Feed All the Animals

Do As I Say, Not As I Do

2012-01-26T10:34:00.000-05:00

If you had asked me 10 years ago whether I'd be a good dog owner, I'd have said 'sure!' because I knew very little about caring for dogs, even though we had a dog growing up. With a fence around our yard, all I had to do was open the door and let Lady out or in. Mom fed her every day, and when we went on vacation, my aunt and uncle next door took the dog while we were gone. As far as I knew, there was no work involved--just fun.

As a young twenty-something, I thought of babies the same way I used to think of dogs. Lots of fun, no real work except changing the occasional diaper. Yeah, I know. I was clueless about a lot of things back then.

My husband and brother-in-law often tell me that I let my children take advantage of me. Sure, I make threats to get them to do what they're supposed to, and I try to follow through, but come on. I also have to make dinner, walk the dogs, update my blog and a million other things. If they're still watching cartoons instead of doing homework, even though I threatened to take television away for a week, well how can I get anything done if I actually *do* that? The fact is, I can't I *need* the availability of television. Why can't they just do what they're told??

I never really put the ideas of dog ownership and parenting together in the same thought before. But this morning, I realized that not only am I sending the wrong message to my children, I'm sending the same message to my dogs.

After a morning walk, our beagle, Flash, likes to wrestle with Bailey, our lab. Despite being only half Bailey's size, Flash is relentless in his pursuit of entanglement. He'll chase Bailey, jump at his neck, roll over in front of him and attach himself to Bailey's heel, following him around in circles and barking ceaselessly until he gets some attention. Bailey, to his credit, will often play. If he's in the mood. But sometimes, he's just not, and I totally get that. When this is the case, he'll growl at Flash to make him go away.

It doesn't work.

So Bailey growls louder, more deeply, more menacingly. Flash remains unfazed. Ultimately, Bailey will bark a bark that would make a junkyard dog run the other way. It's downright scary to hear.

But not to Flash.

I keep waiting for Bailey to take a nip out of Flash, to really get the message across. "That would teach him," I think. "Let him know you mean it, Bailey!" I cry.

But Bailey just walks away. And in that moment, I see myself. Yelling louder, hurling ever more dire threats of, "You had betters..." and "Ooh, I'm gonnas...." and then leaving and ignoring the lack of compliance.

They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step in fixing it. Thanks to my dog, I realize I have some parenting skills to work on. Otherwise, like Flash, my kids will never take my threats seriously. Maybe we can do it together, Bailey and I. Like exercise, these things are always easier with a friend.

Distraction Faction

2012-01-25T17:54:00.002-05:00

I am a mean mommy. I don't let my kids play video games, handheld or otherwise, on school days. On Fridays, I let Ben bring his DS to play on the school bus. His friends bring their game players every day, something Ben often points out.

But Ben has also accepted this rule of mine. Maybe because I choose prime moments to explain my motives. For example, one night he was playing Wii for about 45 minutes before dinner. When it was time to shut it off to come eat, he got loud and combative. When the answer was still "time for dinner. Turn it off," he got whiny. And so, like any good mother, over dinner I explained the connection between his jumpy, crack-addict behavior and what the light-speed action on his video game does to his brain. To have to go from dodging speeding dragons, cars and other flying objects all while trying to capture gold coins and not die, to a quiet family dinner is like slamming your brain into a brick wall. (Some may offer that sitting down to ANY family dinner is like slamming one's brain into a brick wall, but that's another post for another day).

He didn't like the answer, but one thing about Ben is that he's very attuned to his body. When he feels *that* uncomfortable, but can understand a possible connection to a cause, he'll go with it.

No, I don't offer any scientific studies or stats for my argument. It just seems logical to me, and I guess it seems logical to Ben because he doesn't question it. Even if it's not about understanding his body, I think he at least likes having an understanding of why his mother sets such stupid rules.

So on a recent Wednesday, I picked Ben and a friend up from school. I handed each of them a bag of Transformers fruit snacks, which they promptly opened. DS game in his lap, his friend asked me why Ben isn't allowed to bring is DS to school.

"I am allowed, on Fridays," Ben answered before I could. Then he commented on the character his fruit snack was and asked his friend which character he got.

"I never really notice the characters," he said.

And that made me smile. Because Ben notices EVERYTHING. He always has, and still does. I can't say for certain that it's because I withhold video games. But knowing that he doesn't have something in his pocket to distract him from his world all the time is enough scientific proof for me that I'm making the right choice. No matter how mean a mommy it makes me.

Allow Me To Introduce You Two: Brain, Food

2012-01-23T22:28:00.001-05:00

"I was 32 when I started cooking. Up till then, I just ate." --Julia Child

I've decided that, when it comes to training on how to feed my family, I got shafted. (Sorry, Mom. Nothing personal). Actually, it's not my mom's fault. It's society's. My generation was reared during the rise of convenience foods, microwaves, working moms and pre-cable-television-as-a-safe-babysitter. And in fact my mom did her best: we were given raw veggies to munch on each afternoon while we watched the After School Specials on TV. She made a home-cooked meal every night. And I mean EVERY NIGHT. Roast chicken. Roast beef. Stew. Steak. Spaghetti and meatballs. Pot roast. Real stick-to-your-ribs stuff that took hours to make and fed a family. Correction: took HER hours to make. Growing up, I never gave dinner a second thought.

So of course once I was on my own, working, taking care of my own apartment and going to night school, I'd eat when I was hungry. If I was out of food or time, I'd grab something on my way to wherever--taco, doughnut, burger, fries. Too tired to cook at night? Mac and cheese or cereal filled the bill. Salad? Um, yeah, I think I bought some last month for some recipe; oh, never mind. It went bad. See? This is why I don't buy vegetables or fruit. It's a waste of money. That was my logic. I had kept with the idea of rich, filling food when it's time to eat, but lost the message about the planning. But all that was fine on my 20-something body, because no matter how badly I abused it, it kept on staying the same.

Remember those days?

Fast forward 15+ years. Insert family here. Yes we work long hours, manage kids' activities, pets' schedules and the medical and financial paperwork of aging parents, not to mention piles of laundry, spelling tests and the constant task of keeping clutter at bay. There is not a lot of downtime. No one will dispute that fact.

But here's the thing: there *is* downtime. In my parents' generation, I see now, that time was once filled with, among other things, coupon-clipping and weekly meal-planning. But in this world of constant communication, we all walk around with a pocketful of distraction every moment of every day. And aren't Facebook and Tweeting more fun than meal-planning?

Technology has made it possible to download a recipe for kimchi while riding on the train, shop for groceries online during lunch hour and have them delivered to our homes in the evening, then spend our nights watching any number of cooking shows that would make Julia Child's mouth hang open. But the irony is that, with all those advances, we are still dealing with our food on the go, outsourcing the shopping, preparation and experimentation that make cooking so great. For many of us, sensual food is something we enjoy only on TV.

Feeding our families and selves is as necessary as it's always been. Feeding them well is more important than we've ever realized before. But *teaching* them how to think about food is critical to their health. And it's no easy task, especially if we never actually learn to do it ourselves.

Repress After Reading

2012-01-17T14:16:00.001-05:00

When I volunteered to help as a lunch monitor at my son's middle school, I had no idea how little the job would actually be about food. I spent two hours in the cafeteria as an "extra pair of eyes" to help out the staff and insure the safety and well-being of the kids. In the course of those hours, four waves of kids cycled through for lunch periods: eighth graders, seventh graders and two rounds of sixth graders.

Here's what I learned:

For years, I have apparently repressed many memories of middle school. Now I know why.

Many eighth graders look like they are 16 years old.

Many eighth grade girls act like they are 16 years old.

Few eighth grade boys act older than 12 years old.

Most eighth graders spend their lunch hour talking, playing on iGadgets and horsing around. Very little food is consumed.

I use the term "food" loosely. One child had a container of chocolate milk and four chocolate chip cookies in front of him. And nothing else. I wonder if his mother knows.

Seventh graders are loud. REALLY loud.

The noise of seventh graders is not gender-specific.

Whether to impress girls or make others laugh, seventh grade boys like to make themselves look stupid.

Many seventh grade boys use food to do this. I saw one boy repeatedly smash an apple into his forehead. I wonder if his mother knows. A lunch monitor finally took the apple from him and threw it away.

In middle school, Gatorade is the new water.

No one sings the Barney "clean up" song in the cafeteria. Nor do they all clean up. I wonder if there's a correlation.

Sixth graders are quiet and respectful and neat. They eat what's in their lunch boxes and go to the auditorium when they are told. They do this only after cleaning up.

The moral of this experience was, don't give your children money to buy lunch without specific instructions on what lunch should and should not be.

Oh, and keep your child in sixth grade for as long as possible. Their lunch monitors will thank you.

Selling Points

2012-01-10T16:13:00.000-05:00

I have a coupon for one of those services that gives you a discount at various restaurants. You know, buy the coupon for $5 and get $25 worth of food when you go. So I visited the website to see what restaurants were available in the area I was searching.

One of the options for each search result is to see more about the restaurant in question: Amenities, Special Features, Attire, Banquet Facilities, etc. While checking out an Asian-fusion restaurant, I clicked for more info to see if there were certain days I would not be able to use the coupon. While going through the list of info, I saw it. The atmosphere of the restaurant is described this way:

Family/Children, Gay Friendly, Romantic

I was smiling without even realizing it. I mean, think about the possibilities!

Family with children at one table. Gay couple at the next table, feeling romantic (it's allowed--check the restaurant's description) and holding hands. One of the kids notices and asks his parents about it and starts a whole family discussion about love and gender and America and freedom and how families come in all shapes and colors and sizes and types.

WOW!

Then I stopped being excited and wondered if I should be angry. I mean, why does a restaurant have to state something like that categorically? It doesn't say Latino Friendly or Black Friendly. Why the distinction? Is this considered such a rare thing in restaurants that putting it out there in their description is like a selling point?

What if a restaurant doesn't say that it's Gay Friendly? Are we to assume that it is anyway? Or that it's Gay Hostile? (Talk about an oxymoron). Is this a new phenomenon in Asian restaurants? Are they notoriously anti-gay and this restaurant is saying, "Hey, eat here! We're different from the rest!"?

It was then that I realized that it didn't matter why the description is on there. Because it made me think. It made me start this discussion with you. It made me realize both the good and the bad possibilities, and I will talk to people about it and see what they think as a result.

All because of a description at a fusion restaurant. How perfect.

Into the Ears of Babes

2012-01-08T18:58:00.003-05:00

Today I went to a photography exhibit of a friend of mine. While there and waiting for a word with the artist, I met his young granddaughter. She is in elementary school and quite artistic too, and we got to talking. As always, I was very conscious of making my conversation topics interesting and child-friendly. We spoke of her bunny rabbit, Oreo, her teacher, her musical interests and the subjects she likes in school. I explained that I had two sons a little older than she, who also enjoyed art, music and the theater.

Then she asked me if my boys went to the Y (after school program) when they were done with school, as she did. I explained that they took the bus home because I work at home, so am there to greet them and help with homework. She asked me what I worked on at home. I told her I was a writer. She asked if I had written any books. I told her I was working on two books right now, one fiction and one non-fiction.

At this point, I should pause to mention that I love speaking with children, and yet am often the one doing the questioning. But this little girl was so precocious and interesting, that she quickly made me realize how ill-equipped I am to give any kind of interviews with potentially malicious media personnel. She made me so comfortable and at-ease that I was unprepared to answer the question that came next.

"What are your books about?"

I opened my mouth, then stopped. The non-fiction book, which I'm hoping to find an agent for soon, is about female sexual dysfunction and how to regain the sex life you once had, or get the one you've always wanted. Definitely no quick way to put that into 7-year-old friendly terms.

Immediately, then, I turned my thoughts to my novel. "One is about being a mom," I answered her confidently. And before she could inquire as to the title, I shifted to ask her about whether, when she has finished with a drawing, she likes to go back and make little changes, maybe color it in and add some more details.

"Oh, sure," she said, obviously understanding my meaning. I explained that the book was in that 'fixer-upper' stage, also called the 'editing' stage and that I was working on making it better. But I had no workaround in mind if she were to ask me what the book is called. I just could not come up with a child-friendly substitute for a title with the word Prozac in it, so I instead asked her if she had tried the brownies. She had, and insisted that they were very good.

My plan for this year is to finish my edits, take a course on being interviewed, and thank my stars every day that I am not in politics.

Embracing My Inner Geek

2012-01-07T18:20:00.000-05:00

I have always been behind the times when it comes to technology. I had an analog cell phone for years after the digital ones came out, still enjoying the novelty of the 'flip' motion I had to use when I opened it to talk. It made me feel like I was a character on Star Trek or something, and the little belt holder made me look like a very important person.

Once everyone started getting Smart Phones, I went and bought myself a pay-as-you-go phone with a slide-out keyboard so I could learn, finally, how to text. Since my then-6th-grader had a phone with texting capabilities, it only made sense that I should be able to text him, and he me, even if he didn't want to ever do such a thing. I lovingly referred to it as my Stupid Phone.

This was all well and good for over a year, until I found my children involved in more and more activities that required me to drive them places and stay there for at least an hour. Normally I would bring a book for such events, but more than once I found myself waiting for an email from a literary agent or one of my kids' teachers, and it was time to walk out the door and leave my computer at home. I was surprised to find that not being able to be in touch when I needed to was actually stressful.

One evening at my son's martial arts class, as a friend sat next to me checking her email, I actually leaned over and asked, rather abashedly, if she would mind terribly if I checked my email on her phone when she was done. I was waiting for an answer from my co-author, I explained, and wanted to respond as soon as I heard from her. I knew post-class would involve homework, dinner, dog-walking and the like and I wouldn't get a chance to check my mail again until after 9pm, far too late.

While asking my friend, though, time seemed to slow down for me. Suddenly I was that kid at college who keeps bumming cigarettes from others until she's finally told to go buy her own damn pack. I could see myself doing this during every martial arts class until I would finally push my friend's generosity to its limit.

It was time to buy my own damn smart phone.

This week, I got one. And while my 12-year-old drools on my shoulder all weekend while I wend my way through the icons, dual touch screens, apps, features and frills of the essentially-mini-computer, I still have not got a data plan. I use my home network for now, but at the end of the month I will be untethered and able to check email from anywhere.

I have to say the feeling is mixed. While I love the promise of being able to do what I need without having to be home, I also find myself drawn to checking my Facebook status more than necessary, and ignoring the laundry and impending dinner hour as I navigate my way through the Android market or poke around on Foursquare.

Ultimately, I hope the novelty will wear off and the phone will be just one more useful tool to help me do more from more places. If nothing else, though, when I'm not waiting for a message at martial arts class, at least I can blog about what I'm doing instead, or play Angry Birds instead of harassing my friend.

Workin' It

2012-01-06T13:28:00.000-05:00

Trust me.

We are always bragging about how smart our dog Bailey is, but I never considered he was smart enough to learn the art of manipulation. Now I'm starting to wonder.

Little Flash was used to having his own way at his old place, and he knew how to make it happen. Bailey, on the other hand, had always been the 'textbook' pet: well-trained, smart, easy to teach and unconditionally loving. He knew what we expected of him and always gave his best and his all.

But since Flash and Bailey have started hanging out, Bailey seems to be picking up new tricks. Last month, he was starting to whine every two hours to go out, whereas four outings a day used to be enough for him. He made it sound as if he just couldn't hold it, to the point that we had him tested for a bladder infection. But the vet said he was perfectly fine. Once we started telling Bailey to be quiet and stopped letting him out every time he complained, he seemed to recognize we were on to him. The all-day whining stopped.

This week, he's been limping around on his front paw, as if he's pulled a muscle or maybe is struggling with the cold and arthritis. We've been paying him extra attention, catering to his disability and giving him lots of love because we feel bad he's hurting. Strangely, as soon as we go outside, he is running, jumping, pulling on the leash with his mouth and doing his 'happy bus dance' every morning and afternoon: there's no sign of pain or injury. But later when we are all inside, he will sit at the bottom of the stairs and moan when no one is downstairs with him, rather than coming up to join us. When we call to him, he stares up at us as if he couldn't possibly climb all those stairs with his now-sore-again paw. As if we should come down and cuddle with him in front of the TV to prove that we really love him.

I don't know which behavior to believe is the truth anymore. How he has figured out how to get what he wants from us is a mystery. But Bailey is a smart dog, and I wouldn't put it past him to be playing us. If nothing else, this is good practice for when my kids start doing it.

Tell Me What You Really Think

2012-01-02T17:43:00.000-05:00

At my most recent writers' group meeting, I had a chance to see my main character through the eyes of other writers. This, you might say, is what writers' groups are all about. You get a bunch of writers together, pour them coffee, and then hand them a piece of your soul and ask them to chew it up and spit it back at you. Couched in kindness and good intentions, of course.

I have never been good at taking criticism, regardless of how constructive it is. When I was young, I always talked a blue streak, perhaps with the unconscious goal of not giving anyone a chance to censure me. My uncle used to joke about it, and now I see the same trait in my son. But when I started writing, I learned to talk less and listen more. I actually took a class that taught me how to sit back and listen to critiques of my work without interrupting, defending myself or explaining my motives. I'm shocked I passed.

To get around this uncomfortable but necessary aspect of learning to write well, I tended to lean toward poetry and non-fiction. It sounds strange, I know. But when writing poetry, you are forced to distill your message and emotions to their bare bones. Interpretation is often necessary and personal to the reader, and the formulas of tempo, alliteration and line counts can actually help me detach myself from what I'm writing. The words I choose must have heft and clarity and get the job done. Non-fiction, on the other hand, is just that: facts. Verifiable, indisputable facts laid out in articulate and hopefully lyrical form: no critique necessary. It's either right or it's wrong.

Maybe this is why workshopping fiction pieces is so tough for me. My novel contains characters I've created, coddled and cared for over several months. They are close to my heart, warts and all. But they must be put on display and evaluated, judged objectively by others. And it hurts me to hear them dubbed cranky, inept and even 'too perfect' even though I know they are. It's as if they were my own children.

Thankfully, this means I am on the right track to writing a novel. I've created characters I care about (perhaps a little too much), who are human and make mistakes, and who need room to grow. The best advice anyone ever gave me about writing a novel was this: let your characters make bad decisions. You can imagine how hard this was at first. I didn't want my characters to get hurt, hurt others or make fools of themselves. But until I started letting them make bad decisions, my novel was very dull because nothing was happening.

Being able to detach yourself may work for some forms of writing, but I understand now that for fiction to truly take flight, it must be messy, ugly and full of the stuff of real life. So I can't let myself shut people down when they criticize my characters. No parent wants to be told they are doing a bad job. But every good writer needs to learn to take criticism, even when it's about their characters. How else would my characters--or I as a writer--ever grow?

Sassy Pants

2011-12-22T19:48:00.000-05:00

Tensions were high this morning in my house. The holidays are looming, as are homework and school project deadlines. Staying up late with visiting family members, and the unwelcome actions of younger siblings just add to the stress. Top it off with everyone having a head cold, and I could understand why things went as they did at breakfast.

"Jacob, it's late. You need to eat something before it's time to get the bus."

"I don't like any of the cereal we have."

"Then have a yogurt and a banana. You can't go to school with nothing in your stomach--you have a test today."

"Watch me."

Granted, backtalk like this is likely considered welcome dialogue in the homes of families with older teens. But I'm a beginner at this teen thing; indeed, Jacob is just on the hormonal cusp of 'the ugly years' and still shows his sweet and thoughtful side most often--especially to me.

So this was unexpected sass to my virgin ears, and I spun on the poor, unsuspecting kid and pounced like a cat.

"Don't you dare talk to me that way, Mister," I said right into his face, holding my finger up for emphasis. "You can save the sassy mouth for the bus because it is not gonna fly in this house. Now go eat something."

I admit it was probably a bit harsh, and I could give you plenty of excuses for it. But I also had to wonder what really sparked it. Was it because I was feeling sick and therefore out of control of my own body, so I needed to assert my control over my kid? Perhaps. That long-buried need from my own middle-school years to fight back when pushed rather than back down? Not impossible. But later in the day, I read an article about arguing with your teen and discovered that--surprise surprise--it can actually help them.

