christmas shop together.
54. My dream car is a 1964 ½ Ford Mustang convertible, although I love the hardtop too. I think it should be red.
55. I think that spending a ton of money on a car is a waste of money.
56. I think bad thoughts about people that drive ostentatious cars.
57. I’m an excellent speller.
58. I’m an excellent driver.
59. At all family gatherings, I’d usually rather hang out with the men than the women, but I usually opt for doing the dishes.
60. When I make my kids bag lunches, I always include a cartoon from the newspaper. I scour the paper throughout the summer and collect good ones.
61. I listen to sports radio in my car. This is why I’d rather hang out with the men at family gatherings.
62. “Field of Dreams” is my favorite movie – ever.
63. When I was a child, I was in a bowling league and I was good.
64. I love bowling but hate the culture that surrounds it. That may make me a snob.
65. I cannot see violent, scary, gory, depressing or sad movies or TV shows, no matter how good they are and especially if they’re true stories. I find no entertainment in other people’s sorrow.
66. I believe that when we die we will find out the answers to questions like: Who really killed JFK? Where is Jimmy Hoffa? Who killed O.J. Simpson’s wife? Where is Osama Bin Laden?
67. I am in awe of humble people.
68. I can’t stand people that are loud, obnoxious and treat people in the service industry badly.
69. Conversely, I can’t stand employees that treat you as if you’re bothering them.
70. Sometimes I stare at my children because I’m stunned at their beauty and their talent and I can’t believe that we’re related.
71. The major perk about being a housewife is that when everybody leaves the house, I get to yell at them for not picking up after themselves.
72. I need to be around people, but I’m terrible about picking up the phone and calling them.
73. I often eat when I’m bored.
74. I do not like to share popcorn at a movie theatre.
75. I am not above living vicariously through my children...but hopefully they’ll never find that out.
76. I don’t really like wind. Breeze is OK, but gusty wind is not good.
77. If I were reincarnated, I’d be beautiful, thin and would sing like an angel.
78. My most embarrassing moment is when I accidentally tucked my skirt into my panty hose right before a large church service. The thought of that moment makes my stomach drop every time.
79. When I get angry, I slam cabinets and drawers. My family hates this about me.
80. I’m hypersensitive to other people’s moods and somehow think they always have something to do with me.
81. I love the fall – cool, crisp days and nights, school starting fresh, Halloween and, oh yeah, my birthday!
82. On the first day of every month, the very first thing I must say when I wake up is “Rabbit, Rabbit.” It’s a dumb superstition that I somehow think will improve my month.
83. I’ve now gotten my husband to say “Rabbit, Rabbit” on the first day of every month – ha!
84. When I talk a lot, I give myself a headache.
85. When I chew gum, I give myself a headache.
86. I’m a HUGE sports fan and I believe that there’s nothing more fun than sitting in a stadium or an arena cheering on my team in a big game.
87. I have been to one Super Bowl (in New Orleans) and my team, the Green Bay Packers, won.
88. Going to that Super Bowl was the best vacation I have ever been on.
89. I can breathe easier when all of my children are with me. Literally.
90. I love television and now I love it even more since we have a Digital Video Recorder. It’s changed the way I watch TV.
91. I’m a pop culture fanatic because we shouldn’t take life so seriously.
92. Great music during church gives me goosebumps.
93. I’d really like to know more about Jesus’ life between the ages of 12 and 30.
94. I believe that no religion is completely right and that persecuting someone who disagrees with your beliefs is wrong.
95. I’m a fairly devout Catholic, but I don’t believe that Jesus would speak against gay people.
96. My husband is my soul mate and sometimes I can’t believe how I got so lucky.
97. I’m a ridiculous sucker for a compliment. No, that’s NOT how I got so lucky!
98. My dad designed the Scrubbing Bubbles character.
99. Sometimes, with the right circumstances, I love REALLY loud rock music.
100. I can’t park a car with the radio on.

Ego Bruising in the Checkout Lane

2006-08-30T13:51:00.000-05:00

As if I wasn’t feeling old enough this week. On Monday, I dropped off my “baby” for her first day of high school. It didn’t hit me how this landmark day would reflect back upon me until afterwards when I headed to the grocery store. You see, I was long overdue to make a donation to a couple of the food pantries in town and figured the first day of school was a good day to fulfill my obligation. One of the things the pantries most needed was diapers, and so I bought a lot of them. And just as I was chuckling to myself at the gossip I would start if somebody saw me checking out with all of those baby products, the cashier interrupted my humorous train of thought.

“So, do you run a day care center or something?,” she asked.

“No, actually, most of this is for a food pantry. They need diapers,” I replied.

“Oh, I was wondering if you had a day care center or if the grandkids were coming over today,” she continued.

I stopped. Speechless. Did she just say “grandkids”? Did she just tell me that I looked like a grandmother? I have friends with infants! HOW OLD DOES SHE THINK I AM???!!!

OK, I go to this grocery store a lot. I know this cashier and, not to be unkind, but she’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. Yes, she is younger than me, but not by a century or anything. This was the first time that someone had mistaken me for a grandmother. Aw, hell. I may as well send in my AARP application because it’s all going downhill from here.

Look, I know there are lots of grandmothers out there and I’m friends with many of them. Heck, I look forward to being a grandma. And I’d like to think that I’ll be a fun grandma. But not yet. My kids are 19, 18 and 14 and it’s going to take a lot for me to think of them as anything but kids.

I know one thing for sure, I’m not buying my diapers at that store ever again! Just call me Cleopatra, the Queen of Denial.

The Parents Guide to TheirSpace, TheirBook, TheirCell, TheirIM, TheirPod...TheirWorld

2006-08-24T10:40:00.000-05:00

One of the biggest challenges of parenting teens and pre-teens today is keeping up with the blitz of technology that engulfs many of our kids. It’s not so much a rising tide of new gadgets as it is a tidal wave of social overload. For those of us over the age of, um...19, it can be scary.

Well, I’m here to try and calm your fears and tell you that I’ve been to the other side, have returned safely and honey, the kids are alright. Yes, I fully acknowledge the inherent dangers in an internet lurking with predators and the ability of today’s kids to completely lose focus when digital information is flying around. But I think like any generation, our kids are simply finding their voice, even if it has no verbs and is completely abbreviated and filled with emoticons.

MySpace is one of the most popular destinations on the internet. In fact, it’s third, trailing only the popular search engines Yahoo and Google. Based on news reports, many parents have the idea that MySpace is a virtual candy store of pedophiles waiting to pounce on our children. Sure, dangers are there, just as they are out in the real world. However, there’s probably more danger in problems such as what fellow blogger Maryanne describes. Kids are not accustomed to the power of passive communication and how innocent comments can easily hurt.

On the positive side, some of the kids’ MySpace pages are, well, adorable. Their MySpace pages are the way that they express themselves to the world, even when, sometimes, the world doesn’t want to listen. For kids that are shy and soft-spoken, they finally have a venue through which they can showcase their personalities. On each MySpace page, they choose blinding backgrounds, hip music and surround it with lists of favorite movies, TV shows, music and long missives about anything they feel like saying. Along with all of this is the ability of kids from other MySpace pages to comment and then become a “friend.” Tom, one of the guys that founded MySpace, is on everyone’s friend’s list (don’t worry, he’s safe and doesn’t leave comments), along with 80-90 of the kids’ BFF (best friends forever). And here’s a typical comment on a MySpace page: “Hey yooooooooooo grrrl?? Wasssssssuuuuuuuuuuuupppppppppppp?!! I luv ur new background!!! It’s so hottttttttttt! Call me 2nite!!!!!!!!!!” Dangerous? Probably not. Waste of time? Definitely.

Facebook is another similar site that is restricted to high school and college kids. You MUST have a school e-mail address in order to register, but most schools absolutely forbid access to this site or MySpace so warn your kids ahead of time to save it for home. Facebook is a little less free-form than MySpace but gives kids an opportunity to check up on old friends and see what they’re up to. If you want to start a virtual conversation with someone, you “poke” them, which is apparently one of the more annoying things to do and can be ignored. Most kids just look at each others’ pages, join a group (there are millions) and surf through this mini-community. My son and his friends have used it to find old grade school and day care friends and perhaps reconnect. There are lots of instances of kids being “stalked” on Facebook because your identity is not hidden, but there are privacy controls that give kids the power to ignore the “stalkers.”

If the internet is the Information Superhighway, AIM (AOL Instant Messenger) is the Express Lane. AIM allows kids to create a screen name and instant message each other, ad nauseam. What’s crazy about AIM is that kids carry on conversations (albeit incomprehensible, abbreviated conversations with lots of exclamation points!!!) with 4, 5 or 6 kids at once. In our household, I quickly learned that AIM had to be turned off while homework was being done on the computer. I almost worry more about AIM than MySpace or Facebook because it is such a powerfully addictive form of communication. I’ve even watched my own children go the computer to instant message their friends instead of calling them to ask a question. This is fine, in the sense that our phone lines are free, but a little unnerving when you are trying to teach your kids to improve their face-to-face communication skills. My advice: try and limit kids’ time on AIM. It’s a time-waster of major proportions. On the plus side, my son in college can easily keep in touch with his friends across the country without having a gigantic long-distance bill.

Cell phones are here to stay, folks. For many of us, they’re security blankets between us and our kids. When our kids are out with friends, we can actually find them before panicking and alerting the police...that is if they answer our call. They’re really a false sense of security and another potential time-waster. Most kids’ cell phones have text messaging capability giving them another opportunity to share useless information at all hours. If your kid has a cell phone with texting, watch your monthly bill very carefully lest it spin wildly out of control. Oh yeah, and teach your kid how to charge his/her cell phone. Murphy’s Law says that their battery will run out when you need to find them the most. One more thing: Teach your kids cell phone etiquette. Limit your calls in public and while driving and don’t talk on your cell phone when you’re with other people.

iPods and iTunes have taken our kids hostage, much like FM radio did to us in the 70s. Our kids love their ‘Pods and especially love that they can go on iTunes and buy the latest hit song for just 99 cents. Not to sound older than the hills, but this is so much like my teen years when we’d head to the music store to buy a 45 rpm record so that we can play it over and over again. I have no problem with iPods and iTunes, unless you’re talking about hearing damage. Without sounding alarmist, we’re going to have a generation of kids with serious hearing loss if they’re not careful about the volume blasting through their little white ear buds.

In short, we shouldn’t be surprised at how technology has taken ahold of our kids. We knew it was coming. Now our choice is to fight it, or simply sit down with them and try to understand it. If you choose the latter, be patient and don’t be quick to criticize or you’ll be shut out of a huge part of their world. Ask your kid to see their MySpace or Facebook page or to show you what Instant Messaging is all about and do talk to them about the dangers lurking out there in the virtual world. You might be surprised and enlightened in many ways and open up a healthy line of communication between you and your child.

It's a Wonder I Can Read

2006-08-15T08:49:00.000-05:00

I was born in 1960. And although I am technically at the end of the Baby Boom generation, I think that my generation would be better known as the “Experimentation Generation.” Not as in the fact that we experimented with "things," although we did, but more that we were experimented upon.

By the time I arrived at elementary school, the educational wizards of the world had brainstormed and were excited to offer me and my peers two groundbreaking concepts: New Math and ITA (Initial Teaching Alphabet). Since I am horrible at math, I cannot even tell you what New Math was except that it meant that our parents couldn’t help us with our homework because they had no clue what we were doing. But ITA was something I remember very well.

Here is what ITA looks like:

Here’s what they say that ITA was supposed to do: The Initial Teaching Alphabet is a phonemic alphabet based on the phonemic sound system of the English language. It was designed to present the beginning reader and writer with a logical and reliable reading and writing system. The phonemic alphabet consists of 44 sound-symbols with each symbol or character representing one sound in a word. The alphabet adheres closely to traditional orthography. The symbols are lowercase. Certain conventional English spellings have been retained such as the c and k, which have the same sound.

While all that is true, it simply meant that by the time we reached about 3rd grade, we had to relearn the alphabet, thanks to ITA. Sure, we learned to read more quickly, but what good was it if what we read had no basis in reality? It’s not like there was a bookstore full of ITA books. They could have taught us Greek or French or Spanish or German in that time and at least we would have come out of it with some useful skills!

Although the ITA Foundation will say otherwise, it is commonly believed that ITA was a giant failure, which is probably why it is rarely used today.

Today, one of the biggest concerns of today's parents is whether or not Instant Messaging will be the end of good grammar. I am a testament to the fact that sometimes kids can learn, despite what they are taught in school, so I wouldn't lose sleep over IMing. However, I will say this: If somebody tries to teach your child to read through ITA. Run...run away faest.

Unkind Cuts Are The Deepest

2006-08-12T08:26:00.000-05:00

It’s no secret that life can be unkind. There are accidents, bullies, disasters, illnesses and worse. And then there is the other kind of unkind. It’s the type that you ask for. You sign up and put your proverbial neck on the line and hope for the best. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn’t. And although it’s a risk and you say that you know it, the crushing disappointment afterwards is sometimes just too much to bear.