According to a study of 157 13-year-olds and their parents, parents and teens who were able to have a calm and civil dialogue about tricky subjects like school, friends and troubling situations--without the teen giving up early on--produced positive results later on. Those teens who held their own in these discussions were able to stand up to peer pressure about drugs and alcohol.

This was good to learn. Not because I plan to turn everything Jacob says into an argument. But what I will do is make sure our exchanges turn into discussions and not fights. Listening is just as important as stating your case, no matter how loudly, when it comes to any interaction. The main point of the study is that "each person in the discussion needs to feel that they are being heard and they are using arguments and reasoning to have a calm back and forth,” according to study co-author Joanna Chango, a graduate student at the University of Virginia.

In my defense, though, I also think letting Jacob know as I did this morning that he cannot talk to me the way he does to the kids at school, much as he'd like to, will maintain what respect he does have for me. And that will be equally as important as listening when things really do get tricky down the road.

Bad Santa

2011-12-17T14:04:00.001-05:00

I used to do my very best to avoid the mall at holiday time when my kids were younger, going only at night when they were in bed or on weekends when my husband was home with them. Yes, it was partly because shopping with kids in tow is a chore and half. But I was also avoiding Santa.

Unlike most parents I know, I was unwilling to stand in line to have my kid sit on a stranger's lap so I could get a picture. I never bought into the whole Santa farce, though I wouldn't deny his existence when my kids asked. In short, I did nothing to perpetuate or quash the possibility. I didn't so much weave magic as feel ambivalent about its swirling around our house, fed by others.

This worked great when they would come home from school and say "Mom, so-and-so said there's no such thing as Santa. Is he telling the truth?" Rather than commit either way, I'd turn it around: "Well, what do you think?"

But as they grew older and a bit more suspicious, I found the best thing to do to hurry along the inevitable dismissal of the Santa myth was to actually take them shopping with me at holiday time. Beginning December 1, Santas abound at virtually every store, and without a word I was able to let nature take its course.

"Mom, how can Santa be at Walmart when he was just at the mall with a line of kids in front of him?"

"Hey, Santa's beard is gray. Why isn't it white? Did he forget to wash it?"

"Mom, why is Santa so skinny? I thought he was fat and jolly?"

"Mom, why is Santa smoking?

Ultimately, I still leave the believing up to the kids. Deep down, I suspect they really *want* to believe, craving a bit of magic to help them escape from the commercialism they see on the TV all month long. And I won't be the one to tell them flat out that there is no Santa. If nothing else, they'll hold on to the notion and save a bit of forgiveness for Santa for his bad behavior. He may not be human, but he clearly works hard for an old guy.

Seasonal Shifts

2011-12-10T10:34:00.003-05:00

It's the holiday season, so it only makes sense to talk about what's on everyone's mind: suffering.

I'll start with my own. There was a time when I worked a 40-or-more-hour-per-week, "part-time" job, which I loved. But it kept me away from my family and the money wasn't there. Leaving the job freed up time for both my family and my own writing, and I was able to feel selfish by writing for hours every day, and still spend time with my kids. But as any parent can confirm, no matter how much you give to your kids, it's never enough. They always want more and, wanting to make them happy, we do our best to give more. This meant sometimes not being able to write for long stretches, because I was giving my time to my family instead. But then my writing started to suffer, and I began to resent my family.

Welcome to the holiday mentality. And I'm not just talking about kids. Think about it. Every December, we hear about toy drives, food drives, pajama collections, fundraisers, donations for troops, the starving, the homeless, the cold and the orphaned. I'm not complaining that so many people exist in these horrible conditions. My gripe is that we only hear about them once a year.

I understand the logic that tapping into people's spirit of giving during the holidays will likely reap the most results. But like an election year, here's what I think happens: everyone gives until it hurts, feeling they are going to fix the ills of the world. But instead of hearing about how much their charity has helped, saved and cured, they just get solicitations from *other* needy charities and causes. And what they feel instead is a sense of thanklessness that morphs into resentment, and the certainty that their help didn't really help at all. So where’s the incentive to keep on giving?

The flaw in this thinking is, as I said, like that of an election year. A candidate comes out asking for our help, our money, our votes. He recognizes all the problems plaguing our country. He rallies us all together, with ideas of how these problems can be fixed. He says yes, we can make a difference. We get behind him, get excited, and feel the potential for real change. We send him our checks; we cast our votes.

And then we go back to our lives, and the “we” in our candidate’s solution is forgotten.

We help out once a year or, in the case of elections, once every four years, and then get mad when we step back and all the problems aren't solved. It's like going to work and giving it your all one day a year and expecting a huge bonus. It's like writing one great book in your twenties and expecting to live off the royalties for the rest of your life.

In short, it's unrealistic.

We cannot affect a sea change in any aspect of our lives unless we work at it every day. The suffering of those who are hungry, cold, orphaned and poor is a constant state of being. So why does our acknowledgment of it only last for one month a year?

Because it’s overwhelming. We all have our own problems to deal with. There is always someone worse off than us. And to wallow in the sorrows of others every day is depressing and emasculating. At least it seems that way when we only think about it once a year.

I’m an artist, so I know from suffering. To make a difference, you have to suffer every day for your cause. It’s not wallowing, it’s allowing the pain to fuel your passion. As a writer, writing every day is a necessity. But many days, it hurts. The blank page stares you down. It keeps you from doing other things that can feel more productive. It makes you dig into places you’d rather not go. But you do it anyway. You have to.

And after a while, something wonderful starts to happen: your writing gets better. The words flow more freely. The ideas take shape more fluently. The daily commitment to suffering begins to make a real difference.

This is how we need to approach the problems of the world. Not by giving once a year and then sitting back and waiting for change. Not by voting every four years and then expecting paradise. And not by giving all of our time to our children and leaving none for ourselves. We need to give daily—of our time, our wallets, our minds—toward improvement. Only by changing how we approach problems can we solve them.

Winter Holidays: The Early Years

2011-12-04T21:27:00.001-05:00

Here I go again, regressing to the 'good old days.' This time, I'm asking you to indulge me as I pull out a blog post from ten years ago. Back then, my now smart-mouthed, wise-cracking 'tween was a young innocent, just grasping the meaning of the holidays for the first time. As I spend this week with my fingers in my ears, walking around the house going, "la la la la I can't hear you!" to tune out his requests for Uber Strike and other M-rated video games, I will wistfully be remembering those days that seem to have happened both yesterday and a lifetime ago. This was originally posted on 12/17/2001.
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This week we celebrated Hanukkah with Jacob. This wasn't the first he'd heard of the holiday though. Last year, to celebrate the differences in my husband's and my backgrounds, our thoughtful neighbors gave Jacob two books for the holidays: My First Christmas and My Hanukkah Alphabet, which we have read all year. But Jacob's interest in letters dictated which book we would read more often, so even in August we were reading about...you guessed it. Hanukkah.

While I'm not crazy about the book's inclusion of several pages about presents, it's a pretty good reference. Even I learned a few things about Hanukkah, and Jacob has all but memorized the entire book. That a two-year-old would know the words menorah, latke, shamash and dreidel is pretty amazing to me, so I figured he was really absorbing what we read.

But he didn't really understand the concept of the holiday being a once a year event, so when it was time to take out the REAL menorah and light the candles, Jacob was psyched. As soon as we put it on the table, he knew what it was.

"That's a menorah!" he smiled proudly.

"Yes it is, and what are we going to put in it? Do you remember?"

"Candles!"

"That's right, and then we're going to light the candles and sing the prayer!"

At this point, I guess Jacob put the concepts of singing and candles together from what he knew and started singing:

"Happy birthday dear Jacob..."

"Well, we are going to sing, but that's a different song. We sing that on your birthday."

We proceeded to pick out candles with colors that looked nice in the menorah. Then Dad lit them and sang the prayer while Jacob watched, mesmerized, and David and I looked at each other, so proud that our little boy was learning about the things that had given my husband such happy memories growing up.

At the end of the prayer, Jacob clapped his hands and said,

"Make a wish! Blow out the candles!"

OK, so we still have to work on the Hanukkah candles vs. birthday candles concept a bit.

The best part of all of this was that each night as we lit the candles, Jacob got excited. He couldn't wait to be with us, to see the candles being lit, to listen to the prayer and then watch as the candles burned down. And it had nothing to do with presents; we didn't even give him a gift until the second to last night. By that time, it was just an extra perk, an added bonus to an already cool holiday ritual.

When we celebrate Christmas next week, we will be surrounded by my family, holiday lights, good music, a warm fire and delicious food. And Jacob is already looking forward to that too. It's nice to see the pure joy that comes from holidays without consumerism, expectations and wish lists. In Jacob's eyes, at least for now, the holiday season is all about family and traditions. As it should be, for all of us.

The Good Old Days

2011-11-07T13:53:00.006-05:00

Go ahead and call me old-fashioned. It's OK, I won't be offended. In fact, I may just take it as a compliment.

Being old-fashioned means, to me, that the things parents are finding amusing these days just don't do it for me. I watched the videos people posted when Jimmy Kimmel suggested to parents 'as a joke' that they lie to their kids, telling them they ate all their Halloween candy, and then film and upload the kids' reactions. And I read the blogs about parenting that people rave about, even when the titles are off-putting to me. But instead of yelling "Hilarious!" and sharing them from my Facebook page, I cringe, and wonder why these things are going viral. The only deduction I can make is that I'm behind the times.

Perhaps I'm just one of those rose-colored-glasses-clad romantics. The ones who long for the days when parents were the grown-ups--the cranky, stodgy, rule-making, always-right guideposts that we loved and hated and wanted to be like and wanted to get the hell away from all at the same time. Maybe they weren't always right, but part of growing up was figuring that out along the way. For the most part, their principles were the foundation for the choices we made in life, like it or not. Things my VERY old-fashioned parents taught me by example include:

* Don't smoke. Even though I do, it's bad for you.
* Don't talk meanly about people. You have no idea what their life is like, and it's most likely a lot worse than yours.
* Everyone deserves a chance. Don't judge before you get to know a person.
* Don't curse. It's vulgar and makes you sound stupid.
* Your children are watching you and learning from you, mistakes and all. Always make them your priority and do your best so you won't have to apologize for anything later.
* Children are fragile--they trust you to be kind and honest, and keep their hearts safe. That's a huge responsibility, so don't mess with it.

It just seems like everyone who's looking for their 15 minutes of fame is going for the shock value, the thing that will be most controversial. Thanks to the likes of Lindsay Lohan and the Kardashians, sex is no longer a valid category for this because we've seen it all.

That leaves the kids.

Being cruel or mean, bullying your kids, abusing their trust "for fun" or taking advantage of their naiivete "as a joke" for a good laugh seems to be catching on. Rather than helping our kids grow up into kind, caring and mature adults (read: stodgy old rule-makers like us), we are instead turning into immature clowns so we can get attention, and all at our kids' expense.

The old saying, "why don't you pick on someone your own size?" comes to mind.

Again, I use the term "old". This is because I'm starting to wonder if there is a connection between our fear of growing old (notice I didn't say responsible) and our need to act childish and immature, to wield our power over the young, regardless of the consequences. Maybe Obnoxious is The New 40.

My hope is that I'm not alone. Based on a lot of the feedback I've seen on this type of behavior, there is some balance. Many love it, many despise it. But there are those in the middle who say, "This is so wrong yet so funny." I think of this group as the bystanders at the bullying event, the ones who know it's wrong but are afraid to speak up, so have somehow justified the behavior in their own mind (it's funny; at least it's not me; the kid will get over it.)

To me, the most interesting are the comments from folks abroad who choose to chime in. They mention the "complete decay of Western countries and their disappearing values," and note that "It is no wonder so many children grow up to be such screwed up adults."

What these outnumbered, ignored or combatted comments give me is hope. Hope that I am not the only person who sees this parenting slide as a bad thing; that there are more of us willing to stand up to the bullying-disguised-as-parenting stunts and condemn them.

It takes a village to raise a child, and a mob can just as easily prevent it from happening. Here's hoping we can dispel the mob before it's too late, that there's still a chance to parent our kids like they did in the old days, and raise them to be moral, trusting and kind adults. Heaven knows we could use some.

It's Not Me; It's Them

2011-11-03T12:10:00.001-04:00

OK, maybe someone needs to tell me to calm down.

What you may not be able to read in this picture is the label on this "prescription" so I'll write it out for you:

Harry Hypochondriac
SKITTLES TABLET

1 TAB ORALLY DAILY (FOR DEMONSTRATION PURPOSES)

DOOLITTLE, DR. MD

Now, I am a mom who has countless books and leaflets floating through my house about how to talk to your kids about drugs: why drugs are bad; what they can do to you; why kids shouldn't use them; why kids shouldn't trust friends who offer them drugs even if they are friends they would normally trust; how drugs can look harmless, or like candy or maybe even taste good. Need I go on?

OK. So one day, THIS thing shows up in my house. At first glance, it's amusing. Dr. Doolittle, ha ha. Harry Hypochondriac, ha ha. Take one a day for 30 days, and they are candy, ha ha.

But here's the thing: they were given to my kid. I'm not going to say when or by whom because this blog isn't really the place for that. But I do want to ask, "Seriously? Are middle schoolers really the right target for such a giveaway? Or did no one give it any thought?"

I'm thinking the latter, and I'm thinking that's a big part of the problem with many of our teen issues these days.

I'm embarrassed to say how many people I know who use drugs today, either recreationally or for self-medicating purposes. In every case, the drugs in question are illegal. This is why such a gimmicky giveaway is not surprising to me: I think adults take drug use much too lightly in this country.

Most would likely tell me to calm down--that I'm not just over but über-reacting--because apparently I'm imagining a connection between the feelgood nature of sugar and drugs. But a recent study actually says I'm not.

We also live in a world where gimmicks get you noticed, where there is so much advertising and so many avertorials and infomercials that even adults can't tell what's marketing and what's news anymore. This is why I try to stay out of the television loop; to keep my perspective. When I do pass by it, and frequently hear a commercial for a new pill, I can't help but laugh at all of the possible side-effects that are listed at the end.

'Can't sleep? Take this pill and your problem will be solved. You may suffer from anxiety, depression, anger, pain and suicidal thoughts as a result, your car will break down, your house will burn to the ground and your spouse will leave you, but at least you'll be able to sleep.'

Really? Do people even listen to that part, or does it come off as an, 'oh, by the way, our lawyers made us say this' add-on?

I laugh, but probably because it scares me. My kids see these commercials. What do they think of them? What message do they hear?

Maybe I am crazy-aware. But I constantly try to see things from a different perspective so I can hopefully show my kids that not everything is what it seems. If nothing else, they need to stop and think about the product first. My job as a parent is to make that blurry line between ads and news as clear for them as I possibly can. How else can they make good, well-informed choices?

Pet Therapy

2011-10-08T21:30:00.000-04:00

We've all heard of pet therapy for children, the elderly, handicapped and others. Animals are an incredible source of comfort, calm and unconditional affection. But what about when your pet is the one who needs therapy?

Sure, we've all heard of the dog whisperer, the man who can help train you to control your dog's anxiety, hyperactivity, aggression, fear and more. But when your dog suffers from low self-esteem, things aren't as black and white. It's not like our beagle, Flash, was doing anything so drastic as stealing or using drugs. But when he first came to live with us, he was definitely not happy. It wasn't just that he was depressed that his beloved owner had just died--the only "dad" he'd known since he was a puppy. We could tell that he just didn't feel good about himself.

First off, our house rules were different from his old home's. No begging is allowed at the table. No people food except as a special treat, and only when we distribute said treats. No dogs allowed in the bedrooms or on the furniture. No using the indoors as your personal toilet. This was a lot to adjust to and learn. A total lifestyle change, really. It would require trial and error, and commitment on his part and ours. Unfortunately for Flash, the occasional (OK, frequent) disciplinary action was necessary. At every infraction, my husband would sternly tell Flash, "NO! Bad dog!" and Flash would growl back and snap, defensive, uncertain and confused. Like a spoiled child, he didn't know how to react to the word "no" because he'd never heard it before. So he'd pitch a fit.

It was frustrating for all of us, and it made us wonder: would he ever learn? Would he ever be a playful, happy dog?

The truth is, in Flash's old house he did what he wanted, with no consequences. So even if his owners were displeased with his behavior, they didn't express it strongly enough to motivate Flash to change. As a result, like any child who is overindulged and allowed to run wild and unattended, Flash didn't feel proud of himself, because he was never praised by the people he loved most. He did what he wanted, but it didn't get him what he needed.

In truth it took about six months to reach a breakthrough with Flash. But when we took him on vacation with us, he suddenly seemed to understand that we were his family, he belonged with us, and we expected certain things of him. When he's a good dog, we praise him excessively, and he loves it. Any setbacks cause me to withhold belly scratches and goofy baby talk from him, and he really seems saddened by it. Ironically, our conditional love has taught him how to behave well; training Flash to stay off the couch was just the therapy he needed.

Today, he's a happy, well-behaved dog. He pays attention and listens, he responds to our commands, and he knows and follows the rules. And when he makes a bad choice--like heading for the garbage bag that's left unattended for more than four seconds--a stern tone is all that's needed to cause him to stop and slink away, aware that he just missed getting into trouble.

We certainly didn't train Flash by whispering. Quite the contrary. If he could talk, he'd probably call me Old Yeller. But then, I'm willing to bet, he'd thank me for setting him straight.

Quiche Me, You Fool

2011-09-20T11:09:00.015-04:00

I have a love/hate relationship with rain. OK, maybe love is too strong a word. I know rain is necessary. But because I am a dog owner, and the type of person who gets a chill if someone even utters the word "snow," waking up to rain and the knowledge that I have to walk the dogs is just downright painful. Griping and moaning, I drag the unwilling animals out of the house with two leashes in one hand and an umbrella in the other, sternly urging them at every pause to 'get on with it' so we can head back to the house as soon as possible.

And while I hate having to go out in the rain, with all the negative feelings that it incites in me, I actually have a great appreciation for it too. Because once I get back from walking the dogs on a rainy day, I dry them down, kick off my boots and put on my apron.

While many would consider rain to be a 'paperwork' day, when they can force themselves to sit down without guilt and go through bills and filing that have piled up, its cold and unappealing nature essentially shoves me out of the office and into the kitchen. Since it's the dark and cold that I loathe, the kitchen is my haven on these days, and cooking saves me.

Many times it doesn't even matter what I cook. A big pot of soup, some stew and biscuits or maybe a roast--nothing is ruled out. If I haven't figured out a dinner plan yet, I'll shoot for lunch. Today it was ham, cheese, spinach and tomato quiche with a homemade crust: one for me, one for the freezer. (OK, I'll share.) Since it didn't take very long, I'm thinking of making some pancakes to have on hand for the boys' breakfasts during the week, especially since they both have colds and sore throats now. (Ain't that always the way with the first month of school?) Finally, I'll have to truly christen the new oven with a batch of chocolate chip cookies.

For years I've wondered why my love of cooking swings to both ends of the spectrum: some days I just want to order every meal out, and others I want to eschew every other obligation and just cook for hours.

I'm starting to think that rushing to get something on the table that everyone will eat, while feeling I have other things that need tending to, is really the culprit behind those days I hate to cook. Knowing that I can't spend the time and creative energy to make it warm enough--in my kitchen and heart--to produce quality results is stressful and disheartening. It makes cooking feel like work.

So with winter here already (OK, maybe not technically, but 40-degree nights are, in my mind, winter), it's time to start planning some meals to really put my new kitchen to the test. And maybe with enough practice, I'll stumble upon some dishes that even my kids will be willing to try. If not, at least I'll be warm and dry and having fun trying.

The Outsourced Diet

2011-09-14T21:50:00.013-04:00

I would like to thank my husband for keeping me thin. Because yes, he is responsible. How, you may ask, is this possible?

Did he buy me a gym membership?

Does he exercise with me every day?

Does he cook me healthful and nutritious meals?

Or is it just the pure joy of being married to him that keeps me not only thin, but rich, happy and wrinkle-free too?

None of the above.

My husband keeps me thin by doing the grocery shopping. All of it.

"Wow!" you must be thinking. "How great! You must be thrilled that he does all the grocery shopping! One more huge task you don't have to deal with!"

Yes, I concede I am very happy to not worry about the grocery shopping and all of the flyer-studying, coupon-clipping and price-calculating that the job entails. Really. I pretty much hate math more than anything. Except maybe cleaning toilets.

But he does that too.

So yes, I also concede that not having to clean the toilets keeps me very happy (though the job is so nauseating that if I *did* have to do it, that would probably keep me pretty thin as well).

But I digress, and while I've listed some of the ways my husband keeps me happy, I haven't yet gotten to the point of exactly how his doing the grocery shopping actually keeps me thin. And so the truth comes out:

He buys lousy desserts.

Now, if you were to poll my children--or even my husband--on this, you'd get a very different answer. But this is my blog, so here, it's all about me. And to me, mint chocolate chip ice cream ranks right up there with Ben & Jerry's new flavor, Schweddy Balls on the appealing-flavor-meter. But since that's the fave of all the boys in the house (read: everyone who lives here but me), that's the flavor that rules in our freezer.

Fine. What about some cookies? Surely there are cookies?

Yes, there are cookies. If you could call them that. Like the mint ice cream, the cookie that comes home is the one that pleases the majority. So for those of you keeping track, #3 on the icky desserts list is:

Mallomars.

I'm not picky. I'd be happy with some Dark Chocolate M&Ms, Double Stuff Oreos, Ben & Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk and maybe the occasional bag of Hershey Kisses. I'd even stash them so no one else would have to see or eat them.

But those of you who can appreciate the common denominator in these options (read: you women out there) also understand that I can't complain. Because the reason I'm thin is that these things *aren't* in my house. Like, ever.

And since it really only irks me once a month or so, I'll let it go again. At least for today.

Secret Love

2011-09-09T19:48:00.013-04:00

The women I know who have daughters are always telling me about the drama in the lives of girls: friends who aren't being friendly anymore; who said what about whom; crying outbursts over seemingly nothing. And every time I hear one of these stories, I am secretly happy--again--to have only sons. They don't wear their hearts on their sleeves. They say what they mean. Everything is pretty much black and white--very little middle ground. In essence, you know where you stand with boys, and emotion rarely gets in the way.

I thought this was wonderful. Until yesterday.

On the first day of school, I put little notes of encouragement into each of my sons' lunch boxes. A little pick me up from home to help with the anxiety of starting a new school year, I figured. Jacob came home and hugged me, thanking me for the note. Ben didn't say anything, but his note came back home with him in his lunch box. I left it in there for day two, just in case he had missed it the first day. I even opened it a little so he could see it was a card with a message inside. It came home again. Finally, I asked him if he had seen the note I sent him.

"Oh, yeah, I saw it. Um, Mom, please don't put those in my lunch anymore."

I'm sorry. What?

"Why not, Ben? Didn't you like it?" I asked, trying to hide the feeling of having been punched in the stomach.

Then Jacob piped up, perhaps to save my feelings in case Ben decided to be honest.

"It's OK, Mom, I've got this," he said. "Ben," he said, turning to his brother, "just do what I do. When you see the note, just pretend you're looking for something in your lunch bag and read it without taking it out. Then you don't have to be embarrassed."

Embarrassed? What? Jacob too? At this point, after having told all my friends about the love that boys have for their mothers, how much better it is to have boys than girls, I was speechless. I had to leave the room.

After a while, I realized that I couldn't take it personally. Kids are going to be embarrassed by their parents' expressions of care and love, regardless of whether they are boys are girls. It's not me. It's them.

Once I accepted this--that Ben was only rejecting my expression of love while among his peers, and not actually rejecting my love --I felt much better. Plus, Ben accepted his brother's advice with grace and was, mercifully, silent on the subject afterward.

Whether he would still welcome a love note, now that he has the reading tip from his brother, is unknown. I'm OK now, but I think I'll wait a little while before asking if he still wants me to refrain from sending them.

Like a year or two.

The Irony of the Hurricane

2011-08-30T21:01:00.015-04:00

Last week, our area was hit with an earthquake, something I don't recall happening in almost 25 years. The impact was laughable. Folks made jokes about 'rebuilding' and posted pictures on the Internet of their tipped patio chairs and flowerpots. I never even felt the quake; I heard about it from my husband, at work in NJ, and later on Facebook. I felt like the last one picked for a team in gym class: completely left out.

Perhaps Mother Nature is a quiet stalker on Facebook, one who doesn't like being mocked. That's my theory, because a couple of days later, she proceeded to trump the earthquake with Hurricane Irene, who barreled up the East coast like a woman scorned. I don't know who was left laughing on Facebook once Irene cleared out, though, because I lost my phone, Internet and cable television connections for five days as a result.

Rather than wallow (which would have been very easy to do, now being 'cut off' from the world, technologically speaking), I tried to look on the bright side. We still had power. We had running and heated water. We could cook, shower and use the computer. We just became very localized. After a couple of days, the kids got bored and the roads were cleared, so we headed over to the library once they got power restored (I called ahead from my cell phone to make sure). They have puzzles, games and of course plenty to read, plus I thought it would be nice to see how the building and librarians fared in the storm.

Little did I know what a surprise awaited me.

I saw more patrons at the library than I've seen in all my years in this town. I ran into friends I haven't seen all summer. I heard the word 'discombobulated' more times in one day than I think I've ever heard in my life.

Everyone, it seems, had become unmoored by their forced 'disconnect' from the virtual world. No one knew what to do about it, so they headed out into town to find others and share their experiences.

After leaving the library, I headed to the local pizza parlor, where I ran into three more families I haven't seen in a while, and we also got a chance to catch up while our lunch cooked. On the way home, I congratulated my children.

"For what?" they wanted to know.

"For being lucky enough to step back in time," I told them.

"Huh?" they said, as they often do when I try to teach them something.

"Today, you guys got a chance to see what life was like before the Internet, just like it was when I was a kid," I said. "We talked with our friends from town by running into them in various places around town, instead of on Facebook."

I wanted to add, "welcome to the real world," but realized that they might then think the Internet was connected again.

Now that things are pretty much back to normal, I haven't seen anyone laughing about the hurricane on Facebook. People's homes flooded; many lost power, and some still haven't gotten it back. The storm may cause folks to regard the power of Mother Nature with a bit more awe and humility going forward. But I can only wonder if it will make any of us work on becoming a little less dependent on technology from now on. I know I'm going to try.

As for my friends, I guess I'll read about it on Facebook.

Paring Season

2011-08-21T15:16:00.012-04:00

There's something about the end of summer, the return home from vacation and the promise of structure soon to be restored by the routine of the school year that makes me, frankly, insane. Not because I don't welcome September with open arms. Quite the contrary: the two weeks at the end of August are riddled with bored children, messy rooms, last minute scrambles for playdates and day trips, and the final fraying of my nerves.

Clearly, I should be living in Florida. Not just because it's warm year round, or because the cost of living is a fraction of that of New York, but because in Florida, school starts tomorrow.

It's not like I'm uptight, one of those women whose houses look like children don't even live in them--like NO ONE lives in them--and can't bear to have a dried flower petal out of place. Truly, my summer has had its share of chaos. The first month consisted of various camp programs that changed each week. The changes had me driving all over the county so my kids could parttake in fun and engaging summer activities. The next four weeks encompassed rearranging my living room, emptying my kitchen into boxes into said living room, and then opening the door to contractors every day to have our kitchen remodelled. Let's just say that carrying dishes up and downstairs to wash them each day was less than fun. Finally, we spent over a week in Vermont, filling our days with shopping, excursions, touring and mountain activities. The kids were exhausted. The dogs were exhausted. We're all exhausted.

Yet all I want to do is rip apart every room and organize it. I want to get rid of the junk, the things we don't use and have no space for. I want to rotate the summer clothes into bins in the attic, bring out the comforters, change the tapestries and curtains and organize the magazines. It sounds like a lot of work for someone so exhausted, I know.

The only way I can explain this sudden burst of energy is to tell you that the focus is the only thing pulling me forward. To stand here surrounded by Nerf guns and sponge bullets, teddy bears and Goodwill donations, four days of newspaper sections and trays of perler beads littering my dining room table is causing a Sybil-esque reaction: my brain is escaping its present surroundings to go where it needs to in order to survive.

It happens every summer, this need for clearing, paring and straightening. A mom can only take constant disorganization for so long. And thanks to New York State's education schedule, in my case it's two weeks longer than I need it to be. So I will make lists and schedules, shop online for baskets and containers, and collect pictures of simplified homes from magazines to soothe my discomfited soul. And while I'm at it, maybe I'll take a look at real estate offerings in Florida. Just, you know, for fun.

Not Yer Mama's Salad

2011-07-28T10:06:00.002-04:00

I love recipes. Cookbooks, websites, television shows--any source is welcome, but unlike my husband, I don't like to just "wing it" when it comes to cooking. In baking, of course, following a recipe is crucial, because you are dealing with chemistry. This means that if you add baking powder instead of baking soda, too much salt or not enough oil, you are going to be very disappointed with your final result. Though mixing flavors in dinner dishes is not quite as unforgiving, my husband is much better at it than I. Perhaps because I am a baker at heart, I don't like to experiment with my cooking.

One would think that when it comes to salad, a recipe would be unnecessary. There's no heat element involved, and not much variation of ingredients to work with, so why bother following instructions? Iceberg or romaine lettuce, celery, cucumber and a big ol' tomato. I grew up viewing salad as a peripheral--a boring but necessary add-on to dinner.

But then my kitchen disappeared, and kind friends took pity on us and invited us over for dinner. When they brought a big salad bowl filled with lime-cilantro chicken, provolone cheese and avocado to the table, followed by a colorful, spicy chicken salad topped with crisp tortilla strips, suddenly salad seemed like a great idea. When I raved to my friend about how delicious her salads were, she pulled out a cookbook. OK, maybe "cook"book isn't a completely accurate description. But she told me she swears by it, and as an avid cookbook user with one or two particular books that I refer to again and again, I knew exactly what she meant. As I flipped through the beautiful photos in Raising the Salad Bar, all my memories of iceberg lettuce, cucumbers and hothouse tomatoes flew out of my head. This was definitely not my mom's salad world.

Fresh fruits and vegetables are readily available in my area. Herbs and spices are growing in my garden. I have more flavors of vinegar than you could shake a stick at. Inspired, I decided maybe it was time to start experimenting.

The best part is that, though I love vegetables, I can't see myself as a strict vegetarian just yet. This book of recipes shows me how to incorporate grilled beef, salmon, chicken, shrimp and other proteins into interesting, beautiful and most importantly, delicious salads. No longer an afterthought, salad is about to become a meal staple--if not the meal itself--in my house. Sorry Mom. Not to give your iceberg lessons the cold shoulder, but it looks like my salads are about to grow up.

Flying By the Seat of My Cookie Sheets

2011-07-22T10:13:00.012-04:00

They say you never really know what you've got until it's gone. But what they don't talk about is all the residual things you lose along with it. Anyone who has lived through (meaning lived in your house during) a kitchen remodelling project can understand what I mean.

We knew the kitchen would be gone--no stove, no sink, no countertops, no peace from the construction and, of course, no money. But we left out the toaster oven, dug out plastic utensils and paper plates, and filled the fridge with cold cuts. We may not be able to cook, but we still have to feed all the animals.

This all looked good on paper. But when I tried to apply it to day-to-day reality, it lost some of its fine, organized, two-dimensional sheen.

Here's what they don't tell you about a kitchen remodelling job: you have a lot more, er, stuff in your kitchen--however small your kitchen may seem--than you realize. You've just gotten really good at storing/hiding it. When you have to remove and relocate it all, while keeping portions of it somewhat accessible, you're also going to lose a lot of space in your living room, dining room, playroom, family room and mind. Because no matter how well you plan, all that visual clutter in your house can't help but clutter your mind and cause the occasional freak-out. Whether it's kids, dogs, Mom or Dad, someone will very likely be freaking out at any given moment during such a project.

Trying to be smart about it, we decided to do this during summer, when the kids were out of school and camp. What we had figured on was eating out occasionally, grilling on the porch often and eating lots of salads and sandwiches.

The same "they" who say all those smart things also say that life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. In our case, we made our plans but didn't account for a mid-July heat wave and someone staying in our guest room. Did I mention the frequent freak-outs?

A very smart friend said to me that suffering through to a new kitchen is a very high-class problem to have. And she's right. So I'm trying stay positive. Just think of how efficient this is turning out to be! Three adults, two children, two dogs, 100-degree weather and contractors finding hidden surprises at every turn (electrical, plumbing and the like)! How else could we build so much character at one time? May as well kill as many sprits as we can with one stone countertop, right?

Suffice it to say the "before" pictures are looking better and better, as we sit firmly entrenched in the middle of the "during" stage, all eagerly looking forward to the "after."

The Telltale Stomach

2011-07-15T16:37:00.000-04:00

Much like raising children, there's nothing in the world like the unconditional love that you get from a pet. All you have to do is feed it, water it, pay for its doctor visits, house it and let it sleep in your bed it will love you forever. How could it not? Because of you, that lucky little guy will never have to figure out how to carry money without pockets or thumbs.

On top of all this, one would think that feeding a dog 'people food' like chicken lo mein, beef ribs and lasagna instead of just basic, dry kibble would secure you a place not just in Heaven but in your dog's heart as well. In fact, he'd likely be ready to go to the ends of the earth for you, bite a smelly, dirty person for you, even lie for you if it came down to that.

Apparently, you'd be wrong.

The life I've described is not a theoretical one, but apparently the very life Flash lived before he came to us. And when the poop came down, Flash didn't lie for his amazing owners who had treated him as if he were one of them.

After being told by the vet that Flash was overweight and had a terrible diet, and that his mom and dad needed to stop feeding him from their table, they agreed they would. The next time he went for a visit, the vet scolded Flash's mom yet again, as the pooch either didn't look good or hadn't lost weight: something told him that Flash was still on a strict people-food diet.

His mom proceeded to look the doctor in the eye and tell him with the straightest face that, "oh no, we don't feed him lasagna any more. We know we're not supposed to."

In the next moment, something happened. Maybe Flash decided it was now or never if he was ever going to get help obtaining the svelte figure he wanted. Or perhaps he felt that lying, especially to a doctor, was just plain wrong. We will never know the impetus, only the resulting action.

While his mom's words were still hanging in the air, Flash puked up a stomach-full of undigested lasagna right there on the vet's floor.

I came by this story honestly, from a neighbor and dear friend of Flash's former mom, and the mom was the one who had told it to the neighbor.

Of course, I had to laugh as I imagined how many shades of red the mom must have turned at that moment. And I also imagine that she said not a word to the vet, nor he to her. What could be said? Flash had ended the conversation.

I love the story, and the lesson that--as with parenting children--we should always be very careful about what we say and do, especially when it comes to little white lies. Honesty will win in the end, and whether it's out of the mouths of babes or the stomachs of dogs, when we lie, the innocents we care for will be the ones to give us away. Even if they can't speak.

Random Waffles

2011-07-13T09:17:00.012-04:00

Jacob has been gone to sleepaway camp for only two days, and already there's been a change in Benjamin. Perhaps it's because his brother isn't around to criticize him all the time (that sibling rivalry's a biotch), or perhaps Ben just appreciates the reduction of noise (Jacob does have a tendency to talk, sing, yell, hum, fill-in-the-blank-with-any-other-insistent-consistent-noise pretty constantly). Whatever it is, Ben has become much easier to see, and seems to be revelling in his ability to be seen without the smokescreen of the dynamic with his brother. Because, let's face it, when they are in competition for my attention, Ben is always painted as the villain, the hitter, the crybaby or the one who started it. It's tough to be yourself when someone is forever preceding you into the room and announcing, "Ladies and gentlemen, The Bad Guy."

To say that Ben has been a model child this week would not be an understatement. In fact, he's been so great that I could tell immediately when he was tired or hungry--the two triggers that often send him spiralling. We went out to a drive-in movie on Monday night with some friends. The theater is one of the few left in our area, and it was all kinds of fun. Sitting outdoors on a blanket, staying up late, eating junkfood surrounded by girls (Ben was the only boy in the party) and seeing a new flick made for an exciting night. So much so that he didn't even fall asleep on the trip home, keeping his eyes open until I tucked him in at 11:45pm.

I killed the fun the next morning when I woke him up at 7:30 to go to camp. As is typical for Ben when he doesn't want to get up, he went into full turtle mode: drawing his head and feet underneath the covers, he balled himself up in the middle of the bed and groaned. I asked if he wanted me to make him waffles for breakfast (to entice him into getting vertical) and he answered 'yes, please.'

Ten minutes later, waffles on the table, I returned to his room to let him know they would get cold if he didn't get out there soon.

"Mom, I don't WANT waffles!" he said rather loudly.

"Honey, I just asked you if you wanted waffles and you said 'yes, please.' That's why I made them."

"No I didn't! You just made RANDOM WAFFLES! I don't want waffles, I want cereal!" he contested.

This was shaping up to be an argument I couldn't possibly win, so I told him he could have cereal and left the room. I was tired too, and the last thing I could take at that moment was an accusation of being something even worse than a random-waffle-making mother.

What happened next was, for someone else's house, probably perfectly normal. But for my house, it was completely unexpected and perfectly lovely. In short:

David ate the waffles.
Ben ate his cereal.
David went to work.
Ben went to camp.

And that was it. Of course, if you don't live in my house, you can't fully appreciate what a momentous occurrence this was. In short:

There were no tears.
There was no screaming.
There were no ultimatums.
Ben ate breakfast.
Ben got dressed.
We got out the door on time.

Even if the first breakfast had gone to the dog, it would have been a small price to pay for such great strides, in my humble opinion.

Credit the absence of one child or the magic of random waffles. Whatever it was, I'm just praying it won't evaporate at the end of the week. Maybe I should consider expanding to an entire random meal plan....

The Inconsistent Gardener

2011-07-01T16:24:00.030-04:00

One of the many things I love about summer is my flower garden. Mind you, I use the word "garden" very loosely. By standard definition, mine barely qualifies. Besides being small, misshapen and hilly, it lacks symmetry, reason and defined edges. The weeds don't seem to mind any of this, as they congregate there en masse quite regularly. And I spent the first year just clearing out old, crowding trees, which my husband replaced with a couple of smaller, flowering bushes moved from elsewhere in the yard.

But since gardens are a lot like children, I like to focus on the strong points, hoping that encouragement and optimism will help mine to thrive. Plus, this helps me to downplay my own weak points.

Being a woman, I exercise my right to change my mind all the time. When it comes to what I put in my closet, that's not such a good thing because it means new clothes are required every season. I also like things a certain way (read: I'm controlling). Happily, gardens have flexible, inexpensive options for people like me. Specifically, annuals. Last year, the first year that I actually planted anything, I was all about orange and yellow. Daffodils, marigolds, snapdragons, lilies, we had lots of variety with very few colors. I didn't mind though--it all went together nicely.

This year, I was feeling more daring, and more purplish-blue. Maybe I craved a wardrobe change that depressed me with thoughts of its prohibitive cost. Or perhaps the long, wet spring built a sunless mood in me that transitioned to my flower choices. Regardless, this year the palette is cool and wide. Purples, blues, pinks and fuscias have all made appearances since spring via hyacinth, irises, azaleas and tulips. Throw in some raspberry bushes, onion grass, wild strawberries and roses, and you can see the chaos in my garden has begun to parallel the chaos inside my house. Maybe I'm just getting older, but neither of these things seems to bother me the way it might have years ago.

In the three years I've worked on this little patch of land, I've learned a few things.

1) Wear gloves.
2) Gardening pants work better than shorts.
3) Clashing colors are allowed.
4) Plan to plant and mulch in spring to prevent weeds; don't wait till they've taken over in June and try to pull them out.
5) The gardener cares more than anyone else.