This morning I received an e-mail from my son who is already back at college practicing with the university marching band. He said that his “audition” went well and he received lots of compliments. His friend, who last year played tenor drums, had a distinctly different experience. There were five spots on tenor drums and five kids trying out. They told my son’s friend that he didn’t make it...even though he was one of the five. Essentially, they said they’d rather have less tenor drummers than let him be one of the five. Ouch. My son admitted that his friend wasn’t very good, but thought that the decision was too harsh. Apparently this boy was so upset that he abruptly left band camp, slammed his fist into his car windshield and cracked it and drove home several hours. As a mom, I could feel his hurt. The moment I read the e-mail, I wanted to find that boy and hug him, because what else can you do when a kid goes through something like that?

Reading the paper this morning, I saw more unkind cuts on our local major league baseball team. One of the relief pitchers, who, earlier in the season had been referred to as a rock star and had gone on to the All-Star game, had once again lost the game in the final innings last night, most likely losing his coveted role as a closer. And another player on the team, who had been a starter for several seasons, was told that he was being benched in favor of younger players, due to a lingering batting slump. Not surprisingly, the benched player had nothing to say to the media.

There are very few times when I have put myself in such a position. It’s more likely that you’d find me in the stands safely cheering on a team than auditioning or playing or trying out. I’ve generally lived life very safely, perhaps to a fault. The one time I remember truly taking that big fat leap of faith was in high school.

I went to an all-girls’ high school. We didn’t have cheerleaders but we had a pom-pom squad. A really cool, well-choreographed pom-pom squad. The year before I attended that high school, I went with a friend of mine to watch her sister practice with the pom-pom squad. I was enchanted. Here were at least 40 gorgeous girls, many with curlers in their hair for their evening’s date (this was pre-curling iron days, folks!) all in lines going through their kicks and and symmetrical routines. This is what I wanted to do...more than anything. And so when I arrived as a freshman, I patiently waited for pom-pom tryouts. I practiced diligently with a friend. My friend made it. I did not. I was crushed, but not surprised. But what was surprising was what I did the next year. I tried out again...and didn’t make it, again. By the end of high school, I had tried out and not made it four times. Thinking back, I wasn’t very good. But what amazes me is that I kept trying. The happy ending to the story is that by my senior year, I had several friends on the pom-pom squad and they convinced the choreographer that I should be the squad’s music manager that year. And at the end of the year, they let me “suit up” and perform with them in their last appearance. It was a wonderful memory.

I can think of only one other instance in my life where I have had such single-minded determination and that was after my husband and I were married three years and I wanted a baby. Throwing caution and financial advice to the wind, I did everything I could to convince him that we were ready to start a family. And even though our journey into parenthood was very bumpy (another story for another time), I’ve never regretted pushing us into it when I did.

Still, it’s so difficult to sit back and watch our kids and their friends go through devastating ego blows. When our son was applying to colleges, there was one school where he wanted to go more than anywhere else. He even had a glowing recommendation from the head of the program in which he was interested. He, and we, thought it was a lock. He did not get into the school, based on his percussion audition. He was, of course, knocked flat. I haven’t felt that sad, and helpless, in many years. The sadness that hung over our house made it feel like someone died, which made us all realize that nobody did die and we’d all better pick our sad faces off the floor and move on. And as it turns out, he went to a different school, a school he liked even better and he was glad that he didn’t get into that original school.

Life works out that way...sometimes. And sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, as a parent, you’re at a loss to explain to your kids why s*%t happens to them or their friends. You tell them to take risks, but you’re ill-prepared to deal with their disappointment when the risks don’t equal the reward, or lack thereof. So you look for the teachable moment and hope that words of wisdom will somehow enter into your brain when you need them the most. And when all else fails, give out lots and lots of hugs.

Not Crying. Definitely Not Crying. OK, Maybe Crying A Little Bit. Alright, Fine, Dammit - Crying!

2006-08-10T15:09:00.000-05:00

I didn’t think it would happen, but I admit it. I’m sniffling a wee little bit. Not like last year, but, yes - a tiny bit sad. My son left for college just a few moments ago and although he’s a sophomore, I still can’t help but feel my heartstrings twanging a touch. First, I’m worried about him driving. It’s six hours away through Chicago traffic. I won’t rest easy tonight until I know he’s safe and sound in college town. So, yes, a few prayers have been said. Feel free to join in.

Maybe this is just a mom thing. My husband left for work with just work on his mind. I know he shares my concern over the driving thing, but he’s at work – working – and I’m at home – blogging...and perhaps obsessing. My daughter is practically thrilled. No longer will she have to share the bathroom, the basement or the television. She gets sole possession of everything, including our attention. This, she knows, can be a mixed blessing.

But me, well I guess I’m a little peeved. I’ve put a fair amount of time into that young man and yet he always seems to be leaving. I know that it’s what I would want more than anything, but it’s a bittersweet taste of success. Here he goes into the world, being all talented and funny and charming and clever and he wants to share it with others and develop more of it. Well, hey, what about me? Share it with ME! I know, I know – I sound positively insane. I’m really much more rational than that, but I find myself wishing he’d hang around just a little bit more.

Boy, have things changed. When he was little, he was positively obsessed with me. He’d follow me around and talk and hang on me and follow me into the bathroom and talk some more. He couldn’t get enough of me and, I admit it, I sometimes felt a little bit smothered. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a little of that smothering right now.

And so, we’ll start all over and adjust from a house of four to a house of three. We’ll fix meals that he hates and watch TV that he can’t stand and do a little less laundry and have a few less lights to turn off and go to restaurants he doesn’t like and generally ease into a routine that is different. A new normal. That is until he waltzes back in here and messes everything up and leaves the lights on all the time and doesn’t pick up after himself. I can’t wait.

Please Don’t Tell Me Our Parents Were Right

2006-08-08T18:29:00.000-05:00

OK, so remember way back in the 1960s (if you’re too young for that, just pretend) when the Ed Sullivan Show was on the air and Elvis Presley made that legendary appearance and the camera couldn’t show his entire body because his dancing was deemed inappropriate and too risqué? And the reason why was because if we listened to music like that, let alone watch it on TV, it would lead us to bad things. Things like “necking” and sitting on boys laps which, of course, would get us pregnant. This is what many parents told us. If we listened to rock and roll, bad things would happen. In our heart of hearts, we knew they were wrong...or were they?

Yesterday, Associated Press published a story saying that, according to a recent study, “Teens whose iPods are full of music with raunchy, sexual lyrics start having sex sooner than those who prefer other songs.” Gulp. This is exactly what I was afraid of and now there’s proof.

Look, I drive teenagers around...a lot. I listen to their music because it’s better than arguing with them. And when I hear songs like “Candy Shop” by 50 Cent, I turn the volume off faster than you can imagine. If I didn’t, we’d hear things like this:

I'll take you to the candy shop
I'll let you lick the lollypop
Go 'head girl, don't you stop
Keep going 'til you hit the spot (woah)

I'll take you to the candy shop
Boy one taste of what I got
I'll have you spending all you got
Keep going 'til you hit the spot (woah)

I don’t know about you, but I’m not taking my kids to that candy shop! And I’m not letting them listen to this crap! Still, I know that when I’m not around to change the station or turn the radio off, they listen to this. And, according to this very scary study, it makes an impact on them and the choices they make.

I like to think that I’ve had more influence on my kids than 50 Cent, but I remember being a teenager, full of angst and woe and drama, and I remember thinking that the only person that understood me was that rock star on the radio. He was singing to me, wasn’t he? Or at least that’s what I thought. Are kids today thinking the same thing and super-charging their libidos while they irreversibly damage their eardrums? I don’t know.

All I do know is that next time “Promiscuous Girl” comes on the radio:

Promiscuous girl
You're teasing me
You know what I want
And I got what you need

I’ll use this opportunity to have a discussion about what promiscuity is and how it can totally ruin a night, a weekend and a reputation. Yes, there’s nothing like a lecture from Mom to totally kill the mood. You're welcome. That’s what I’m here for.

The Middle-Aged Maven Haven

2006-08-02T15:03:00.000-05:00

Lately, I’ve noticed that my personal demographic has changed...at least as far as clothes and shopping are concerned. Although I still like the clothes at The Gap, my middle-aged body can no longer wear them very well. My high-rise hips have a hard time squeezing into their low-rise jeans. I appreciate the colorful and eclectic look of the merchandise at Chico’s, but their wacky sizes are too complicated for my fading brain. Kohl’s is great and cheap, but unless you look like Daisy Fuentes, everything there is looking a tad too dowdy for me.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Dowdy is OK. Dowdy is comfortable. Dowdy is often friendly on the pocketbook. But dowdy is most definitely not cool. And, call this my own personal mid-life crisis, but once in a while, I want to look a little bit cool.

There’s this store that gives me an opportunity to sometimes look cool. I’ve received their catalogs for years and I always find something bright, colorful and a little bit cool-looking. It’s called Coldwater Creek and a couple of years ago, one opened in my local mall. I was pretty excited to be able to see this coolness, up close and personal.

Well, here’s the deal: Coldwater Creek...or should I call it Coldwater Creak, is a really great store with outstanding service. But it is, to be perfectly honest, a middle-aged maven haven. It is shopped at by middle-aged to senior women. It is staffed by middle-aged to senior women. There are women oozing out of every pore of its retail existence. If there are men in Coldwater Creak, they look miserable. Children there would rather be doing homework. There is so much estrogen in Coldwater Creak, it probably gets crabby once a month!

But, for some reason, I like this store. I usually find what I need without breaking the bank. What I don’t like is that I feel like I’m being waited on by my mother. I know this because one of the sales clerks (who was easily pushing 70), was trying to sell me a top that only my mother would like. I was waiting for her to ask if I’d gotten enough rest the night before. Maybe it’s just me, but I want the sales clerks to look much cooler than me...or my mother. I also want them to be able to hear me without me shouting. If I want to shout, I’ll go and visit my parents.

And to add insult to injury, when you go in the changing rooms, they ask your name and put it on the door with a Post-It Note. I know it's so that they can glide by and inquire: "Everything going OK, Karen?" But part of me wonders if it's so that you can remember your own name when you go back in.

Look, I’m all for women going back into the workplace. I’m on the cusp of being an empty-nester myself. I’m just a tad uncomfortable to be hanging out in places where AARP cards are more prevalent than iPods. I wish that they’d mix it up a little bit and hire a few youngsters (without the ‘tude, please) so I didn’t feel like I just walked into the Shady Acres Gift Shop. I realize that I’ve matured past the point of shopping at American Eagle, but it would be nice if the folks at “The Creak” would be a little less obvious about it.

School Supplies + Demand = Insanity

2006-07-25T15:44:00.000-05:00

So apparently there was a memo sent out to all parents recently and it read something like this: “It is now time to BUY ALL OF YOUR SCHOOL SUPPLIES IMMEDIATELY!” People, it is not even August 1st. No schools are open yet. The floors have not yet been buffed. The chairs and desks are still piled high in the hallways. There won’t be anybody barfing in the nurse’s office for at least a month, but here in Wisconsin, school supply shopping has become the official summer pastime.

That’s all well and good. I’m all for getting a jump on things. I’m notoriously early for virtually everything, but there’s nothing to put a damper on summer fun faster than a trip to Target to buy school supplies.

The problem with this annual buying frenzy is the complete lack of school supply buying etiquette. First of all, they should give us skinny carts or a personal Sherpa. They don’t. The carts are large and the aisles aren’t. Then, they should collect all cell phones and children before you are allowed to enter the school supply zone. Because, to use an educational analogy: Mom + supply list + children (multiply by 2 if they are toddlers) + cell phone + cart = complete and utter chaos.

This year our job was easier. It’s my daughter’s first year of high school and Crayola Fine Tip Bold Colors 24 pack Markers are not on our list. (Thank God!) Her requirements are simple and somewhat open-ended. Nevertheless, we ventured to Target knowing that if we waited 3 weeks, everything left over would look lame, which, in the mind of a teenager is tantamount to social suicide.

So back to these manners-lacking moms. Look, we all expect crowds and a bit of bumping into each other and perhaps a few items that are out of stock. No biggie. But it doesn’t help matters when their carts are parked diagonally blocking everyone, their kids are wandering aimlessly and whining and they are on the cell phone gossiping with their girlfriends. Seriously!

I truly wish that mass merchants would employ School Supply Nazis whose sole purpose is to yell at the slow-thinkers, the picky-choosers and those not truly committed to the task at hand. “C’MON PEOPLE, MOVE IT! LADY, PICK A RULER, YOUR KID DOESN’T CARE WHAT COLOR IT IS. SIR, YOUR CHILD IS ALREADY EATING THE ERASERS, PLEASE LEAVE THE AREA.YOUNG LADY, YOUR BOYFRIEND WON’T BE LOOKING AT YOUR NOTEBOOKS – TRUST ME!”

I know, I’m preaching to the choir here. You people are all well-behaved, make your decisions quickly and don’t take along kids that do not want to be there, right? If not, allow me to introduce you to a wonderful new concept: Buying Online. Yes, you can talk on the phone, coddle your children, consider your choices and dawdle to your heart’s content. Brilliant, isn’t it?

Unplugging and Recharging

2006-07-24T08:15:00.000-05:00

Once a year, I spend a weekend in a small, non-air-conditioned cottage in the woods of central Wisconsin with no cell phone service, no cable television and no internet. If you know anything about me, you know that, normally, this would be my definition of hell. On the contrary. This is my annual Girls’ Weekend and although I do admit that I find it challenging to do without some of life’s amenities, I prefer to think of this as my life...unplugged.