Today I learned that the hydrangea, my favorite of all my flowers, has a tendency to take over a garden. All summer long, the bush's flowers are a riot of color--white, green, pink, purple, yellow and blue, and the blossoms vary in location and size as much as in color. And it's not an annual. What will this mean if I change my color scheme next year? Thanks to lesson number three, not a thing.

In my 12 years of parenting, I've learned a little bit more than what my garden has taught me. But all those lessons have also been hands-on.

Despite the mix and mess, my ignorance and fumblings, my little corner garden makes me smile. And maybe if I'm lucky, and keep working optimistically, it will grow into something worth sharing. Like my children, it doesn't seem to mind my mistakes. It loves the attention and care, gets on well despite the weeds, tests and teaches me, and makes me smile every day.

"I think the true gardener, the older (s)he grows, should more and more develop a humble, grateful and uncertain spirit." ~Reginald Farrer, In a Yorkshire Garden, 1909

Amen, brother.

How Does Your Dinner Grow?

2011-06-02T16:37:00.014-04:00

Ben eats things from our yard. Not bugs. He outgrew that a few years ago. Basil, mint, raspberries, strawberries, tomatoes, onion grass, pretty much anything he finds, smells and thinks might taste interesting is an option. Just need to clear the non-poison factor with mom and dad and he's a happy camper. I think he was a rabbit in a past life.

Of course, nothing makes me happier. In fact, we've expanded our garden to include that of our generous neighbors, whose expansive property houses such a bounty of fresh produce that it could make the local market blush. Lettuce, tomatoes, squash, peppers, beans and herbs aplenty. Optimistic rabbits flood their lawn, plotting in clusters how to get over or under the fence. They look at me jealously when I stroll over to pick what I need and nothing more, wondering what I've got that they haven't, besides dinner.

Our apple trees are a bit crabby, but Ben doesn't mind. The fruit is tart and juicy, and squishes up his face with each bite. But tent caterpillars out of reach are threatening to overtake them now, so I'm researching options for replacing them. Shade, pines, deer and rabbits, coyotes, foxes and other woodsy creatures already threaten our salad buffet of hostas, lilies, berries and apples, and Ben almost resents the competition.

But not really.

He is a lover of nature, all nature, after all. To nurture and care for our dogs and our garden, and revel in the results he can reap--love and affection, fresh munchies--seems to be his strongest trait. Perhaps he was a farmer in a past life, or a chef, or even a dad. Whichever, I love to watch him grow, and grow, eat and thrive.

What parent wouldn't?

Concession (Or) Stand

2011-05-27T21:40:00.017-04:00

Life is hard. It doesn't matter where you're from or whether you were born with a silver spoon or a wooden nickel in your mouth, your life is just a different kind of hard from the next guy's. But in the end, it's all relative.

What makes the difference is how we handle the roughest aspects of life. Much of what determines this is personality, but credit (or blame) also has to be given to parents, for the tools we give our children in everyday life. For example.

You're at a little league baseball game with your reluctant 8-year-old. Getting him into his uniform involved a lot of yelling and whining, and not just on his part. Getting him to the practice was, shall we say, a challenge. Getting him out of the car and onto the field caused the two of you to 'have words' and some of those words included, "I hate you, Mom."

now that you have the backstory, we'll move onto the setting. It's about 87 degrees outside. You're late for the game (see previous paragraph). Your son's uniform includes knee-high tube socks, long polyester pants, a t-shirt and hat, baseball mitt and, er, insurance that I may someday be blessed with grandchildren. Yes, the 8-year-old has to wear a cup. We are sweating before we reach the field. The amazingly patient coach is urging your child into left field, the grassy area that has the most bugs to watch because, really, what the heck else would you do if you were an 8-year-old boy standing in a grassy field? Watch for flies (from home plate)? Yes, well mine looks for ants by his shoes.

So when a bouncing grounder ends up hitting him in the knee and the tears begin to flow, I stand up. the coach heads out there and tries to get my son to shake it off, makes sure there's no blood, he can bend his knee, walk around, etc. All good, no need to call an ambulance. The inning continues.

Once the team heads back to the dugout and I am summoned to see how he's doing, my son asks me, "Mom, can I go home?"

"Oh, Sweetie, the team needs you here with them."

"Then can I have an ice cream after, since I got hurt?"

Ummm...

I have to say right here that if this had been my firstborn, I would very likely have reminded him that a mom's kisses are MUCH better for healing injuries than ice cream, even if it is ice cream at 11:00 in the morning. It's close, but kisses are actually better.

And he would have very likely said, "OK" and taken two or maybe even three of those kisses and been fine. More likely, he would never have asked the question at all.

But this is my second-born, my every-aspect-of-my-life-is-so-very-hard, please-can-we-make-it-a-little-less-hard-with-sugar? boy. And one would think, having had this conversation more than one or two (million) times before, that he would know the answer, because he lives in the same house with the same rules as his older brother.

The problem is that he also knows his mother.

In fact, he knows his mother so well that he would never ask such a question of his father, because his father is not nearly as malleable when it comes to such things. That's a nice way of saying his father's not a pushover.

The day I realized I had in fact become one of those mothers who caves to her child's requests to avoid a fight, a scene, a screaming match that sucks all the life out of her, it was too late. And I knew it was too late because I almost didn't care that this is what had become of me.

But when I sat down to think about which came first, the chicken or the screamer, I realize the answer was probably 'the screamer.' Because I could handle resistence from my older boy: it was half-hearted, short-lived and manageable. And of course, his brother has been the complete opposite, so I was not only ill-prepared for his persistence, I was even less ready for the heights to which he would raise the stakes. A meltdown over a video game? A crying fit because it's not dessert night? Seriously? Handling this did not fall within my job experience.

The good news is that, though I recognize how I have been perpetuating the situation, I also said that I *almost* didn't care that this is what has become of me. And although 'almost' usually only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, it is enough to keep me in the realm of logical thinking. That niggling feeling that continuing this behavior on my part is only going to cause one of us to move out before my son turns 13 just never goes away. It's my reminder that things are only going to get worse, so what better time than now to try to turn the situation around?

"No, Ben," I told him. "No ice cream in the morning. We can always have ice cream after dinner tonight. Now let me take a look at that knee."

This behavior has been going on since Ben was born, so it's pretty ingrained in both of us now. But if standing up a little harder and longer than I ever had to with his brother will help tip things back into balance--where I'm the boss and he has to listen--I'm willing to give it a try, for both our sakes.

After a big "Awwwww!" of protest, Ben actually let the matter drop.

I exhaled, thankful that I could still make a stand, and that Ben was still young enough to accept it without trying to push me over. Maybe there's hope for us yet.

The 17 Day Crankpot

2011-05-15T15:27:00.000-04:00

There's a first time for everything. Sometimes, that's a good thing. First crush, first chocolate milkshake, first kiss. But sometimes a first is reached out of necessity, desperation or fear. In my case, it's a combination of these three things that has brought about a first for me this week.

I'm forty-something years old, and am on my very first diet.

I know, I know, poor me. But think about it from my perspective. All my life, I've loved starch and dairy. Lived on it, in fact, even way before college. Seriously, I'd have made a great French woman. Every kind of bread, any kind of cheese, I was all over it, not to mention pasta, noodles, macaroni and anything of that ilk. I drove my mother insane, much as my son does to me now, by eschewing all "food" remotely produce-related, picking apart every meal that contained anything green, and drinking up to a gallon of milk myself each week. I wouldn't be surprised if my parents put me through college with the money they made buying stock in Ronzoni.

Despite my starchoholism, my weight has never been an issue. Good genes, high metabolism and a bit of luck kept me bony-thin till my 20s, with only the occasional spread. These rare shifts came, coincidentally, during stressful points in my life, with the stress leading to greater indulgences in red wine and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. But a couple of months of daily mountain-bike riding and I was back down to my old size. Ah, to be in my 20s again.

In recent months, I found my jeans fitting tighter and tighter, and then, much to my chagrin, not at all. Donning my 'fat jeans' and looser fitting kahkis, I attributed the change to immobility, stomach problems and hormones. But one day I stepped on the scale and found that I had gained 10 pound of hormones. I was smacked out of my denial.

Having no money (or desire) to go out and buy all new clothes, I decided to try the 17-Day Diet, a regimen two friends had recently started. One had lost 20 pounds, the other ten, in a matter of weeks. I had nothing to lose but weight, so I bought the book.

Day one was fueled by lots of salads, green tea and optimism. I followed the book to a 'T' and went to bed a little hungry, but confident.

Day two was mostly the same menu, but with a few tweaks to mix things up a bit. Cottage cheese instead of plain yogurt; salmon instead of chicken. Lots of water and green tea. By afternoon, I was lightheaded and tired, so I had more salad.

Day three found my confidence in the diet and myself wavering. I told myself my headache was due to allergies, even as I drooled while watching my kids fill their bowls three times at dinner with pasta and freshly made pesto. I drank another cup of green tea and soldiered on.

By day four, I was cranky, terse and miserable. Ready for french bread pizza and a big glass of wine, with a bag of Hershey Kisses for dessert, I instead headed for the scale. And was shocked to find I had lost four pounds. The number fueled my reserve, most likely because I was getting so little fuel elsewhere.

I made it through the first week and lost five pounds. This was enough to get me back--comfortably--into many of my favorite pants. I also noticed, though, that my stomach had stopped bothering me, my constant heartburn was gone, and I was sleeping better. This led to a better mood, which trickled down to the rest of my family and improved the dynamic between us overall.

Since then, I have switched to the exception section of the book (for those times of the month when you just can't say no to chocolate), and have found it much better for my lifestyle. And the weight has not come back.

The big test came when I tried on a dress from a friend yesterday and fell in love with the way it fit me. Looking ahead to an upcoming wedding in June, I smiled at the way the dress hugged my curves in an elegant, sexy way instead of a muffin-top, too many cookies way. And while I can safely say that I never want to have to 'diet' again, in the way that diet means starve myself and eschew those things that make me happy, I have also learned something. In eating, as in many aspects of life, we get into ruts. It happens slowly, as do the consequences. The shock to the system of cold-turkey shifts sucks. But sometimes, that's what it takes.

If nothing else, it's made me conscious of what I eat, and how often. But more importanly, I've learned how diet impacts the body overall, from mood to energy to size, and how it changes as we age. If one week and five lost pounds can alter all those things, as well as my perspective, then it was definitely the right diet for me.

And once was enough.

The Nature of Spring

2011-05-10T10:16:00.011-04:00

After a cold, wet winter and an even wetter spring, the sun came out and the air warmed up and things dried out and bloomed.

And it was bad.

At least, it was bad for us allergy sufferers. Still is, actually, but I'm not complaining this year. That's because after seeing Bailey's allergic reactions to the blooming trees, complaining just didn't seem right.

Allergies tend to be typical in Labs, and we went into this adoption knowing that he had them. That first spring, they turned out to be a bit more serious than I had anticipated (read: worse than mine). I just get a runny nose, sneeze a lot and sometimes my eyes itch. As we quickly learned, though, it's different with dogs.

First, they have zones. Allergy response zones. Around their mouth, nose and eyes gets very red. Their muzzle itches. Their ears itch on the inside. The skin on the inside of their legs and their private parts becomes very sensitive and itchy.

Worse, they have claws. So when these areas start itching, dogs can scratch them. Really scratch them. I was not trying on my British accent when I referred to Bailey this week as "a bloody mess."

See, when the itching got bad (i.e. he would scratch until he was crying), he had to don the cone of shame. the problem is that Bailey is a smart dog, and anytime I left him home, he either figured out a way to get the cone off (doing his drunken sailor routine and walking into furniture and doorways) or enlisted Flash to spring him. So the sooner he got it off after I left, the longer he was, shall we say, on parole.

It was during these short periods that he would scratch his face bloody, and then proceed to rub said face all over the (thankfully covered) couch corner, in between its pillows and along the carpet to try to ease the itch. Not pretty.

Fortunately, Bailey can't read. Because if he could, he'd likely peruse my bookshelves filled with the works of Plath, Hemingway, Woolf and others. He might see himself in their torment, and get the idea in his head that the only way out of his discomfort and misery is suicide.

Fortunately for us, Bailey can't read. And fortunately for Bailey, there are doggie drug cocktails available to help him. Now when he walks into walls, I attribute it to the meds, because he's no longer scratching.

As he gets older, he'll get itchier and it will start earlier and last longer each season. But we're anticipating this, and have ammassed a geriatric canine medicine chest for just such occasions. And we laugh, sympathetically, at how these days, spring gives a whole new meaning to the term 'scratch and sniff.'

Hoarders: TFV*

2011-04-28T19:50:00.014-04:00

No, we haven't acquired any more animals. This confession is from Flash, being channelled through me. At least, this is what I hope he would say if he could talk. Because the first step in getting help is admitting you have a problem.

"My name is Flash, and I'm a hoarder. My old owners thought it was cute--they'd give me a dog biscuit, rawhide or other so-called 'treat' and stand there as if they were expecting me to put on a show of eating it. Please. Those things were either cardboard-y, rubbery or scratchy and hard. No matter how you sliced it, so to speak, they were nasty. In my opinion, dog treats created by people are going to be nasty. They claim to be the smartest animals, but hellooooo? If you're smart enough to know about our extraordinary sense of smell, don'tcha think it'd be nice to give us treats with flavors we can appreciate with that sense of smell?

So they'd give me these bone-shaped pieces of stuff and the only way I could get away with not eating it in front of them was to go bury it. The yard, the planters downstairs, heck I even hid one under a corner of the carpeting. I forgot all about it until they pulled up the rug and there it was. I almost laughed out loud! Anyway, they thought it was cute, and I'd get out of having to pretend they were yummy. I mean, come on. Lasagna for breakfast, beef lo mein for dinner and then rawhide?

But now I live with this new family. Sure, I still get to go home to visit my aunt and cousin and stuff when they stop by the old house every now and then, but things are definitely different on the whole. Last time I went to the old house, I dug up an old piece of a bone I had hidden in one of the plants downstairs. It was still hard, even though it was covered with wet dirt. But it was a piece of home, ya know? So I took it with me. I'll never tell what I did with it after, and I don't think my new owners noticed. Their place isn't as clean as my old one was. For one, they have carpet that's a few decades old. And they also have rats--rug rats, I think they call them. Mini-humans. And these minis have toys coming out the wazoo, tables with trains, tables for air hockey, tables for LEGOs, and lots of containers and shelves of even more toys. So there are TONS of places to hide stuff. I think this is where my problem started.

Last week, the head human gave me and Bailey each a GIANT rawhide bone. I practically squeaked with excitement. The thing was so big, it was like the ULTIMATE challenge to hide it! I couldn't wait! I took it right downstairs to where the mini-humans keep all their stuff, and went to work. Well, the head guy saw me in that room, but thankfully didn't come in. All I needed was a few minutes, and then I came trotting out. And pretty soon they were all, "Hey Flash, where's your bone? What did he do with it? I can't find it anywhere!" I'm telling you, it was brilliant.

You'd think after such an achievement (they still haven't found it), I'd be happy. But here's the thing. I had to get my teeth on Bailey's bone next. I mean, it was like I was compelled to hide it! I don't mind telling you, I was a little scared of the feeling, but I went and got the bone anyway.

But the humans, it's like they could read my mind or something. They stopped me. They took the bone and gave it back to Bailey. Then when I was able to grab it again, they actually chased me around the dining room and took it again! I let them have it because I didn't want them to see me struggle, but I felt like I was getting the DTs or something. It was weird. Like, I had to get that bone and hide it, like my life depended on it!

Long-story-not-very-short, I wasn't able to get the other bone. For two days after, I was beside myself. I couldn't eat. Couldn't poop. One night, the big human left a big hunk of fried chicken on the bone sitting out on the low table downstairs and just walked away. I was shocked! Of course, I was overcome and grabbed it, heading right into the playroom to hide that. I got busted though. Man, was he mad. He yelled so loud it scared me, so much so that I peed on the kitchen floor later.

That's when I knew I had a problem.

Anyway, thank you all for listening. It's good to be here. I hope we can all help each other. Peace."

*The Furry Version

Looking A Gift Bunny In The Mouth

2011-04-24T15:09:00.009-04:00

My family and I are practicing agnostics. I used to call myself a Unitarian Universalist, but the truth is, I just don't do well with weekly attendance at any kind of service. So while we don't have a spiritual 'community' in the usual sense of the word, we instead engage in various volunteer activities to help build, aid and beautify the community we live in, with hopes that others will pay it forward.

This works fine for adults, but once you have kids, not having structure for spirituality makes it a bit challenging to impart your values. Especially when it comes to holidays. We have a tree and a menorah in December; we have a seder and goody-filled baskets in spring. We atone in September, even though school has just started and the kids can't really figure out what they have done wrong in such a short period of time. So we are constantly talking about what's important, what life and the lives of others mean to us, and the best way to live in the world while keeping those values in mind.

After a week of school vacation that involved outings, movies, down time, playtime and lots of fighting, Easter morning arrived. This year, the Easter Bunny decided to give, in addition to sweets, a video game cartridge to each of my kids. One had been purchased on sale some time ago, and lusted after by my youngest son for much longer. With no birthdays, loose teeth or other opportunities for gift-giving in sight for several months, the basket seemed the perfect place for it. And to avoid trauma and in-fighting, Jacob received a game as well, though his was less expensive and not specifically requested. That, however, seemed to be the rub.

Here I was thinking myself magnanimous for going a little over the top for Easter, giving them actual gifts instead of just candy; enough over the top to earn disapproving looks from Mr. Bunny. Truly, Easter is not a gift-giving holiday--why was I spoiling the children? No, I said, this is OK. Less cavities, and guaranteed fun. Ben, at least, was thrilled.

"Mom, do you think the Easter Bunny kept the receipt?" Jacob asked me.

"I really don't know, Jacob. Why? Don't you like Pokemon?" I asked, a bit miffed that he didn't appreciate the fact that he'd just gotten a gift for no reason.

"I do, but I have another game that's a lot like this one, and it's pretty lame," he answered.

And that moment was when I realized my folly. The more we give our kids, 'just because' (fill in the blank: they want it; it's on sale; it's Easter/Passover/4th of July or any other holiday that has yet to be commercialized), we're only feeding the monster. Like our attention when they were younger, no matter how much you give, it will never be enough. Mr. Bunny was right--I'm sending the wrong message. I'm spoiling them.

When Mr. Bunny announced that there would be no video game playing today, I ducked, prepared for the backlash. After all, they had just gotten new games--how could we forbid them from playing? I dreaded the rest of the day, fueled by chocolate and the knowledge that those games were so close, yet so far. I thought him unreasonably cruel.

But then I realized two things. One, it was my own fault for setting up the situation, and two, I really hate video games. I would love to get rid of all of them, as well as our television set and fill the spaces with books, games and puzzles. But I can't, so instead I give them what they want, despite my better judgment. Maybe a bag of M&Ms would have been the better route, cavities be damned.

As the day has worn on, the kids cleaned their rooms, showered, and played outside with friends for an hour and a half. Next we will switch their winter clothes for summer ones in their closets and dressers, and then make sure the bookbags are packed with all they'll need to go back to school tomorrow. The games have been put away, and will likely be forgotten until next weekend. The lesson, though, will stay with me.

At least through Memorial Day.

This One's For You

2011-04-22T21:15:00.009-04:00

Nothing says "I'm unhappy" like poop in the bedroom. Or should I say, nothing feels like your dog thumbing its nose at you like finding a log on your bedroom floor. And dogs don't even HAVE thumbs.

Look, rules suck. Just ask my kids. They have to do homework, bathe, clean up after themselves and go to school. They can't play video games all day, lie around on the couch until all hours or eat ice cream for dinner. But it's a lot harder to explain that these things build character and teach you to live in the real world when you're talking to a dog. A dog, mind you, who is used to sleeping in bed with his owner at night, on the couch during the day, and eating lasagna and chinese food more often than kibble.