As I explained last year, this is the time when seven women gather to reconnect and perhaps be thought of as individuals. Yes, more than anything, I treasure Girls’ Weekend because for three days, we’re not thought of as moms, wives, employees, partners, cooks, housekeepers or unpaid chauffeurs. For three days, we are just women with hopes, dreams, goals, aspirations and talents that are perhaps overlooked in our daily lives. During Girls’ Weekend, we build each other up, break down false pretenses and remember what it was like to worry only about ourselves – a luxury that is rare in our day-to-day routines.

To our families, Girls’ Weekend has become somewhat of a myth of epic proportions. We return home feeling very relaxed, but with very few stories. And, as anyone knows, the less information, the more imaginations tend to wander. I will admit that in our first years, we would get a bit wild, but we’ve mellowed in old age and now seem to relish the tranquility of silence and long, deep conversations that we’re denied on a daily basis.

Throughout the weekend, as we sip cocktails and float awkwardly in our inner tubes, we enjoy belly laughs and inside jokes and tales of misadventures in the carpool lane, the boardroom and the grocery store aisles. (Honestly, it would bore our children to tears.) We laugh at each other’s absent-minded mistakes and share stories and language that we would find wholly inappropriate in our own homes. For 72 hours, we let our guards down and don’t put them back up until we climb into our cars on Sunday afternoon.

The highlight of our weekend is when we all gingerly step into a small speedboat, motor into the center of the lake and set goals. Yes, I said set goals. I know it sounds very nerdy and I have no clue why it started, but we protect that tradition more than any other during Girls’ Weekend. As the unofficial “goalkeeper,” it’s my job to bring our goals from past years, allowing us to giggle about the many that we’ve never achieved. But more important than achieving the goals is the idea that, as grown women, we should even have goals. At some point during our busy lives, we tend to forget that as productive as we are, it’s important that we set our sights on something beyond our daily existence.

I can’t speak for the others, but I know that when I return home, I’m very glad to be back in my own home with all of my creature comforts. I’m so grateful to return to my life with its many imperfections and daily challenges. And yet, I’m also so grateful to know that year after year, I get to return to Girls’ Weekend to unplug and, ironically, recharge.

*Above is our annual Girls' Weekend group photo. That's me on the far left.

A Method to My Madness

2006-07-20T07:46:00.000-05:00

My flaws as a parent and a homemaker are many, but perhaps it’s not just me being human. Maybe there’s a hidden agenda...

My house would be cleaner, but I wouldn’t want anybody to think that I’m obsessive-compulsive.

I’d be more consistent in the discipline of my children, but I like to make use of the element of surprise.

I’d be a much better cook, but then I’d have people bugging me all the time for recipes.

I’d shop less, but who then would support the local economy?

I’d exercise more, but I don’t think my kids can afford to support me that long in my old age.

I’d be less crabby, but then where would my kids learn skills to deal with difficult people when they enter the workforce?

I’d volunteer more, but I wouldn’t want to take away the purpose of the hyper-involved moms.

I’d get to know my kids’ teachers better, but then I’d just be all depressed at the end of the school year.

I’d help my kids with their homework more often, but then they wouldn’t have that feeling of superiority when they haul out their geometry books.

I’d watch less TV, but then I wouldn’t understand the crap that that kids watch today.

I’d read more classic books, but then my kids would get tired of me going on and on about how great Dickens and Austen are.

I’d organize the family photos, but then somebody might actually see those horrid shots of me in a bathing suit on vacation.

I’d dress more fashionably, but then my daughter would have one less thing to criticize.

I’d stop sounding like my mother, but my kids need a script for when they become parents.

I’d show my kids less affection, but how then would they understand the cliché “A face only a mother could love”?

I’d be a better mom, but then TV sitcoms and dramas would be so boring.

I’d love my kids a little bit less, but they’d never learn about love beyond reason.

Project Chicken

2006-07-12T13:52:00.000-05:00

The other day my teenage daughter and I were out together. She apparently saw a girl that she deemed somewhat of a fashion victim. She turned to me and said: “You’d think that girl’s mom would tell her that what she’s wearing looks horrible. You’d tell me wouldn’t you?”

Silence.

More silence.

I finally replied: “Well, honey, it’s a tricky thing because, as you know, I know absolutely nothing about fashion and therefore really wouldn’t be qualified to say what looks good or horrible.” And as I said this, I bit my tongue...in several places.

I then continued: “You see, many kids don’t want to hear, or don’t care about their parents’ opinion of their clothing choices. It’s a very touchy subject.” I proceeded to look around for the bullet I just dodged.

I think she understood, but I also think I did a really good job of selling her on my response. I don’t always like what she wears, but, according to her, I have absolutely no business saying what does or doesn’t look good. I do draw the line at inappropriate, but beyond that, I gotta tell you, it’s a very, very grey area. Who am I to say that wearing more than one t-shirt seems, well, excessive? And giant sunglasses? Sure, they make girls look like bugs, but hey, they’re hot! Um, OK.

According to a recent AP Poll, 65% of those surveyed said that it is at least sometimes OK to lie when trying to protect someone’s feelings. And folks, I may not know fashion, but I do know that parenting a teenage girl is all about the feelings. Good. Bad. Sad. Happy. You name a feeling and it will fly through your household during the teen years. And if you have a choice, I strongly recommend staying away from the bad and the sad ones, but that’s up to you.

I'm also a big believer in picking and choosing my battles. Hanging around losers and druggies? Big battle. Fashion? A battle I can afford to lose.

When parents talk about whether or not they’re the “mean parent” or the “nice parent,” I always think of myself as the “chicken parent.” Sure, I’m there day after day, and of course I’ll be right there whenever they truly need me, but if there is a sure-fire exit to conflict avoidance, I’m taking it.

So when it comes to matters of couture, you can be sure that the closest I’ll come to commenting is which contestant I prefer on “Project Runway.” Cluck, cluck, cluck.

Teenage Wasteland

2006-07-05T13:26:00.000-05:00

Out here in the fields
I fight for my meals
I get my back into my living
I don't need to fight
To prove I'm right
I don't need to be forgiven

Don't cry
Don't raise your eye
It's only teenage wasteland

- “Baba O’Riley” – The Who

Overheard in my car last night as we chauffeured seven 14-year olds from fireworks to the ice cream shop:

“Man, yesterday, I got up at noon and watched TV until four. It was amazing.”

“Yeah, I love doing that.”

Welcome to summer in the midst of ‘teenville’ where breakfast either doesn’t exist or is eaten no earlier than 11:00 am, followed shortly by the plaintive: “What do we have for lunch?”