I give Flash credit. He lost both his owners in a span of a couple of years. He had to move into a house that already had a pet, one very much loved by the family, and very well trained. He had to learn a new house, family dynamic, schedule and rules, and all while grieving his lost owners, home and lifestyle. And with all that, he's really been doing great. He's quick to learn, likes to please and is obviously trying to go with the flow until he figures it all out.

So I have to assume that, now that he fully grasps that this is his new home, he has decided to put his paw down, and put some things back into place. I've had to chase him off the couch twice this week--once, he got up there without my even noticing and likely had a nice nap before Ben realized where he was and alerted me. And Bailey has been uncommonly clingy. Perhaps his allergies are kicking in and he's feeling uncomfortable and grumpy, but when Flash comes over for a pet while Bailey is next to me, Bailey growls. Today, for the first time, he actually barked at Flash.

I admit I feel sorry for the little guy. For as far as he's come, he still knows he's second dog, he has to sleep on the floor, eat dog food and listen. We don't tolerate begging, rarely give out scraps, and don't take our dogs for car rides very often. Now that he's realized not only that his life has changed, but that it's not going to change back, he's pissed. So to speak. And who better to take it out on than the humans?

Like a typical mom, I want to give him more loving, more attention and make him feel better. But I also know that he knows the rules, and this was a blatant flouting of those rules. I've never been good at tough love, but I suppose now is the time to practice. The kids will be teenagers soon enough, and while a missed curfew isn't as bad as pooping in my room, it will still constitute a tightening of the rules. And while it will likely get the lesson learned, I guarantee the kids and dogs will agree, it still stinks.

It's All Relative

2011-04-19T16:34:00.008-04:00

I have to take issue with the fact that girls always get a bad rep for keeping boys waiting for dates. Granted, when I am getting ready to go out, I often have to get the kids bathed and fed, give instructions to the babysitter and walk the dogs first. Only then can I begin the increasingly arduous and lengthy process of prettying myself up for a date. So when my husband says, "are you almost ready?" and I answer "five more minutes," I really think that's all it will take. That's all it used to take. But since I'm getting old, these things end up taking longer. At least I have a good excuse.

Whether this is genetic, learned or just a circumstance of age, both my boys seem to have the same trait, but without the excuse. If I tell one of them that it's time for dinner and he needs to stop playing the video game he's playing, I'm told,

"OK, I just have to kill this guy and get to the next level."

While that sounds like something that should take all of three minutes, this is in fact the equivalent (in parenting language) of

"OK, I just have to finish middle school, college, medical school and go do my internship where I'll find the cure for cancer."

In other words, I'll be there soon-ish, with 'ish' being the operative quantifier. So don't hold your breath waiting, or you'll pass out.

As much as it's taken me time to figure this out, to realize that they will not be done as quickly as they make it sound, I also can't really get mad. Because the fact is, I get it. I'm a writer. I know what it's like to be 'in the zone,' totally focussed and absorbed, and then looking up five minutes later to find that I'm an hour behind schedule for starting dinner.

Like any problem (if not necessarily any genetic defect), recognizing the problem is the first step in working toward correcting it. But in a way, it's like the blind leading the blind--I know I need to get the kids off the video games and into books for a while each day, but at the same time, they are being very quiet. So quiet, in fact, that I can actually get some writing done, writing that I didn't think I'd get to do over the break because we'd be too busy running around doing stuff.

So now the question becomes, do I address my problem and be the good mommy, steering my kids back to interactive and educational activities for the rest of the afternoon? Or should I be selfish mommy and let them enjoy themselves a few minutes more? Just fifteen minutes, so I can work a little on my book outline.

Oh, and edit my chapters.

Oh, and finish updating my blog.

Wow, how did it get so late?

Steal My Thunder. Please.

2011-04-13T19:39:00.010-04:00

As with any new event that changes the dynamic of a family, there are things that can be anticipated before the change, and things that cannot. Because we adopted Flash in the winter, we anticipated lots of 'indoor time' with both dogs as they got to learn how to live with each other, figured out the new pecking order and were taught the rules. There would be logistics to negotiate, such as feeding and sleeping areas, walking schedules and pet toy storage.

But one thing we didn't consider, because it had not been an issue for almost a year, was weather. Or, more specifically, storms. Not blizzards.

Thunderstorms.

Last night, with a house full of us and family visiting from out of state, we got our first, albeit mild, thunderstorm. Our guest room is in the basement, right next to the playroom, which is where we usually send Bailey during severe thunderstorms that rile and torment him. Downstairs, he can bark, pace, howl and moan at what we assume he perceives to be a fleet of big trucks going by on our road. Endlessly. Thankfully, once the truck...er, thunder stops making noise, so does Bailey. But with actual guests in our guest room, this wasn't really an option (although I did consider it very briefly).

What we discovered during this 30-minute, middle-of-the-night storm, though, was that Flash hates thunder. REALLY hates it. Like, he seems to think dozens of scary people are trying to knock down the walls and get into the house to steal the big, white box in the kitchen that holds all that awesome food. And like any good watch dog, if someone is trying to break in, you sound your alarm.

Well.

Flash's alarm, normally a cute little, high pitched bay, is, shall we say, not quite as cute at 1:30 in the morning as it is in the light of day. And for every ten minutes of alarm that plays without a snooze button option, the cute factor drops exponentially. After 20 minutes, I was praying the thunder would stop. After 30, I wanted to take Flash next door to his old, empty house and let him make all the noise he wanted. After 40, though the thunder had stopped, the alarm played on and I had my head buried under my pillow to no avail.

When he finally decided that the house was secure and the bad guys were gone, Flash finally gave up barking. Thankfully, it didn't take long for me to get back to sleep. Had the thunder continued though (or, dare I say it, had there really been bad guys trying to break in), I am certain that this little guy, with all the energy and passion and sense of duty he possesses, would have continued to warn us of the 'danger'. Like a furry postman, rain, lightning, dark of night and even exhaustion would not have caused him to quit. His sense of purpose is strong, and his loyalty high. At least, that's what I tell myself.

But I also know that, come summer, he will likely be getting to know our basement a lot better too.

Culinary Canine

2011-04-07T21:54:00.000-04:00

Ben is my best eater, hands down. He will try anything, even if it's green. He loves vegetables, exotic foods and doesn't shy away from funky textures or combinations. Nor is he restricted by rules about what is acceptable food for certain times of day. This is a kid who eats cheeseburgers and raspberries for breakfast.

So it's no surprise that I consider him something of an expert on how to enjoy food, and I am not surprised when he stops everything to follow his dad downstairs when it's time to feed the dogs. This is especially true when they are getting leftovers, or as we like to call it, 'something from the big, white box' because the dogs go nuts when we pull something out of the refrigerator to heat for them. Then, noses in the air, they file behind dad as if he were the pied piper, drinking in the smell of melting beef fat that wafts behind him. It's music to their noses, and Ben trails behind them revelling in their excitement, feeling a kinship to those whose passion for food rivals his own.

But the excitement doesn't end there. Once kibble, fat and gravy have been divided and dispersed, Ben stays to watch the pooches chomp and slurp at their breakfast until the empty bowls clang against the tile floor.

On a typical dog food-only day, Flash will nibble his kibble and leave half behind. Sort of like Ben with chicken nuggets. It's bland, boring and processed, and therefore not worth the effort or calories. But when there are leftovers, Flash goes to town. Though only half of Bailey's size and weight, Flash often empties his dish first, putting on a show of grunts and snorts as he goes, as if he can't eat it fast enough. This has always amused Ben, but today something shifted in his thinking, and he commented on it.

"Mom, Flash always finishes his food first, but he just chomps it down. He doesn't saaavor it. He doesn't breeeathe."

He sounded disheartened, as if Flash had let him down, exposed himself as a gourmand rather than a gourmet. Clearly, if Flash eats so fast that he can't even breathe, he is not tasting the food. He therefore must not be enjoying it, and Ben seemed to pity the dog for what he is unknowingly missing out on.

If that's the case, so be it. I chalk it up to Ben's first in what will surely be many character studies. Surely it won't be the only time he sees someone for what they truly are, when reality will shatter illusion and someone will suddenly become a disappointment to him.

I try not to think about the day when Ben will realize his mom and dad are just people, not superheroes, and that we make mistakes like every other human, even when raising our kids.

If I'm lucky, his experience with the dogs will help him retain his faith in us--even after this jarring realization--and his love will continue unwavering.

But I'll be happy if he just deigns to share a good meal with us every once in a while.

Good Humor Men

2011-04-06T11:00:00.012-04:00

It's hard to be little. You have to look up at everyone, you can't see the tops of counters, and you have to do what you're told. Things are confusing sometimes, and you want to be independent but you have no choice but to rely on others because you can't get a job. Sometimes you get yelled at, and you don't know what you did or why it was bad.

Just ask my beagle.

Perhaps this is why Ben has been so sympathetic with Flash lately: because he can relate. Before our dog days, Ben was the puppy in the pack. Everyone was bigger, smarter, older and better at stuff than he was (notice I didn't say 'louder'). Of course, being the smallest and youngest has its challenges, not the least of which is carving out your own niche, finding your place in the pack.

Not only were you not the first one here, but now you're competing for attention while trying to make up for lost time. Plus, everyone seems to know the rules, and their place, but you. So you go through your options:

Boy? Taken.
First born? Taken.
Smart? Taken.
Eager? Taken.
Obedient? Taken.
Creative? OPEN
Funny? OPEN

And there you go. Through the process of elimination, Flash and Ben have both been able to find their places in the pack. They are feisty, emotional, controversial, demanding and ultimately will do what they want regardless of what they're told.

But they are also the cuddliest, goofiest and funniest of the bunch. They love fearlessly and without reserve, and are creative in getting what they want. Ben will debate and finagle, tell you jokes and make ridiculous suggestions to get what he is after. Flash will roll around on the carpet like a wind-up toy, dig through the recycling bag to pull out and play with an empty peanut butter jar and use the couch to get up to the bay windowsill to bark at passersby. You're so busy laughing at their creativity that you forget to be angry at them. Henry Ward Beecher once said, "Men will let you abuse them if only you will make them laugh."

To Flash and Ben, rules are meant to be bent, looked upon as 'suggestions' rather than restrictions. In this family, at least, being the littlest means grabbing hold of what power you can and using it to your best advantage.

And if everyone is laughing at you, you've definitely got power. And a better chance of getting what you're really after.

If You Give A Kid A Pancake

2011-04-03T13:21:00.018-04:00

One of the most dangerous aspects of the adolescent brain is its inability to consider potential consequences before acting or making decisions. It's dangerous because adolescents are often presented with situations in which lack of forethought can have life-long effects. Sex, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, driving too fast, missing the deadline for scholarship applications, etc. have caused many a sleepless night for loving parents.

This is why many school programs focus on pre-teens' and teens' planning abilities. But I discovered today that this problem of lack of forethought isn't restricted to teens. My eight-year-old suffers from it as well. And while he's not in potentially life-threatening situations on a regular basis, today was an exception.

When Ben gets hungry, if he doesn't eat something and instead lets the hunger get out of control, he becomes (as my family used to call it) EVIL. That means, in essence, that he is cranky, angry, loud and obnoxious toward everyone. He cannot be reasoned with, talked down or placated, making him pretty much miserable for anyone to be around. This happens primarily on the weekends, when he gets too absorbed in a video game or cartoon and doesn't heed his grumbling stomach until it's too late.

This morning, I figured we'd be able to avoid the problem by attending the Lion's Club pancake breakfast at the high school. We'd eat all the pancakes, sausage and bagels we wanted, pick up Ben's baseball uniform and be a happy bunch of campers. Plus, I wouldn't have to cook or clean up. It was a win-win plan. Unfortunately, I failed to execute it before Ben had crossed over into "the evil zone."

By the time I had gotten him dressed and dragged him to the high school, he was yelling, lashing out and dangerously close to being left in the parking lot. (I'd have strangled him, but there were too many other families around as witnesses). Instead, I stayed calm, we made our way to the mercifully fast-moving line, and got our trays of yummies. Ben was off like a shot to find a seat, and was already unwrapping his plasticware by the time I found him and got my coat off. I offered him some antibacterial cleaner for his hands before he dug in, and he put out his palm to accept it. But he pulled away too fast, and a blob of it went into his orange juice. Acting quickly to avert a crisis, I handed him my orange juice and took the ruined cup away. Whew.

Then he reached for the red bottle on the table labeled "Syrup" and gave a squirt over his plate. At that moment, someone's belated April Fool's joke culminated in a big pile of ketchup landing on Ben's pancake. And just like that, the tears began to flow.

I know it was partly my fault for not getting up earlier and making sure he at least ate a banana to hold him, or reminded him what happens when he gets too hungry. But I had also hoped that, now that he's eight, he'd be getting the hang of that thought process on his own.

Sadly, that is not the case. And considering this type of problem continues into children's early- to mid-twenties--until their brains are fully developed--all my nagging probably isn't going to be able to change it. The best I can do is leave cereal bowls and boxes on the table at night, and a note on his door for the morning that suggests he start with breakfast before anything else.

Because after I pulled away the ketchup-laden pancake and gave Ben one of my own, he chowed down two of them along with sausage and orange juice without even pausing to wipe his tears. And just like that, he was transformed back into the boy I love. Such a simple solution, such a miserable reminder.

What I learned today is, If You Give A Kid A Pancake, And You Do It Soon Enough, You'll Save Yourself And Your Family A Lot of Unnecessary Aggravation.*

Oh, and always, always, use the pre-packaged syrup containers.

*With apologies to Laura Joffe Numeroff.

Sex Ed

2011-04-01T17:37:00.020-04:00

Anyone I ever spoke to who grew up on a farm was very matter-of-fact about sex. I attributed this to the fact that they grew up surrounded by animals annually courting, mating and giving birth and--let's face it--the farm is no place for modesty.

Contrarily, I grew up in a strict, Christian household that believed in Heaven, Hell, God and the stork. Needless to say, in my house, sex was the "s" word, and was therefore never discussed. As far as I knew, babies came from married people through osmosis and fervent prayer.

Now our home is not quite so conservative, but neither is it a farm. Yet along with our new pooch, I think my kids are getting a bit of an education about sex lately too.

The sexual tension in the house is high since we got a second dog. True, both dogs are male, but this actually seems to be adding to the problem. Luckily for us, Bailey is bigger than Flash, because the reality of, er, size has naturally settled the issue of who is the top dog. While Flash would love to step in and take over, run our house the way he ran his old house, Bailey is having no part of it. Apparently, male dogs try to dominate other dogs by mounting them. When Flash first moved in, he tried to mount Bailey. This happened exactly once. At least Flash is a fast learner.

Before Flash came along, Bailey had also worked out his own little system for what to do when he feels like sowing some oats, so to speak. He grabs his bed by the scruff of it's neck and dominates *it*. Flash, though, having learned Bailey is not a willing partner, just walks around the living room humping the air.

Ben has watched this quietly before. The other day, though, he called to me when he caught Flash doing it again.

"Mom, come look! Flash is doing his Victory Dance!" I didn't correct him.

Then this morning on the way to the school bus, Ben asked his dad, "Dad, what's that pink thing sticking out under Flash?"

"That's his penis, Ben," was all Dad said. Silence ensued as Ben studied the dog from a distance until the bus arrived.

I laugh at how the kids glimpse different actions by watching the dogs, get questions answered by us and then try to put it all together with what they know about their own bodies. But I also know that it will make understanding more complex concepts a lot easier down the road. The biology of it all is being given to them piece by piece as they grow, thanks in part to the dogs. The emotional and social aspects of love and responsibility will come later. It's just nice to know that "the talk" in our house is already going on, one long conversation that will evolve and grow as the boys do.

Of course, we are all learning since our pack has grown, and not just about sex. Bailey has learned how to beg and hover by watching Flash. Flash has learned to ignore me when he's called by watching Ben, and how to play with his squeaky toys by watching Bailey. Both dogs have learned how to touch each other's stuff by watching the boys, and David and I have learned how to break up fights and discipline the dogs by watching the children.

Lumped into all this behavior are the natural instincts of males, acted out by the dogs and learned by the boys. It's silly, funny and strange, but opens up the lines of communication between us all so that even I have to admit to this unforseen benefit of pet ownership. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

Parallel Universe

2011-03-29T06:00:00.004-04:00

OK, maybe you can't see it in these pictures, but there is a calm, consistent evenness in the two with light eyes, and a devilish, resistant streak in the two little dark-eyed cuties. I have come to refer to the boys and the dogs as siblings, but only lately have I really seen the parallel of their relationships with each other.

When the boys come home, the first thing I do is get them a snack and sit them down to do homework. The first thing Ben does is complain. He avoids, distracts, wanders off and generally resists what he is supposed to be doing. If I tell him to clean his room, he heads down the hall, only to be discovered a half hour later playing with some toy I haven't seen in months. He remains surrounded by clean and dirty clothes, LEGOs and books on the floor and beams up at me from his unmade bed. It's as if my every request is a chance for him to do the opposite of what I want.

At first, I thought I was just being too sensitive, taking his actions too personally. But the next time I walked the dogs, I found Bailey responding to my every request, and Flash "digging in" and pulling in the direction opposite of the one we were trying to go. The more I pulled, the more he resisted. But when I let the leash go slack, and stood to watch him, he stared back at me with those dark-chocolate eyes, and then proceeded to join Bailey and me in our original direction, bouncing along happily as if he'd made his point and would now let it drop.

Call me crazy, but I really think this is universal behavior for second children. Or in the case of the dogs, the pooch who has been relegated (demoted?) to second-dog status. Someone was here before you, someone smart, sweet, cooperative, potty trained and easy to be around. He's a tough act to follow, so you'd better carve out your own little niche, showing everyone in every way that you are nothing like that guy who was here first.

Flash is a jumper, a barker, a hoverer. He does not like to be told what to do, and will give 110% to accomplish whatever you told him not to do. He follows Bailey around when he wants to wrestle or play with him, nudging and throwing himself under Bailey's nose to get noticed. If Bailey isn't in the mood and tries to wander away, Flash follows hot on his tail, barking relentlessly, as if to say, "Play with me! Play with me! Play with me!" You would think that Bailey would finally give in, just to get the little bugger off his back. I mean, it's not like he can go into his own room and close the door.

Finally, though we have taken pains to make sure both dogs receive all things equally--food, treats, beds, toys, walks and lovin'--Flash still wants what's not his. He curls up in Bailey's bed. He chews on Bailey's rawhide. He drinks from Bailey's water dish. And the look on poor Bailey's face seems to say, "My life was perfect! Why did you have to give me a little brother!?"

Alas, such things are always a good idea on paper, especially since we never consult with those who will feel the change most keenly. But I also know that, if either of my second "children" were suddenly the only one in the house (if Jacob were to go off to college, say, or Bailey got drafted), the younger one would be lost. They both define themselves by who they are in relation to their older "brothers." And as much as they all seem to annoy each other, the truth is they all love each other very much.

Though they'd never admit it, in this or any other universe.

Tell Me What You REALLY Think

2011-03-26T22:22:00.009-04:00

If there's one thing you have to appreciate about Ben, it's his honesty. I should be more specific: his honesty when giving his opinion. If you ask him how the almost new body wash bottle got down to empty in the space of four days, he'll swear he has no idea. The toothpaste all over the faucet? Shoulder shrug. His brother's hairbrush in the garbage? Must have been the dog. But ask his opinion, and he doesn't hold back.

Sure, sometimes his opinions come unsolicited. And while his honesty can feel pretty brutal (Mom, you have a double chin; Dad, there's a booger in your nose), it's almost always funny when directed at someone else. In tonight's case, the unwitting recipient was the restaurant/dining hall where we ate dinner while visiting my mother-in-law's residence.

"Mom, what's that card?" Ben asked, pointing to the comment card on the table.

"Oh, it looks like a survey card, so you can tell the restaurant how they did. Let's see. Question 1) I received the correct food order. Question 2) My food was delivered timely. Do you know what 'timely' means?"

"Nope."

"That means it came in a reasonable amount of time after you ordered it. Question 3) My food temperature was acceptable...."

I read the rest of the questions with him, and showed him how it worked.

"See, after the meal, you read each question, and then select from Excellent, Very Good, Good, Fair or Poor and check the box next to the answer that fits your opinion."

"Oh, cool," Ben said, and placed the card and tiny pencil next to his plate before starting a game of "In My Backpack."

After about two go-rounds of the game, our food had yet to arrive, but I figured that since we were playing, the boys were distracted from this fact. I was wrong. When it was Ben's turn again, he leaned over to me and said in a stage whisper, "Well, timely is now at 'Good'".

Whether the staff heard him or not, I can't say. But about a minute after reciting, "In my backpack, I put: nine chocolate chip cookies, eight bowls of chicken noodle soup, seven lawn clippings, six basketballs, five salads, four biscuits, three buckets of blue cheese dressing, two Golden Retrievers and one glass of wine," the food showed up. Ben immediately picked up his pencil and checked 'Good' next to question two.

When the meal was through, he filled out the rest of the card, and in the space for his apartment number, he wrote, in very neat script, "non-resadint." I didn't correct him, in the hopes that the staff would get a chuckle over his feedback, and recognize that it was written by a child. And that maybe they won't hold his brutal honesty against us next time we visit.

Train the Trainer

2011-03-22T10:58:00.011-04:00

Aside from becoming a parent, there's nothing like getting a new pet to teach you what you don't know. Or, in my case, a second pet. Because despite my advanced degrees and experience with children, I am apparently extraordinarily slow on the uptake of such things.

If I sound surprised, it's because I am. If it sounds like I have reason to be surprised, then I'm not being clear. Let me clarify.

When Jacob was born some 11+ years ago, life was bliss. A new parent, I was completely in love with my baby. He was perfect. Beautiful. Soft. Scented, with that new baby smell. He slept all the time. He napped like clockwork. He never cried. Really, the only reason he needed us is because I provided nutrition, and he couldn't buy or change his own diapers.

"Wow," I told David. "This is amazing! We should have, like, five more!"

So when Jacob was almost three, we had Ben.

Those who know me know I only have two children. That's because, when we put in our order for a second baby, we neglected to indicate in the fine print that he should be EXACTLY like Jacob in temperament, sleep habits and ease of use. As we all know, the devil is in the details, and so our second baby was delivered on schedule, with a penis and good looks. And that's pretty much where the similarities ended.

Eight years later, they are still different as night and day. All the things Ben has needed in the way of parenting are all the things we never learned by parenting his older brother. And so we continue to learn as we go, occasionally wondering wistfully what the hell we were thinking when we assumed we'd get a second baby exactly like the first.

Like Jacob, Bailey came preprogrammed to self-govern. He is trained to go to the bathroom in the woods, not on people's property. He does tricks. He eats his kibble, but is always up for some celery ends or bread crusts as a treat. He can fetch, loves to play, is silly and goofy and challenges us to new games all the time.

"Wow," I said to David. "Poor Flash needs a home. Why don't we take him? He's the same age as Bailey, and they know each other so well, it'll be great!"

Since then, I have been learning how to comfort, console, encourage, discourage and train a dog. Yes, I had been a dog owner for the previous four years or so. But Bailey was so easy. Just like Jacob. You think I'd have remembered this and put two and two together, but you'd be wrong.

And so, as with Ben, I'm learning how to be a good parent as I go. What does Flash need, what does he want, how can I help make my life and his easier and better? I'm 44 years old and I'm still growing. I love it.

Sure, I could gripe about the noise (wow, two barking dogs are really loud), the mess (I think my sons are training the dogs how to leave things lying around the hosue) and the moodiness (Flash is confused by the training; Bailey is so insecure, he's wrapping himself around my shoelaces; the kids are vying even more for my attention than before). It's like living in a frat house: me and five guys. Two are short and needy, and two are hairy and smelly. Thank goodness one of them can hold down a job or we'd have to pay the mortgage by hosting pay-at-the-door kegger parties.

Despite all that, oh my gosh how I laugh my way through every day. And of course, being the only girl makes me the queen of the household. So come for a visit any time. Everyone is friendly and there's always lots going on. Just don't mention the tarnish on my crown. I haven't had time to polish it recently, but it's on my list of things to do. Right after I graduate from my latest parent training course.

Learning the Ropes

2011-03-17T09:51:00.013-04:00

We've had Flash, our new addition to the family, living with us for about two weeks now. I have to admit I was worried about him in the beginning, what with all that old dog, new tricks business. Flash is almost 11 years old, and has always been #1 in his home--one with no children or other pets, and parents who adored him--so we knew it would be an adjustment moving in with us. After all, we have kids, noise, carpets, Bailey and rules.

Strangely enough, things seem to be going pretty well, considering all that. In fact, the toughest thing that Flash is being forced to learn is that he is, in fact, a dog.

You laugh, but I truly think that this little guy, indulged practically from birth, really thinks he is just a short person. He even acts sometimes like he's better than the rest of us, what with better hearing, sense of smell and not having to hold a job. If a dog can feel entitled, Flash is truly a fat cat among canines.

I can't really blame him, though, since he was always taught to play the part of prince. His mom would take him for a walk, and if he moved too slowly and she had to be somewhere, she would pick him up and carry him all the way home. When dad would grill a steak, plate it and put it on the table on the deck, and then go inside for salt and pepper, he would return to find the plate empty and a very satisfied Flash in his chair looking at him as if asking, "how about a beer, pal?" And because this type of behavior was not nipped in the bud (read: discouraged by any kind of punishment), it stands to reason that Flash spent his first few days in our house looking very confused.

He eschewed his own dog food for Bailey's, and we assumed it was because he liked the flavor of Bailey's better. After a while, though, he wouldn't eat any kind of dog food. Maybe he's depressed, we thought, or just protesting his new situation. Surely he'll get hungry enough to eat the dog food eventually, we reasoned, and so we just kept an eye on him around the dinner table. Then one day, I heard a strange noise and looked over at him. There he was on the floor, chewing on a sock (one of Ben's that he had left lying in the living room). Another day, it was a napkin being shredded, and rather quickly, I might add. Yesterday, I thought he was finally gnawing on one of his toys that I'd brought over from his house--one of a basketfull, in fact--only to discover he was chewing on a pencil. And he wasn't even in the midst of writing an essay.

Yes, it's been a big adjustment, and he's not there yet. He still tries to come into the bedroom at night to sleep with us, still climbs up on the couch occasionally and even jumps up to the sill of the big bay window to bark at passers by. But even with all that, he seems to love the routine, the constant presence of people, or at least Bailey, and all the noisy silliness our pack is capable of at any given moment. There has been no discovery of smelly 'gifts' in the house, no aggression and no shredded property (the napkin notwithstanding).

The poor little guy has been through a lot. But I really think his learning that he is not a person has actually been easier than it would have been to learn he has gone from alpha dog status to the bottom of the pack's chain. David's the boss, Bailey is first dog, and despite all the chaos, we have plenty of love for Flash too, which we willingly shower upon him. As long as we don't make him go out and get a job, I think he's going to be just fine.

Pack Rats

2011-03-08T10:39:00.016-05:00

While I don't think we would qualify for a pet version of "Hoarders" just yet, our pack has recently grown. After the far-too-early passing of our friend and neighbor, Augie, his 10 year old beagle, Flash, has come to live with us.

One might think, "OK, you already have one dog that you walk, feed, play with and love. What's one more?" To be fair, that is somewhat true. Flash and our Bailey have been taking walks together every day for almost three years, and played together before that. They know each other well, and are close buddies.

But just as with adding a new child to the family, a new life in the house means a shift in roles and dynamic. Our routine is the same; we just incorporated Flash into it. The thing is, at Flash's old house, he didn't really have any rules. In fact, the first time I said the word "No" to him, he looked at me like I had three cat heads.

He is becoming more comfortable here with each passing day. Yet the more relaxed he becomes, the more the rules are tested.

"Flash, get off the couch."

"Flash, get away from the table."

"Flash, come away from the bedrooms."

"No, Flash, that's Bailey's bed. Yours is over here."

And, of course, there is Bailey's insecurity. "Am I being replaced? Do you like him more than you do me? LOVE ME LOVE ME LOVE ME!!!!!!" He has become Velcro dog of late, and I can't say I blame him. After his original owner passed away, Bailey lived with another family before ours, and has been top dog here for some four years now. Suddenly, he's got a little brother touching his stuff and doing things he's never been allowed to do.

Plus, Flash keeps not going home. I mean, one sleepover is fun, and a couple of playdates here are nice. But enough is enough. In doggie speak, Bailey's looking at us going, "what the woof?"

Two nights ago, Ben woke up around 3:30 a.m. and knocked on my door. I got up, put him back to bed and stayed with him a bit, but he was still awake when I left his room. Walking out, I almost stepped on Flash, who I subsequently walked back to the living room, to his own bed. Then I went back to bed. Not long after, Ben knocked again. Once more, I put him back to bed, and then--you guessed it--put Flash back to bed too.

Just last night, David and I were getting ready for bed, and David realized he'd forgotten to do something in the kitchen. When he went back out, not five minutes after he'd turned off the kitchen light, he found Flash in Bailey's bed, and Bailey trying to get downstairs to eat the kibble Flash had left in his bowl.

"They're acting like a couple of kids," he mumbled as he came back into the bedroom.

And it's true. This is our new normal: sibling boys, sibling dogs, lots of noise and lots of laughs. Sure, I have days when I hunger for peace and quiet, no squabbles to break up, and no doggie spats to sort out. But in the end, I know that those days will come soon enough, most likely when I have become quite comfortable and happy with our boisterous pack. Until then, my goal is to feed and enjoy ALL the animals, so that when they do leave us, it will be with memories of joy and having been greatly loved.

Raising Wimps

2011-02-05T00:07:00.002-05:00

Lately, I've had to hide the newspaper from my sons. This is not because of the gore of the stories, but for fear that they will gain ammunition for battles with me.

Me: "Jacob, you need to get out there and help your dad shovel the driveway."

Jacob: "But Mom, this article says that kids under 19 experience more than 1,750 shoveling-related injuries each year! Do you want to put me in the hospital?"

Me: "I think those injuries are caused by parents whacking their kids with shovels to get them outside shoveling."

Seriously, who comes up with these statistics and decides to print them in the newspaper where any kid can pick it up and read them?

Me: "Ben, time to take a bath."

Ben: "I don't want to."

Me: "Ben, you have to take regular baths. Just like brushing your teeth, it's part of staying healthy."

Ben: "But Mom, it said in the paper that 'Poison Control centers say the bath salts with complex chemical names are an emerging menace in several U.S. states, and authorities are talking of banning their sale.' Doesn't sound healthy to me."

Me: "I'm sorry, what?" taking newspaper from his hand and pointing him to the bathroom.

Indeed, there it is, a short paragraph under the 'Five Things You Should Know' section of my local paper:

"When Neil Brown of Fulton, Miss. got high on bath salts, he slit his face and stomach repeatedly. Brown survived, but authorities say others haven't been so lucky after snorting, injecting or smoking powders with such innocuous-sounding names as Ivory Snow, Red Dove and Vanilla Sky..."

Ah, I see, yes. So let's ban bath salts because then, surely, no one will go find something else to snort, inject or smoke. Like, say, dishwashing powder. Or brownie mix. Or maybe glitter.

I'm all for keeping people safe, and keeping drugs off the streets, but if there's one thing I've learned in all my, er, years on Earth, it's that you can't protect stupid people from themselves. Rather than get frustrated, though, I try to remember to look at such stories as a good lesson for me. It's a reminder to keep the lines of communication with my kids open, and to talk to them about risks worth taking (shovelling) and not taking (snorting coffee grounds).

Wouldn't it be better to just educate our children on the dangers of temptation, the safe way to exercise and the healthy way to shop and eat, instead of making them afraid to live their lives? Then we wouldn't have to ban innocuous-sounding products that are being misused, scare our children away from exercise because they might get hurt, or put high taxes on fast foods and warnings on soda bottles to discourage people from having them for three meals a day. Seriously, it's not that hard. In fact, it's kind of our job.

Me: "It's OK, Ben. I used Mr. Bubble bubble bath, no bath salts."

Ben: "Oh, man!" Stomps toward the bathroom, opens the door. "Whoa! Mom, look at all these bubbles!!"

Me: (Tossing the newspaper section under the rest of the recycling and following him into the bathroom) "Yeah, I thought you might like that. So let's talk about that bath salts article...."

Mommy's Little Secret

2011-01-29T12:41:00.010-05:00

I have a secret, and if my children ever figure it out, I'll be totally screwed. Here it is: I am generous to a fault with those who are appreciative of my efforts. There. I said it.

If they are fighting, screaming, name-calling and avoiding their homework, they will lose dessert, electronics and any loving tone in my voice. But if they behave well, do as I ask without my having to nag or yell, if they hug me and say "thank you Mom," or "I love you, Mom" or--dare I dream it?--"You are the best Mom in the whole world!", I am then inclined to give them a pony, Ferrari, trip to Disney or anything else they might ask for.

It's not just my children who make me behave this way. This is why I am a perpetual student, excelling for the appreciative teacher, and a chronic volunteer, ready to give 40 hours a week (even at the expense of my children and husband) to those who are truly grateful for my efforts.

But today I may have crossed the line. My husband and oldest son are away camping for the weekend with the Boy Scouts, and Ben and I have a chance for some quality time alone together. Did he want to watch a movie last night under the electric blanket? No. Help me with my jigsaw puzzle? No. Did he love building a marble tower with me for an hour, so much so that he took a shower and went to bed when asked, with a huge smile on his face and a lingering hug for me? Please.

The old me, the tough-love Mommy, would have said, "to heck with you. Go entertain yourself tomorrow; I'm going to read the paper unless you can change your attitude." So what did Mushy-Mom do this morning? After listening to his whiny greeting of, "Mom, WHERE'S THE DS???", followed by "I don't WANT to get dressed! I don't WANT to go out to breakfast! JUST TELL ME WHERE THE DS IS!", I got dressed, walked the dogs and then told Ben he could play with the DS only if he got dressed and came out to breakfast with me.

I know. But wait. There's more.

After a yummy meal of pancakes and bacon (which definitely helped minimize the whinies), we headed to Toys 'R' Us to use up a small gift certificate balance left over from his birthday. And maybe I matched the balance so he could buy a new Bey Blade. And maybe I also sprung for a $30 LEGO set because he reeeeeeally wanted it and it was sooooo cool.

Yes, OK. I admit it. I spent the morning buying my way into the heart and stomach of my child, turning somersaults to get him to appreciate me. I know I have a problem. But when you really aren't liking someone at the moment, you have to do something, right? In the case of an adult behaving badly, I would tell them what I think of their behavior and walk away. But with Ben, ultimatums like that cause him to dig in his heels. If he is starting to consider that maybe I'm right, that maybe he just needs to eat something and he will feel more amiable, telling him to adjust his attitude and then walking away just turns him around so he can argue his point with me. And often, it seems he is willing to argue to the death.

But you know what? For the past hour, after thanking me "times a million", he has been playing with that LEGO set like it's the only toy he'll ever want in his life. He just came upstairs for a snack, and is smiling. And right now, I'm liking him a lot better than when I woke up, and he is appreciating me a lot more than before breakfast.

Since Ben was born, he has challenged every fiber of my being. My emotions, nerves, patience, peace and reasoning have all but gone out the window pretty regularly for the last eight years. Of course I love him. But raising Jacob taught me nothing about how to raise his brother. So if occasionally bribing Ben helps me gain some appreciation and peace, I'm afraid to say I'm not above it. I'm hoping eventually we'll both outgrow it. Preferably before he or Jacob figures out my secret.

This Is The Way To Be A Child, Be A Child, Be A Child...

2011-01-21T19:36:00.019-05:00

It seems I am now, officially, old. Remember how we used to laugh at our parents, their stories of "when I was a kid..." about walking five miles uphill in the snow, both ways, to school; how kids worked hard and built character and weren't a bunch of lazy layabouts like we were, with our fancy televisions and video arcades? I guess I never *seriously* thought I would feel the way they did back then. But when you become a parent, all of those things you never thought would happen to you *do* happen to you, eventually. Whether you like it or not.

Now I'm not saying that I am better or worse off because I was bullied to the point of fighting back in middle school. Or that I've forgotten all those bruises my legs suffered from playing bombardment (a.k.a. dodge ball) at recess in elementary school. All I know is that I learned a lot about people through these experiences, and a lot about myself. And oddly enough, there was never an adult around when it happened. Imagine that!

So here's my latest old-lady gripe of what's on the playground today: PPC. No, not PCP, the drug that used to be called Angel Dust. PPC, which stands for 'Peaceful Playground Coaches.'

I kid you not.

It is mind-boggling the number--and authentic feel--of violent movies, television shows and video games that our children are bombarded with by today's entertainment industry (and I use the term 'entertainment' very loosely). But rather than put our collective foot down as parents and declare "ENOUGH!" to the industry, we let them continue to make billions of dollars churning these things out, and instead try to reverse the effects of their messages by teaching school kids how to use 'Rock Paper Scissors' to resolve conflicts.

http://www.portlandtribune.com/news/story_2nd.php?story_id=125252837589966900

http://www.parkschoolmv.org/?page_id=37

Apparently, this all started out in California, when a woman decided that today's children spend so much time alone (on a computer, or because they have no siblings), that they don't know how to play team games. When I was young, we'd go to the park to see who was around. If there were a few kids, we'd play basketball. If there were more, we'd start up a baseball game. We'd choose teams, create lineups, and play until we got hungry. But since so many kids today spend time indoors, there's this idea that many don't know how to play the games we used to play. Thus, the need for a playground coach: teach them the games, show them how to pick teams, let them know the rules, teach them how to resolve disputes and off they go.

Personally, I think we already do too much for our children, scheduling them for organized sports, after school clubs, music lessons, art classes and a hundred other activities that involve someone teaching them how to do things. My eight-year-old dropped out of cub scouts because it was too much work and he didn't like the meetings. He loves to listen and sing along to rock and roll music, but has shown no inclination to learn an instrument. He plays with trains, bugs, paints and LEGOs, fights with his brother, and makes some of the most interesting observations I have ever heard from a third grader. I'm convinced it's because he has time to think, on his own, about the world.

Just because our kids don't do things the way we did doesn't mean they won't figure out how to do them on their own. Sure, tell them the horror stories of 'back in the day', that time before cell phones, Wii and computer games. The years of only seven channels on television, rotary phones and no Internet. But then give them some credit, some freedom and a chance to live out their own childhoods without coaches for every little thing.

How else will they have stories to tell your grandchildren about how hard things used to be?

Love You To Death

2011-01-03T11:45:00.012-05:00

I know I've written this before, but one of my favorite sayings (reminders? mantras? prayers?) is that when it comes to parenthood, the days are long, but the years are short. Excepting those in prison (for whom the days AND years are likely long), I have yet to meet a parent who does not agree with this.

There should, however, be a post-script. It should go something like, "the days are long and the years are short, but the school vacations make the years SEEM a lot longer." I suppose if I had lots of money and could afford to travel the world with my kids during each of the three approximately 10-day vacations they have during the year, I wouldn't mind it so much. But I don't, so I can't. As if to show me how much they hate this fact, my children spend every moment of every day of every one of those vacations fighting.

I learned the hard way that sibling rivalry is one of those things, like labor, that we suffer through and then conveniently forget about when we want more children. Sure, my brother and I spent much of our childhood at odds, but looking back, it seems trivial: he taunted and hounded me for attention, I regularly excluded him and escaped into books. Sounds perfectly normal. But I'm also known for my selective, rose-colored memory and my ability to block out unpleasant experiences.

I also never consulted with my mother before having a second child.

So now, rather than having two boys (yay! similar toys, clothes and interests!) who make great playmates for each other, I have two diametrically opposed personalities that only seem to enjoy each other's company when they have had no one else to play with for a couple of hours. Jacob loves books; Ben hates reading. Jacob likes sci-fi; Ben likes humor. Jacob likes LEGOs; Ben likes trains. Jacob likes quiet, thinking activities; Ben is always on the move. Sometimes I feel like I failed to read the fine print before deciding to grow our little family, and other times I know it's the universe laughing at me because my first-born was so easy that I thought it would be fun to have more just like him.