It’s a world where schedules are thrown to the wind, unless they revolve around a paycheck. It’s a place where if everyone is home for dinner, it’s only because you’re making something good, they’ve run out of money, or their friends are all away on vacation.

My life has made a 360 degree change from the days of toddlers waking up at dawn and wanting to be fed and immediately paid attention to. Now, I’m the one up early and the only reason I’m getting attention is if I’m handing out money or not washing clothes fast enough.

The lights are left on, the dishes are unwashed and the toilet paper is never replaced but you can be sure that the iPods are updated, the cell phones are charged and the away messages have been left. After all, they have their priorities.

They sleep into the afternoon and they stay up into the wee hours of the morning. I sometimes wonder if they’re working 3rd shift somewhere.

My vantage point is through the laundry chute where, I swear to God, their clothes are breeding. How else to explain how in a single day, one girl can wear SIX shirts?

Once in a great while, they stop from their whirlwind life and sit down next to me to chat or watch a TV show that I’m watching. It’s at those moments that I wish that I could make time stand still for just a little while. Because as they flit in and out of our house with keys jingling and cell phones buzzing, I feel them slowly slipping through my fingers.

Just One Thing

2006-06-30T09:03:00.000-05:00

As I was walking my dog the other day, it occurred to me that we’ve become a society that no longer does just one thing at a time. A car passed me by and in that car was a man in a business suit. He was driving, presumably to work, and he was talking on his cell phone. It reminded me of one of my former bosses who would dictate letters as he drove to work. And then I realized, that unlike that fellow in the car, I was doing just one thing at that moment. I was walking my dog. Sure, I wanted to listen to the radio while I walked, but my headphones had been “borrowed” months ago by my daughter, so it was just me, the dog, and a couple of plastic bags.

That’s when I realized, we have become chronic multi-taskers. Back in the 1980s and 1990s, when new, best-selling business books were written practically every week (“Who Moved My Cheese?,” “The One-Minute Manager,” “The Seven Habits of Highly Successful People”), I was a young mother working full-time and in desperate need of more hours in my day. I’d read these books in hopes that they’d provide the one idea that would make my life easier. None of them really did, but what they all seemed to preach was being more efficient with your time. Don’t waste your lunch hour just eating lunch. Sure, eat your lunch, but then run an errand or two. Now this was something I could handle. No, I couldn’t run a business meeting to save my life, but I could certainly get more done with my free time than the next guy...or girl.

So I started packing more into my lunch hours than my mom probably packed into her entire day when she was a young mother. I worked close enough to home, and various stores, that I could grocery shop, run home and unload groceries, throw in a load of clothes, sort through the mail, and get back to work as I was downing the last bits of my fast-food lunch. I’d drive and make phone calls. I’d visit doctors or fill out camp applications. The important thing was that at all times, when I wasn’t working, I was doing more than just one thing. To me, it was the only way to manage my seemingly unmanageable life as a working mother.

I did this for several years until it no longer became a badge of honor and I’d long for the moments when I was in my car and had forgotten my cell phone – held captive and only able to drive. Or sometimes I’d grab lunch, park my car near one of our parks and read a magazine. Those were the lunches that seemed so wasteful, so frivolous, so unproductive...so relaxing. I’d never allow myself to do that two days in a row. That would be irresponsible of me.

Eventually, I left my job and merged my life into that of a stay-at-home mom. As I worried about life in the slower lane, I still fell into my old habits of doing two things at once. While I waited to pick up kids from school, I’d return phone calls. Doctors’ and Dentists’ waiting rooms became my personal offices where I’d read school newsletters and important mail. Walking the dog became an opportunity to listen to a book club selection on tape.

But lately, I’m starting to teach myself the joy of just one thing. To sit and read a book without throwing a load of laundry in beforehand. To walk the dog and listen only to my thoughts. To drive somewhere and listen to the radio or, gasp!, turn off the radio and listen to nothing at all. I have to tell you that it’s really, really hard. But, as always, I have a hidden agenda.

I think that our next generation, our children, are far too overscheduled. I think they pack more into their days than our ancestors did into a lifetime. And for what? They are stressed out, overworked, under-rested, overfed (eating fast food while riding in a minivan to sports practice will do that) and pretty darn crabby. I recently spoke to a mom during our kids’ graduation week. She was pretty bummed out about all of the celebratory events that were planned and said: “I can’t wait for this week to be over.” I thought that was really sad and I encouraged her to try and enjoy it since this was her youngest child. She definitely had no interest in that piece of advice.

The good news is that I think things are changing a little bit. Lately, I’m hearing parents say that they’re NOT signing their kids up for multiple summer camps because they want their kids to be able to enjoy summer and just be kids. What a novel concept! Alas, in today’s world, it’s still not a popular one.

I know, I know, it’s easy for me to sit here and preach: “DON’T DO SO MUCH! STOP MULTI-TASKING!” That’s a tall order. But I guess I’d like to condone the virtues of doing a little bit less. Pick and choose, or, maybe don’t choose and one day just go with the flow and don’t do anything. That’s right. Get bored. Listen to the silence or the street noises and walk without a soundtrack blasting through your ear buds or a cell phone in your pocket. I think it sets a great example for our kids. Living life one thing at a time.

The Signs of Summer in Our House

2006-06-26T08:57:00.000-05:00

Flip flops near the front door, all of them, amazingly, belonging to just one girl.

Beds rarely ever made.

Lots of laundry, but all of it smaller. Shorts and t-shirts just don’t take up that much room. Yet it seems to pile up faster than in fall and winter.

Dinner at odd hours, with spotty attendance. Teens seem to find every excuse to dine out with their friends.

Remnants of late-night snacking left on the kitchen counters. Is there enough popcorn and ice cream in the world to feed a group of teenagers?

Pieces of clothing left behind by friends of friends.

Footsteps pounding up and down the basement stairs to grab sodas and more food while the sound of an action-adventure film blasts through the floor.

The sounds of relaxation – Reading a book on the deck while listening to soft music. Eating breakfast while watching Comedy Central. Showering late in the day to the soundtrack of “Wicked.”

Watching my kids slam in and out the front door. Wishing I could keep them home, but knowing that they’re reveling in their warm weather freedom. Perhaps I can lure them home with food. Hmm......

Nothing gets done...by anyone...but that’s OK. I try my best to let it all slide.

What does Summer look and sound like in your house?

OMG! WRUD?!*

2006-06-21T13:01:00.000-05:00

BM&Y, PXT AEP BCOZ IDGI. BOL FWIW BCOZ IM is a WOMBAT IYKWIM. G2G POS SC :-p **

If you can read that, you’re either 14 years old, spend way too much time on AIM (AOL Instant Messenger) or are intuitive in a strange and creepy way. No, folks, what I’ve written above might actually make sense to your teenage children and very little sense to you, which is exactly what your kids want. Welcome to the world of Instant Messaging, a universe filled with acronyms, emoticons and an alphabet soup-looking language that is seemingly way too complicated to understand, unless you’re a teen.