But my kids do love each other. I see it at the dinner table when they take turns trying to make the other crack up and blow milk out of his nose. And when they make funnier and funnier faces to see who will laugh hard enough to get the hiccups first. And when they work together on an art project, complimenting each other along the way. Those are the moments that make me proud and happy, the ones that feel so fleeting.

With another vacation coming up soon, I know I need to take action and line up some activities that will help them to work, play and laugh together. Lots of activities. Because if I don't, it's quite possible that before school resumes, they will love each other (or I will end up loving them) to death.

Getting Testy

2010-11-10T16:40:00.002-05:00

I must say first off that I never liked taking tests in school. No matter how prepared I was, or thought I was, there was still anxiety over exposing my ignorance and subsequently being judged on it (also known as grading). So I totally sympathize with my boys when they are stressing over a test. Not only that, I know it even when they don't tell me they're having a test that day.

This is not because I'm a highly sensitive, super-tuned in Mom, sensing anxiety in my children and knowing instinctively what's causing it (though wouldn't that be nice?)

No, they make it easy on me. When Ben has a test, I know because he arrives at the breakfast table dressed in black from head to toe, as if heading to a funeral. His own? Not likely, in third grade, though I'm sure test days feel that way to him. As one who wears his heart on his sleeve, he doesn't shy away from wearing his hatred of all things academic there too. I try to think of it like PMS: an early warning system that tells me right away to tread carefully.

Jacob, on the other hand, has seemingly inherited some ostrich blood from somewhere in his ancestral history. It's easy to know when he's got a test because he burrows under the covers, moaning and whining and refusing to get out of bed, as if ignoring the day will make it go away. I'm sure my whole family wishes this would work when I'm suffering from PMS, and I certainly remember the days of client presentations when I knew I'd be getting up to speak in front of a crowd. It was test day at school all over again. At least I had the incentive of a paycheck to keep me from hiding under the covers.

When the boys were younger and would get upset about something, the power of distraction was my greatest tool for calming them down. Maybe my memory of that is why now, when they get testy with me because of some school issue even before breakfast, I fall back on it.

"Oh, did we get up on the wrong side of the bed today?"

"Can it, Mom."

"My my, such a bad temper so early in the morning. That can't be good. Do you have a challenging day ahead?"

"Grunt."

"So, do you want waffles or banana bread for breakfast?"

"WAFFLES!!"

Granted, it doesn't always work, and at those times I just point out that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, blah, blah, blah, let's warm your belly, etc. etc.

I can't study for them, I can't make the tests go away, and I can't tell them to go get a job instead, if they really hate school that much. But what I can do is offer, as only a mom can, a little support and comfort before they head out into the cold, cruel world. Preferably topped with syrup.

Carte Blanche

2010-10-08T19:22:00.002-04:00

Our school system has a new program in place, where parents can load money into their kids' lunch accounts, and then the kids merely need to plug in their PIN at the cafeteria cash register, and they can buy lunch, milk, a snack, whatever. Fab! I thought. No more sending in nickels, dimes and quarters for lunches! No more worrying about exact change! I set the boys up with $15 each and gave them their PINs with instructions. This would be good for six school lunches each. So at one lunch every two weeks or so, we were set for the first three months of school.

Ben is excellent at math, but apparently this was not how *he* approached the money in his lunch account. No, Ben--the kid who is always saying he wants to be a millionaire when he grows up; the kid who won't spend a dime of his tooth fairy, birthday or found money; the kid who checks every vending machine, pay phone and train seat for loose change--clearly didn't understand what this account was all about.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

Because in a matter of two weeks, despite the fact that he was bringing lunch every day, as well as milk money, Ben burned through that lunch account like a Wall Street hedge fund manager.

My husband and I talked about it. Maybe someone got a hold of his code when he wasn't looking. Maybe he is using it to buy his way into the hearts of other kids with cookies and chips. Maybe he's just really, really hungry and is embarrassed to tell us that he's actually using the money, which is why he keeps denying it.

Finally, after talking about it with Ben, and after the account continued to decline into the negative balance and I got an email from the cafeteria manager, I did something. I told Ben I was closing the account, and that if he wanted to buy lunch, we would talk about it and I would give him cash. I told the cafeteria manager that Ben has insisted he is not using the account, yet it has gone down by at least .50 every day for a week. An investigation is underway.

What I learned was, just becuase one kid has his own money burning a hole in his pocket, it doesn't mean he won't follow directions when it comes to someone else's money (Jacob's account is still full). And just because another kid hoards money like oxygen, it doesn't mean he values all forms of money and will treat them equally carefully.

I also learned Ben likes the Harvest Pizza on Fridays at school. So I guess I'm back to nickels, dimes and quarters again. But at least I know they will last until the end of the year.

The Education of Mom

2010-09-22T09:13:00.016-04:00

I know that knowledge is power, and I always try to be honest and forthright with my kids. As they get older, there is less I need to 'hide' from them about life, and they can process a lot more, provided I present it in an age-appropriate context. Why, then, am I having such a hard time with receiving the same treatment from Jacob's middle school?

Last week was the first full week of school. I worried about Jacob getting lost and being late for class; I worried about the strain on his back from all the books he carts back and forth from school; I worried about the bus ride with all the 13-year-olds and what he'd be hearing and experiencing, whether he'd be able to deal with it all. Thankfully, he calmed me with his own comfort level, sense of confidence and easy smiles. The first week ended well for both of us.

This week, the emails started from school. One day, I learned that a 7th grader had brought a pocket knife on the bus to show his friends, and had it in his locker at school. A conscientious student reported the incident, and the knife was confiscated, the student reprimanded. I'm sure the administration presented the context and sequence of events in such a way as to prevent parents from panicking, to convey the fact that everything was under control and that at no time were any students in danger.

The next day, we were informed that one of the staff members was recently diagnosed wtih Viral Meningitis. We were told not to confuse this with the more serious Bacterial Meningitis, which can result in brain damage, hearing loss, learning disabilities and, you know, death. Viral Meningitis, on the other hand, is "serious but rarely fatal in people with normal immune systems," according to the CDC.

Rarely.

OK, fine.

Yes, I know that pre-teens use bad judgment, and make bad choices, as they gear up to be really effective teenagers. And it's true that I would not have gone to the CDC website to learn all about meningitis had I not been given the link by the school.

But did I really want to know about these incidents, which ultimately presented no danger or harm to my own child? I'd have to say no.

Did I need to know? Probably.

I guess the good of it all is that I now have confidence in Jacob's new school administration to swiftly address issues that arise, and keep me informed about the details, as well as what I need or don't need to do about them.

But I also realized that I am going to have to ease into this new school environment almost as much as Jacob. We are both on the edge of tremendous changes that will, without a doubt, rock both of our worlds over the next three years. And it's going to take some getting used to.

So I'm thinking about not checking my email for a few days, just so I can go back to worrying about simple things, like whether his sneakers are getting too small, or if he remembered to put deodorant on after gym class. I want to revel in blissful ignorance of the world my baby is really going into each morning when he leaves me.

If only for a little while longer.

Tooth And Nail

2010-09-08T22:11:00.013-04:00

It happens every year. Yet, as with childbirth, I forget what it was like last time. This enables me to look blissfully forward to the beginning of every new school year. Cool weather, new crayons, quiet mornings. What's not to love?

Ask Ben.

Actually, don't ask him, because it won't get you anywhere. Like a good writer, he will show rather than tell you that he is not happy about the start of school.

I suppose some little part of my brain retained a memory shard of what starting school is like for Benjamin, because this year, when he was all ready to leave on the first day, he wanted to play cards with me until it was time to go. I said that would be fine, but then something made me say, offhandedly, "Ben, why don't we get our sneakers on too so that we're completely ready to walk out the door? Then we can play right up until the last minute!" He agreed and went to get his sneakers. But they weren't by the door. And they weren't in the playroom.

Or his bedroom. Or the living room. Or his brother's room. They weren't even in the bathroom, and I know because I looked through every room and closet of the house. Three times.

As luck would have it, I had put several pairs of sneakers by the front door, in various sizes, since Ben and his brother have a bad habit of outgrowing things when I'm not looking. After two tries, we found a pair that fit perfectly and had about five minutes left to play cards. Then off he went on his new bus, with his new backpack, to his new school.

At the end of a very productive day, I walked out to meet him at the bus stop. He looked OK as he got off the bus, but when I asked him how his day was, he didn't give me his big smile and trademark, "GREAT!" with a thumbs up. I figured he had a long day and a lot to absorb, so we went home for a special after-school snack of milk and cookies before checking out the homework situation.

"I just have to read for 30 minutes," Ben said.

"Great! Let's get it out of the way before dinner. What would you like to read?"

"Mom, I'm still hungry."

"OK, here are some apple slices. Now. Do you want to read in your room or here in the living room."

"Mom, it's my turn to feed Bailey."

"OK, but then come on up and read while I start dinner."

He came back upstairs. "Mom, I have to go to the bathroom."

I was beginning to see a pattern. When I pressed him, all the tension of the day came out. Shouting, tears, demands, refusals and, of course, an 'I hate school!' to make sure I got the point.

Needless to say the reading never got done. Whether it's because Ben feels like he has to be as smart in third grade as his brother is (even though his brother is in sixth grade), or if he misses me or just doesn't adapt to change easily, he fights the routine of the new school year every September. Perhaps it's a combination of things, but he is so stubborn that when he makes up his mind about something, he makes it up 100%. There is no in between for Ben--no flexibility--which means the rest of us have to be extra flexible to help him ease into the new situation.

And I was very proud that I remembered this on the first day of school, rather than after a week of battling with him. I was able to talk to him about it, give him extra love and attention and be a bit more flexible myself, which is no small feat.

Miraculously (coincidentally?), the missing sneakers turned up right by the front door some time before dinner, but no one knew where they came from. Maybe it was a sign that Ben is loosening up a little, and will adjust to school after a few days this year, instead of a few weeks. Or maybe I'm just being blissfully optimistic again.

Until I know for sure, maybe I'll just keep his shoes under my bed.

Alternate Universe

2010-09-06T15:35:00.015-04:00

My husband and I like to joke about our kids because Jacob looks just like his dad and acts just like me. Ben, on the other hand, looks just like me, but is in every other way like his father. That is, happiest when he is eating or doing some kind of physical work or play.

So it's not surprising that Ben's most interesting revelations come when he is out, say, hiking in the woods, which is where we were today: Mom, Dad, Ben and Bailey dog.

"OK, Ben," David said. "You're the leader. What does that trail marker say?"

"It's red, Dad, but I'm not the leader. You're the leader."

"Why am I the leader? You're the cub scout."

"Whoever is first in line is the leader," declares the scout.

By now, the dog is way out in front of all of us, having a field day with all the unfamiliar scents in the woods. "Uh oh," I say, "Bailey is first. That means we're in trouble because he's color blind. I hope we don't end up on the wrong trail."

(Silent pause)

"Mom," Ben says speculatively, "what if dogs see the world the right way, and we're the ones seeing it wrong?"

My eyebrows go up. "Oh, you mean like seeing the world in color is what makes it so complicated, and seeing it in black and white the way dogs do is really the better way?"

"Yeah," says Ben.

"That's a very interesting theory, Ben! Then maybe we SHOULD be following Bailey." David and I look at each other, thrilled at his fascinating thought process.

"Yeah," Ben clarifies, "unless he chases a squirrel!"

Expanding Palates

2010-09-03T17:55:00.015-04:00

Tonight, my husband brought home a lobster to share with Ben for dinner. Ben, who had never seen a live lobster in his kitchen before, proceeded to quickly go through the five stages of assimilation:

1) Whoa! Dad, is that alive?!?

2) Jacob! Come see this lobster! It's alive!!

3) Can we pet it? Hey, we can keep it in the old fish tank!

4) Wait, we're going to eat it? Aw, poor little guy!

5) Wait, lobsters taste better than crab? Yum!

Ok, I made up the part about there being five stages of assimilation. But still, you can see how his thought process goes.

Jacob, on the other hand--the one who won't bait a hook because he "doesn't believe in killing innocent worms"--was appalled on more levels than I could count. That Dad had brought home a live, gigantic, bug-like creature (when he knows how much Mom hates bugs); that he put it on the kitchen counter; that it had beady eyes and moved when he petted it; that Dad was going to kill it; that Dad and Ben were then going to eat it. Indeed, it was almost enough to kill his own appetite. Until he found out he was having steak.

When I asked Jacob if he was at least going to try the lobster, he said, "Mom, it's cruel to eat animals!" It was at this point that I pointed out where steak came from. That is, an animal much softer, warmer and with bigger and sweeter eyes than a lobster.

"OK," Jacob conceded, "it's cruel to eat animals after you pet them first."

I wonder if he's going to be a lawyer or a lobbyist when he groes up. One thing I can be sure of: he definitely won't be a vegetarian. Unless he's a farmer.

Coffee Break

2010-08-25T21:52:00.009-04:00

Ben hates to get water in his face. Showers are a power struggle, swim lessons were a no-go and even water parks are a turn off since he came down the slide and--because he was so light--flew off the end so fast, he didn't have time to stand up. He actually ended up going under water in a sitting position.

But he wants to overcome this fear and loathing, and this is never more evident than when he watches his brother make friends with every other kid on the beach, and then head out into the waves with them to boogie board.

So I hold Ben's hand, and we stand waist-deep in the ocean. The waves come up, Ben jumps and turns his head away from the splash, and asks me every few minutes to go out farther into the water. Occasionally when a wave splashes him in the face, he drops my hand, runs to the towel to dry himself off, and then returns for more.

Last night was a full moon, and I remembered it today when we were at the beach playing chicken with the waves near the shore. We watched Jacob, his friends and his dad frolicking in the swells, and I decided to see if Ben knew about the effect of the moon on the waves.

"Hey Ben, do you know who controls the waves?" I asked him. His eyes widened at the thought that someone was actually in charge of these things, and for a moment I thought he was going to say, "Pop-pop?"

"Who?" he asked, clearly intrigued. I could imagine him silently penning a letter to this person as we spoke.

"The Man in the Moon," I told him. But before I could explain how it all worked, he looked out at his brother and said, with no hint of sarcasm,

"Well I wish he'd turn them off for a while so I could go out farther."

Digging Deeper

2010-08-23T17:27:00.035-04:00

One of Ben's favorite activities when we visit the coast of North Carolina each summer is to capture and observe the little digger clams that proliferate the shore. We dig in the wet sand, scoop up the each smooth, shiny-shelled mollusk and put it into a bucket filled with sand and water. The clam sits on top of the sand and within a minute, sticks out its tiny hatchet foot, tilts itself up on one end and then digs down under the sand in a matter of seconds.

One of my favorite activities is digging for these clams alongside Ben. His curiosity and enthusiasm are so much fun to watch, and if I let him he would dig in the sand for hours. He is a 'nature boy' who loves the natural world around him--whether it be working in the yard, weeding the garden, picking berries or looking for cool insects. He is in every way his father's son.

While I sat meditating on the wonderful situation we found ourselves in--alone and rapt over something together that did not involve a homework assignment or video game--another young beach visitor stopped by. Peering in our bucket, the boy, who was about eleven years old, asked if we'd caught anything. As Ben pulled up some of the clams and showed him how they dig, the boy proceeded to fish around in the sand next to his foot, and with his hands pulled out a clam to add to Ben's collection. His mom called him away just then and, as he left, Ben commented on the boy's actions.

"He was really nice. Clams are nice too. Basically, anything that's harmless is nice," he said nonchalantly.

But the way he'd phrased it, choosing the word 'harmless', made me wonder if something upsetting was going on in his head.

See, Ben is the type of kid who, when put into bed at night, will lie in the dark and come up with questions like, "Mom, what do blind people see? Is it total blackness, or total whiteness or something else?" It's no wonder he has such a hard time getting to sleep when his mind is trying to puzzle out such questions. So even though his comment seemed innocuous, knowing him as I do, I decided to do a little digging of my own, into his brain.

"You're right, Ben, he was nice. What would you consider 'not nice'?" I asked.

Bracing myself for an answer like 'bullies,' 'mean kids,' 'my brother,' or 'scary dogs,' I hoped my tone came off as more curious than prying. I held my breath.

"Laser beams," he replied.

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing at his answer, as he might misconstrue it as laughing at him.

"Ah, yes, being shot by a laser beam doesn't sound very nice."

Soon after, we decided it was time to free the little clams. As we placed them back on the beach one by one, they dug their way back into the shore unscathed. When I noticed one that didn't seem to be moving at all, despite my nudging and re-positioning of it, I tried to decide if I should hide it from Ben or tell him that I thought the clam was dead. He spotted it before I had a chance to choose.

"That guy's not digging."

"I know, Ben, I think he might be dead."

"Or maybe he's just sleeping."

"Hm, maybe," I said cautiously as he continued to stare at the motionless clam.

"Yeah," he went on, getting more sure of himself. "Maybe he's just a hard core sleeper."

"HA!" This time, I couldn't help but laugh out loud at his choice of words. "Oh, I mean yeah, you're probably right. He's hard core. Let's tuck him in so no one eats him while he's sleeping," I suggested.

"Great idea, Mom. You're really nice."

I don't always have the answers to Ben's questions. But knowing he doesn't mind my digging around to get him to share them with me is enough. Maybe even enough for Ben.

Photo credit: Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission

Hilton Retirement Plan

2010-08-09T21:11:00.015-04:00

I love watching Ben mature, yet every now and then he will come out with one of those statements that just underscores for me how his still-young brain works. We haven't been to the Berkshires since my father-in-law passed away last year, and decided it was time we took a ride up as a family. My mother-in-law recently moved to a senior living facility, and the kids love it there. Between the ping pong table, the swimming pool and the restaurant-style dining room, they are never bored. Ben, though, is still making the logistical adjustment in his brain from the old house they used to own to this new place. Tonight I threw him a curve. The last time this happened, the conversation was almost as funny.

Me: "Ben, be sure to get some rest. We don't want you to get sick because we're going to Grandma's house in Massachusetts this weekend."

Ben: "Wait, which house?"

Me: "The one with the tennis courts and the lake. Remember?"

Ben: "You mean the hotel with all the old people?"

Me: "No, that's her new apartment."

Ben: "Wait, you mean the one where we SLEEP OVER??"

Me: "That's the one!"

Ben: "Better take cover, Mom. I think my head's going to explode."

Lounge Lizard

2010-08-03T13:22:00.021-04:00

When Jacob was born, he weighed six pounds and one ounce. That's about three-quarters of what a gallon of milk weighs. I can still remember when he was just a couple of weeks old, and we went to visit friends who had triplets. The triplets were exactly six months to-the-day older than Jacob. And they were HUGE. I remember looking at them and then looking at Jacob and thinking, I cannot believe my child will ever be that big. Ever. No way. Can't happen.

Well, last week Jacob discovered the Teen Lounge in our town. No, he's not a teenager yet, but on Mondays, the Lounge is open to kids entering 6th grade this fall. Having grown substantially since birth (which seems like, oh, last week), he was eager to check out this new 'tween scene. So I took some deep breaths to silence my heart palpitations, and said "of course I'll drive you there."

When we arrived, there were about 15 kids there already. Several were inside playing various games while others were spilling out the door onto the stairs. Great! I thought. Jacob isn't the only one here! Then he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Mom, I don't see any boys."

Neither did I.

I convinced Jacob to come inside anyway so we could look around and get some information. Outfitted with a bumper pool table, ping pong table, big screen television, couch, foozball and vending machine, the place was deemed 'cool' by Jacob. And the adult supervisor who registered him, checked him in and gave me the low-down and a list of rules for Jacob to study, made me think the same thing.

The question remained: stay or leave?

Jacob decided to stay, and asked if he could remain until closing at 10pm. I said he could, gave him my cell phone in case he changed his mind, then headed out before he had a chance.