The power of Instant Messaging, or IMing as it’s known to your kids, is that it’s fast, it’s fun and parents don’t understand it. The genius of it is that, as you can see above, our kids have created this language that is so insanely abbreviated that we have virtually (pardon the pun) no interest in trying to decipher it. Right under our noses, our teens are carrying on conversations that are probably not as bad as we think they might be, but because it’s in this secret code, it kinda scares us. And don’t get me started about the potential of losing the ability to spell.

No more are teens hiding out in bathrooms or closets having secret conversations with the phone cord stretched to its limits. Now they’re sitting on the computer typing out something that looks like the dog walked across the keyboard. And they’re having these conversations with ten or more friends at a time. Yes, you probably have a gaggle of teens in your living room and you don’t even know it.

I first realized the power of IMing when we had a computer malfunction and my daughter screamed out: “What?! I lost my buddy list and I had over 200 names on it!!!” Now, I’m around my daughter’s friends a lot and I’m pretty sure that there aren’t 200 of them, but through the power of IMing, she’s talking to kids I’ve never heard of, let alone met. When kids meet new kids, they don’t exchange phone numbers, they exchange screen names. They add the screen names to their buddy lists and then they know when their friends, old and new, are online. If people leave “Away Messages,” they know what lots of these people are doing. It’s not unusual for me to sit in front of our computer and find out that “MrBagel” is taking a shower, doing homework or looking for food. Why they want to know this about each other, I’m not sure I understand, but it’s there for everyone to see.

It’s a little scary, but I’m trying not to panic about it or jump to any horrible conclusions. My daughter and I have regular conversations about who she should and shouldn’t speak to online and what she should or shouldn’t do. OK, correction. I say things to her about online safety and try and ask her as many probing questions as she’ll tolerate until I’m satisfied that she’s not IMing with pedophiles.

A while back I had the brilliant idea that I’d try and communicate with my kids via IMing. Since I was a fast typist, I thought it would be a great way to stay in touch with my son when he was away at college. For some reason, complete sentences are frowned upon in the world of IMing – my first inexplicable discovery. This is also when I found out about how they can block certain screen names if people are bothering them. At first I was irritated that I was blocked on my kid’s buddy list, until I realized that this was a good safety option for them to use against unsavory acquaintances with whom they had regrettably exchanged screen names.

It would be easy to dismiss IMing as a flawed and immature form of adolescent communication. However, I think it has its positive attributes. For one, unless they abuse the privilege of being on people’s buddy list, all kids are generally equal when they IM. It’s a world in which it’s not really important whether you are cute, skinny or wear the coolest clothes. For once, the power is in the hands of the quick and the clever and I can attest to friendships that have been formed and preserved through IMing. It also saves on cell phone bills, although perhaps at the expense of computer availability in a shared computer household. As with anything, it should be done in moderation. IMHO your kids will be ROFL if you give IMing a try. HTH, L8R! (Ask your kids what this means.)

*Translation: Oh my God! What Are You Doing?!)
**Translation: Between you and me, please explain that, as early as possible, because I don’t get it. Best of luck for what it’s worth because instant messaging, it’s a waste of brains, money and time, if you know what I mean. Gotta go, parent over shoulder. Stay cool.

Driving Me Cellular

2006-06-16T15:14:00.000-05:00

Cell phones. They’re marvels, aren’t they? With hardly any effort, people can reach you, or you can reach them, anytime, anywhere. The only exception being when you are standing inside a school. Any school building. Anywhere. Whatever was used to construct schools, most of them being at least 30+ years old, is impervious to cell phone signals. Sure your phone will ring if you are inside a school, but you will not be able to hear anything that is said except for “......need.....missing.....can’t.....emergency...” or something like that.

As a mom, cell phones are my friends. They allow me to reach my children wherever they go, or, they can reach me wherever I am. They are a safety net, of sorts, that give me a false sense of security. Still, I depend on them like a limb or like my car where my cell phone sits ready and waiting. Herein lies the problem. Cell phones and cars shouldn’t be mixed.

I’m not really one to preach here. From time to time, I do use my cell phone in my car, but I try to make it a rare occurrence. However, the women around my neighborhood seem to think it’s a rite of passage along with toilet training their children and teaching them to ride a bike. First they have babies. Then they get a giant stroller. Then they get a giant SUV. Then they start driving. Then they get on their cell phones. It’s as if the car won’t operate unless the cell phone has been dialed. Who are they talking to...CONSTANTLY?

If you are one of these women, you know who you are. I can spot you from a mile behind because you are not really paying attention to anything that you are doing. You’re driving around as if you’re lost. You change lanes on a whim – sometimes two or three at a time! You cut across parking lots with little regard to others and you RARELY use your turn signal. Probably because you only have one free hand, thanks to the cute little wireless thingy you’re holding to your ear.

I’m not a huge fan of Bluetooth earpieces or hands-free devices, but this is where they should be used. Not in airports or coffee shops so that those around you think you’re talking to yourself. Not in restaurants so that your dining companions know that they’ll probably get more of your attention if they call you rather than talk to you across the table. Hands-free is for driving, so that you can properly operate that 4 ton gas guzzler safely. Try it.

Oh, and I can’t begin a discussion of cell phones without making a suggestion: If you’re making or receiving a cell phone call and you’re in public, step outside or speak softly. There is nothing....NOTHING more annoying than people that believe that the world is their phone booth. The only time that I would be interested in what someone is saying into a cell phone is if it went something like this: “Hi, I’m with the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Prize Patrol and I’m looking for Karen....”

The Summer Speech

2006-06-09T07:38:00.000-05:00

All across America, moms are preparing to give their children The Summer Speech. Actually, you never really plan to give The Summer Speech. It just happens. The school year ends. Your kids spend a couple of days lounging around at home. They start to get on your nerves and suddenly you hear yourself starting out with these familiar words: “You are NOT going to be ________ all summer long. I am not running a resort here!”

For a long time, I thought it was my own personal speech reserved only for my dear children. And then I talked to my friend who mentioned in passing that she had just given The Summer Speech the day before. We compared notes. The words were slightly different, but the gist of it was the same: We needed to make a mom power play and remind the kids that we were still in charge.

It’s not that, as moms, we want to rain on our children’s parade of summer fun and independence. I, for one, am just as thrilled as they are at the idea of no homework and no early morning rides to school. It’s just that kids get this idea in their heads that no school means no chores, no responsibility, no waking up, no going to bed.....basically a free-for-all. If you want to scare a stay-at-home mom, show her this scenario.

And so, summer has begun at our house and The Summer Speech has been delivered, albeit to smirking faces and rolling eyes. But I can rest a little easier knowing that I’ve laid down the ground rules and can conveniently refer to them throughout the summer...when they’re ignored.

The Misuse of Pretty Much Everything

2006-06-06T08:35:00.000-05:00

I have a confession. I am not using my furniture for what it was intended. I have a dining room table. It is rarely used for dining. Rather, in my house it is Command Central. It is the staging area for things that must be done, calls that should be made, forms that should be filled out and all things deemed important. Like many people, out of sight is out of mind for me. I do understand the concept of filing cabinets, but for me, they are akin to garbage cans. Once I put something in them, I will probably never look at it again. And so, in my remedial attempt at organization, I have decided that my dining room table is the place where I display the stuff that runs my life and my children’s lives.

It’s really not that I’m a slob. It’s just that I need things staring at me in the face for weeks on end before it occurs to me: “Oh my gosh I need to get that medical form filled out and sent in by this Friday!” I realize that I received that form, oh, about 4 months ago. But honestly, would my life be any better if I had immediately acted upon it? I like to think not.

Kitchen counter backsplashes, those vertical planes of granite, Formica or Corian that are perpendicular to the counter, are terrific places upon which to display notes such as “Pick up Suzy from school on Friday,” “Veggie tray in basement fridge” and “Urine sample to M.D.!” If I’m particularly aggressive in washing the dishes, sometimes these desperate reminders become muddled and smeared. Eventually, if they do their job, I will get sick of them and simply finish that task so I can get rid of the note. Therein lies the beauty of my so-called system.

For some people, this same type of system can be found on their refrigerator door. I have been in houses where you can hardly find the door handle to open the fridge because of art projects, post-it notes and monthly calendars. I feel most at home in houses such as this. Because I do not have a metal refrigerator door, I can't utilize such a system in my house. What a shame.

I used to have a pantry in my kitchen. When you opened the door, you had to lean back so as not to become victim to a paper cut due to the 35 pieces of paper taped to the inside of that door. There, you’d find school calendars, field trip reminders, choir schedules, dental and orthodontist appointments and anything else that would be referred to multiple times by multiple people. When we remodeled our kitchen, I moved that system to our bedroom closet door, where it stands today. It’s not attractive, but it’s functional, and it’s amazing how everyone has come to depend on it.

The tricky part is when we have a party. Then, for obvious reasons, we need the dining room table. This is when I invoke what my sister-in-law calls “box cleaning.” Box cleaning is where you take everything important, shove it into a box and then hide the box. Your guests don’t have to know any better, because unless you’re living in the governor’s mansion, you’re probably not having company every day of the week. This system fails when you’ve hidden the box too well and your child is in danger of being kicked out of camp because their medical form was never submitted.

I also use entire rooms for box cleaning. We have a nice guest room on the first floor of our house. I try and keep it in decent shape, in case we have unexpected overnight guests. (I will tell you right now, this has never happened, but I like to think that it might.) When I can be sure that my guests will never enter the guest room, you will sometimes find the contents of the dining room table neatly laid out there. This helps me avoid the hidden box scenario and makes for an easy transition back to normal operations.

Where my so-called system fails, is when I go on a cleaning rage and make an attempt to remove all loose items from countertops and tables. I start out methodically putting things in proper places until I just want to be finished and give the appearance of being ridiculously organized. Then I start stuffing things in random drawers. This bit me in the you-know-what this past weekend when I couldn’t find my daughter’s graduation card that I had hidden in a panic. I’m hoping to unearth it before her high school graduation, giving me a good 4 years to start looking. We’ve lost passports, ID cards and even eyeglasses when I felt the need to stow and go. You’d think after several near-disasters, I’d have cleaned, organized and somehow made sense of it all. I haven’t and it’s unlikely that I will.

And so, our life will go on and our children will probably not think it’s strange that the list of weekend church services is taped to our closet door or that the box of batteries is stored next to the cooking oil or that everyone that walks in our house can see every party invitation to which we have not yet responded. It’s my flawed way of doing things and I’m sticking with it. After all, what fun would it be to use the dining room table just for...dining?!

Grey is the New Blonde

2006-05-29T09:16:00.000-05:00

I’ve reached a crossroads in my life. Yes, folks, at the ripe old age of approximately 45-1/2, grey hair is taking over my head. And so I have a decision to make. To dye or not to dye. Or, perhaps it’s to be (grey) or not to be (grey). Of the decisions to be made in adulthood, this one is particularly vexing.

While growing up, I watched my mom change hair colors and styles on a regular basis. It got to the point that I never really knew what color her hair was supposed to be. Today, she has the most beautiful white hair you can imagine. When I was younger, I made this goofy promise to myself to be true to my own color. I didn’t want to be a slave to the colorist or walk around with a color that just wasn’t quite right...or natural. Like my father, I didn’t fall victim to grey hair until later than most of my friends, so it was easy for me to say I wouldn’t color my hair. Now, it appears that the time to follow through with my promises is at hand. Within the past year, I have sprouted an impressive crop of grey hair that is not going away anytime soon. And as much as I like to blame my children for my grey hairs, my kids haven’t been that bad recently to attribute this all to them. No, it’s just Father Time catching up with me once and for all.

I’ve asked opinions of several people. My husband firmly says that he doesn’t care. I’m not sure if it’s that he doesn’t care or if he decided that this question was akin to “Does this make me look fat?” Always the diplomat, he has planted himself firmly in the camp of those with no opinion whatsoever. Big help that is.

Surprisingly, my daughter has voted an absolute no on me coloring the grey away. It’s surprising because she has just recently discovered the joys of hair highlighting and the compliments that come with that change. Still, she has no interest in having a mom battling aging with little or no success.

I’m pretty sure that my friends would say that I should color away the grey because that is what most of them do. I respect them for that decision, but I’m not sure it’s right for me. I’ve rationalized to myself that grey hair is a badge of honor. I realize it’s more biological than it is a testament to trials and errors, but I like to think that with grey hair comes wisdom. That is likely not to be true, but it’s a nice theory, don’t you think?

The other thing that I’m factoring into my decision is the fact that even if I dyed my grey away, I would still look 45+ years old. I’m no Demi Moore or Sheryl Crow, so the likelihood of somebody saying: “You couldn’t possibly have a child in college already!” is between slim and none. I won’t be fooling anyone soon, and I’m good with that. I’m as vain as the next person, but I’m also a realist at heart. Which is why my grey hair and I are probably companions on my journey to an AARP membership and that’s OK.

After all, the newest American Idol is a grey guy, so perhaps it will be the hottest new trend. Or maybe, just maybe, greys have more fun. Hey, why not?!