On the way home, I tried to recall what it's like to be almost 11 years old, and when I remembered, I cringed at the thought of the social situations I often found myself in. Girls who knew more about the mechanics of girls' bodies than I (or at least sounded like they did), boys whose actions were mysterious, bizarre and contradictory, and me in the middle. Learning to relate to others was a very difficult process for me--the back and forth of relationships was something I would not fully grasp until many years later.

So in a way, I felt that games like ping pong, bumper pool and foozball were perfect vehicles for relating at this age. Children learn through play, after all, and my hope is that Jacob can learn to negotiate the delicate dance of social interaction by being in this environment. Instead of competing about who knows more about sex, or who has tried out which evil deed or web page, they can actually connect over friendly--and harmless--forms of competition. Innocent back-and-forth situations can help facilitate ones that are more complex.

When I picked him up later that night, he was grinning from ear to ear. We had a bit of chat with the supervisors, who praised him for his courage in staying with so many girls. Blushing, Jacob was tongue tied and, I daresay, speechless.

Considering the only time Jacob is speechless is when he's unconscious, I'm going to assume he had fun.

Hooked? Eh, Not So Much

2010-07-28T14:37:00.010-04:00

When I was a kid, I would ride my bike down to the sound, bait my hook and fish for whatever would be interested in eating half a worm. It was fun, a great way to hang out with my cousins and pass the time on a summer day, and it's what kids do.

Or did.

This week, I ran into another mom friend at the lake, who was there with her two children, a boy and a girl. Her boy was fishing, and the mom was telling me that they'd just gotten back from Alaska, where her son had been fishing with his grandpa. Ben had been watching the young fisherman, and seemed keenly intrigued. When a fish was caught, he was thrilled to watch the process of reeling it in, unhooking and releasing it back into the lake. The boy asked if Ben would like to try it.

"Sure!" he squeaked. I grabbed half a worm and started to show him how to bait the hook.

"Uh, no Mom, you do it," he said, backing away with a grimace on his face. Jacob was soon beside his brother.

"Jacob, you can try after Ben is done," I suggested, trying to include him in the fun.

"No thanks. I don't believe in killing defenseless worms. I'll just watch," he said, also backing away.

What the heck? Do they not make kids like they used to? It's not like they were girls in crinoline dresses, shrieking at the site of worm guts. They're boys for pity's sake!

Fine.

I cast the line, handed the rod to Ben and we waited for all of 30 seconds. Then, he got a bite.

"Ooh! Reel it in!" I cheered.

Ben was thrilled as he pulled up a little sunny. Until it swung toward him.

"OK," I said, grabbing the line, "now let me show you how to hold him so we can get the hook out."

Needless to say, he wanted nothing to do with that part either.

I decided we would take it slowly, round up Dad in the coming weeks, take our rods, some hot dogs (for bait) and work up to the 'ick' factor as a family. Don't get me wrong: I'd love it if my kids grew to be environmentally conscious and caring about the animal world. But there are some things that kids just have to learn how to do, as rites of passage: ride a bike; swim; bait a hook, and remove a fish from said hook.

OK, I know I was a tomboy as a kid, but still. Am I expecting too much? Being overly nostalgic? Torturing my kids?

Insights welcome.

Swinger

2010-07-22T21:44:00.009-04:00

You know how some kids, when they get hungry, get really cranky? Well, when Ben gets really hungry (as in, he's been watching cartoons so intently that he doesn't realize he's starving until I tell him to turn off the t.v. for the ninth time and come eat), he morphs into Satan's spawn. People tell me all the time how cute he is, and I tell them that it saves his life every day. They laugh. I'm not kidding.

Ben is a lover of structure. This is only a problem in summer, when schedules are more lax. We spend a lot of our days at the beach. But since no one ever wants to leave, we tend to get home later, eat later and go to bed later. All this sounds very relaxing, and it is, except for Ben.

Remember the movie The Exorcist? That scene where little Linda Blair's head turned completely around? That's Ben if he doesn't eat within an hour of waking up. Or when he has eschewed snacks and is waiting for dinner to be ready. I'll be standing at the stove cooking, and the conversation will go something like this:

Ben: "Mom, give me something to EAT!"

Me: "Excuse me? Ben, if you're hungry, eat a carrot. Dinner will be ready..."

Ben: "MOM, GIVE ME SOMETHING TO EAT NOW!!"

Jacob: "Ben, I'll peel carrots for both..."

Ben: "SHUT UP, JACOB!"

Me: "That's enough, Ben!"

Ben: "MOM, I JUST WANT SOMETHING TO EAT!!"

Yeah, that I get.

Having seen his intense mood swings, I cannot tell you how much I dread his teen years, now that I know how vicious, loud and mean he can be when a number of factors all come together at once. It's like the personification of a perfect storm.

How can you live like that? you might ask. It sounds like insanity! Yes, it is like that, and we yell a lot at each other when things get out of hand.

But then Ben eats, brushes his teeth, reads a story with me and asks me to lay in bed with him a while before he falls asleep. I tell him I need to jump in the shower first--for 15 or 20 minutes--to wash off the sand from the beach. When I'm done, I hear him calling me. I get dressed and go into his room.

Ben: "Mom, what took you so long?"

Me: "I was just drying off."

Ben: "Oh yeah. Sorry I rushed you."

Me: "That's OK."

Then I'll lay down next to him, and as he starts to drift off, he says things, things that are like little, open windows that let me peek into his brain.

"Mom, I never want to get married. I want to live with you forever."

and

"Mom, is this real life or a dream?"

and my favorite,

"I love you Mom. You're the perfect mom. It's like you were made just for me."

Though I joke about the tough moments and the challenges Ben throws at me, it's moments--and comments--like this that actually save my life every day.

Feed Your Head

2010-07-19T21:26:00.008-04:00

There is a scene in Pixar's Monsters, Inc. movie when Boo, the little human girl, is returned to her bedroom after her big, scary, unexpected adventures in Monsteropolis. She runs giddily from toy to toy, handing each one to Sully, her monster friend, to share all of her excitement of being back among her own things. It's a great scene, and I saw it play out in real life this weekend when Jacob returned home from sleepaway camp.

Gone for a week into the woods with the Boy Scouts, he hiked, went whitewater rafting, picked blueberries at the top of a mountain, swam in the lake, and did all those outdoorsy, boy things that boys do when they camp in the woods. No phones, computers or video games. No nagging mom or annoying brother. It was a 10-year-old's version of Heaven.

Until he got home. Tired, dirty, happy to be back in 'civilization' (i.e. where the microwave is), he moved from his books to his LEGOs to his piano to his Pokemon card collection to his video gaming magazines as if he'd been gone a year. He read the whole week's stack of newspaper comics that we'd saved for him. He played with the dog. He watched SpongeBob.

I've always been fascinated by Jacob's interest in, well, everything. Since infancy, he's been a sponge, soaking up everything from math to computer animation, from science to singing solos on stage. His interests are wide and varied, and he manages to balance them all. After a week of feeding his physical, outdoor, nature-focused self, he came home to feed his head. Reading, writing, playing piano, building with LEGOs. He did it all, and all before he'd been home for two full days.

He seems more mature than he did when he went away. I wonder how much of it is a new perspective on his place in the family, having been away from us for longer than he's ever been, and how much of it is a new perspective on himself. Perhaps it's a bit of both, having learned how to feed all of his passions, body and mind, and find contentment at home when he was through. Even with a nagging mom and annoying brother around.

Summer Slide

2010-07-01T15:23:00.012-04:00

Summer is that carefree time of year when kids dream of doing nothing for days on end, and parents can sit around thinking of ways to make them work. After 10 months of cramming their brains with more information than they'll ever be able to use in one lifetime, my sons are ready to bike ride, play at the lake, swim with friends, play video games and veg out. But I have to be careful, apparently, to avoid the 'summer slide.'

It sounds like a water ride, like something fun. In fact it's just a term crazy, type-A parents developed to describe the actual relaxation of their children's brains over the summer months. Fearing their brilliant offspring will forget everything but their first names once they're out of school, parents send their kids to tutors, summer classes, and have workbooks out for daily summer drilling.

I, on the other hand, prefer to give my kids ways to think outside the classroom that's actually fun. Figuring out what animals the clouds look like. Helping me measure ingredients for making cookies. Stirring the Jello in the hot water and pontificating on what makes it melt. Picking out dinner recipes and then calculating how much of each ingredient we'll need if we are cutting the recipe in half.

This led me to start thinking along other lines, and I came up with what type of food each of my kids would be. Ben, who will throw a tantrum when told he can't have a milkshake with his cupcake, will--if ignored--tell me minutes later how much he loves me while making a ridiculous face in my rear-view mirror. Or he will yell at his brother for taking his magazine in the car, and then when Jacob says "I'm bored," will suggest they fight. Then he'll close his eyes and wave both hands up and down like he's ready to have a slap-battle all by himself, making his brother and me burst out laughing.

So I would say that if he were a food, Ben would be a sweet and sour meatball.

Jacob is a bit tougher. He doesn't wear his emotions on his sleeve the way his brother does. He'll walk around looking pensive, but ask him what's on his mind and he'll say 'nothing.' He's a big fan of bland textures and flavors, but has days when he'll burst into song, or try a new food or task without being asked. There's a lot more to him than meets the eye, and I'm always walking a fine line between over- and under-estimating him. But he's also very even keel, without the illogical outbursts his brother subjects me to on a daily basis.

Yes, I decided, Jacob is a plain donut with strawberry jelly inside. Average looking on the outside, but hiding much more than you'd expect on the inside.

OK, so I guess we're doing more 'thinking outside the ice-box' than really getting creative. My kids' brains may slide this summer, but at least they'll have lots of fun stories to share when they go back to school.

The Hope for Wide Horizons

2010-06-21T12:18:00.009-04:00

I've always been proud of the fact that my kids don't have any cavities. Part of it, I know, is because oral hygiene is very important in our house, and the boys do a good job of brushing every day, go to the dentist regularly and don't drink soda. But with Jacob, my starch-a-holic, I figured it was partly because flour doesn't cause cavities, and that's pretty much all he eats, in one form or another.

So I was thrilled when the dentist referred Jacob to an orthodontist. (Bear with me. I'll explain.)

After many x-rays, photos and probing of Jacob's mouth, the orthodontist informed me that he was going to solve all of my problems with my finicky eater: he was going to expand his palate. At least, that's what I chose to hear when he told me Jacob would need a palate expander.

When he saw the look of appreciation on my face, I think he realized he was going to have to elaborate because I was obviously missing something.

"His upper jaw is too narrow, so some of his adult teeth don't have room to come in. This appliance will widen the jaw, allow more space in his mouth for the teeth to move down, and then they'll push out the remaining baby teeth."

Darn.

I still hold out hope that someday, when someone uses the words "appliance" and "mouth" in the same sentence when referring to Jacob, they'll be describing our empty refrigerator, due to Jacob's incredible appetite and eating habits. Though I guess I should be careful what I wish for. When the palate expander comes out, Jacob may very well have new adult teeth, a bigger smile and a sudden craving for a corned beef sandwich. And pickles. And meatloaf. And salad. And cheeseburgers.

From my lips to my butcher's ears.

Mom Magic

2010-05-18T16:49:00.011-04:00

Ben is part turtle. Have I mentioned this? If he stays up late, I have to wake him in the morning, and watch as his head retreats from his pillow, disappearing under the mounds of blanket shell on his bed. This is usually just a winter problem, but rainy school days are a close second when it comes to not wanting to get up.

Wednesday morning he was a snapping turtle: when I lovingly whispered, "Ben, honey, time to get up," I was greeted with "Mom, get OUT!" before his vanishing act. He didn't even open his eyes.

I could hear the rain beating on the roof. The thermometer said it was 48 degrees outside. Inside, I was thankful that I didn't have to go anywhere. In fact, I could even go back to bed after the kids left if I wanted to. That is to say, I felt his pain. So I knew that if I was going to get Ben out of bed, it was going to take bribery.

My husband likes to try to tempt Ben with a race: who can get dressed faster? Sometimes he'll ask Ben to feed some scraps to Bailey the dog, something Ben loves to do. But this morning, Ben was unresponsive to any and all attempts to lure him.

It was time to pull out the big guns.

Usually, when it comes to bribing Ben, all you need is something sweet. But it was also rainy and cold, so it would have to be something sweet and warm. Honey Combs weren't going to cut it, and neither was peanut butter on toast. No, it was time for GIANT PANCAKES WITH SYRUP.

Of course, with 30 minutes until the bus and Ben still under the covers, there was no time for even Bisquick. So I pulled out some big, fluffy pancakes I had made on the weekend and froze for just such an occasion. Four minutes in the toaster oven, and breakfast was served.

He chowed, I packed his lunch, he brushed his teeth, I gathered his coat and shoes and he was out the door right on time with a smile on his face and a big hug for me.

Yes, it was a shortcut. But like all moms, I choose my battles and cut corners where necessary. And I learned long ago that, with Ben, when the going gets tough, it helps to have a sweet trick up your sleeve to get the tough going.

Funny thing is, I was never much of a magician until I became a mom. I guess discovering new things about yourself is just one more part of the magic of parenthood.

Dessert Police

2010-05-17T15:26:00.012-04:00

When I was a kid, cookies were always kept in the house. Sunshine Hydrox, my dad's favorite, never ran out, and much to the delight of my brother and me, were kept in an easy-access cupboard. Maybe my mom thought this would promote our self-restraint. After all, we knew the rules: dessert AFTER dinner. Only TWO cookies apiece. Got it.

But once I became a teenager and life got harder, nabbing four (or five or six) Hydrox cookies after school or after dinner (or both) seemed to help my mood. Not that it helped my teeth--they were filled with cavities before I went to college. The lesson I learned was that you can't keep sweets in my house and expect me to have any restraint.

Today, I try to impart to my children the lesson I *should* have learned. That is, we have a limit of two cookies because more than that is unhealthy for your teeth and your body. This is why we don't get dessert every night, and when we do, it's usually a small treat. Some might say I'm pretty strict about desserts today. (OK, maybe just my kids would say that.) But I'm starting to think they have good reason.

One recent evening at a scout meeting, snack time rolled around. One of the dads was in charge this week, and he put a package of individual cookie packs on the table that was surrounded by eight or nine kids. The package had Nutter Butters, Oreos and Chips Ahoy cookie packs in it, and I think it was expected that each boy would take one package. Notice, I say "expected" and not instructed.

I watched as my son took a package of Oreos (six cookies to a pack), each of the other boys also took a package, and then some also grabbed a second. One actually was stuffing the first pack in his mouth and had two more packages in front of him. His mom was chatting with the other moms, and I wouldn't be surprised if his goal was to eat as many cookies as he could before being discovered and stopped. He is seven, after all.

Once I got Ben to give up his Oreo pack after we negotiated that he could have three cookies, I went around the table and told all the other boys "one package per scout." When they protested, I turned to the room of moms and said, in a voice that I thought was rhetorical, "Hey Moms, would any of you object to your boys eating 10 to 12 cookies tonight?"

They kind of hemmed and hawed, but no one really answered.

Maybe they didn't get my joke. Maybe their not as fanatic about dessert rules as I am. But I was surprised to get barely a reaction to my question, and so I told the boys "one package each unless your mom tells you differently," and left it at that.

Don't get me wrong. I'm sure Ben would have eaten as many packages of cookies as he could have if I hadn't been standing there, and would later have complained of a stomach ache. But That's OK. I'll take the 'bad mommy' rap now, if it means that my kids will learn self-restraint, and that I can be there to point out when they exhibit it. Maybe I'm depriving them of cookies, but I hope I'm giving them some useful tools in their stead.

If nothing else, it means less vomit for me to clean up while they're young.

It's A Grill Thing

2010-05-11T09:57:00.011-04:00

I've come to believe that kids are born knowing things instinctively, and adults later prove them correct through research studies and testing that requires a lot of money. Take grilled meat, for instance. My kids--carnivores both--have an aversion to any meat cooked this way. They love hot dogs, cheeseburgers, steak and sausage. Unless it's cooked on the grill. Then, they're asking for leftover pasta instead.

At first I thought maybe it was the smoky flavor they objected to, making the food taste, well, different from what it usually tasted like. But on further interrogation, it turns out they don't like the grill marks. This is not a visual thing; they don't like the charred flavor that grilled meat takes on, and any sign of grill marks will send them running for a knife and some ketchup. Jacob sometimes refuses outright to eat grilled food.

"Great," I thought, "another day in the life of irrationally picky eaters." But as it turns out, apparently they know something I didn't: that eating a lot of grilled meat actually increases our risk of getting cancer.

I'm not saying my kids are brilliant, or even that this isn't coincidence. But Ben has eschewed processed food since he was born, and would rather eat a bowl of steamed spinach than a plate of onion rings or chicken nuggets. Like most busy moms, having ready-made foods that don't take long to cook is something I've come to rely on. When you're rushing from piano lessons to boy scouts, and picking up kids at tennis and wiffle ball, the one thing you always run out of is time. Unfortunately, for most families that lost time is taken from time spent on meal preparation. So we cut corners on the very fuel our kids need to do their best in all of these activities.

What it means to me is that I need to budget my time better. That way, I can do all the things I need to do during the day, including smart, healthy meal planning.

Parents complain about their kids' eating habits, but maybe our kids are really trying to tell us something important. What makes my picky eaters easier to live with is this: the foods they are turning up their noses at are actually the foods that aren't really that good for them anyway.

Well, except for dessert. Hey, they are kids, after all.

Teething Pain

2010-04-19T10:19:00.010-04:00

When I was a kid, I never really gave my teeth any thought unless they were loose, missing or had something stuck in them. But these days, it seems my life is all about teeth: loose ones, missing ones, prizes to exchange for missing ones, crooked ones that need orthodontia, impacted ones that will hopefully correct themselves after the orthodontia, etc. etc.

Thankfully, none of them are mine.

Anyone who has read this blog in the past knows the suffering I endured at the hands (or rather, mouth) of Ben when he had his first loose tooth. My chowhound couldn't chow, and life was a tragedy for at least two weeks. I was this close to pulling it myself, just to put me out of Ben's misery.

Now, six months later, the saga continues. Both of Ben's top, front teeth have been loosening simultaneously for some time. He wiggles them with his hands and his tongue, but does all his biting and chewing on the side of his mouth. The tension mounted more every day with fear of the swallowing, hurting or bleeding of said teeth. That is, until Friday.

Friday evening, just before his dad and I were to go out, Ben pulled me aside to tell me "something private" and held out one of the teeth. Hooray! We're halfway done. I gave him a hug, helped him wrap it up and told him to put it under his pillow for the tooth fairy. Then I went to a party. Ben was very happy with his new dollar bill the next day.

Later Saturday, we went to my brother's house for another party, kids in tow. After playing outside for a while, Ben came inside and pulled me aside yet again. But he had no tooth in his hand this time.

"It fell out in the grass and I can't find it," he said with obvious worry over his potentially lost reward from you-know-who. Did I reassure him that it would be fine, that the tooth fairy understands about these things happening? Yes. Did I then go back to chatting with my family? Er, not exactly.

Instead, my husband, my mother, Ben, his cousins and I went out to the back yard, located the general vicinity in which he had been playing when the tooth came out ("I was in the grass"--great), and spent a good 15 minutes looking for an itty bitty baby tooth. You'd be amazed how many tiny, white pebbles-that-look-like-itty-bitty-baby-teeth are in my brother's back yard. I certainly was. And I had to laugh at how ironic I found the whole situation, considering that this is the kid who kept biting me during his breastfeeding days. It felt like CSI: Motherhood.

In the end, we didn't find the tooth, but Ben got his reward anyway. Some might say I went way overboard and that I should have let Ben deal with this small disappointment, a natural part of life. But I like to think that, by putting in a real effort in response to his distress--regardless of how hopeless we knew the search was--we taught him that his family is here for him in times of trouble. Hopefully he learned that we will take his pain seriously, and even if we can't fix it we will do what we can to make him feel better.

Disappointment--like teeth--will come and go, but family is forever. Hopefully, that knowledge will always help ease the stings in his life.

Celebrating Heritage

2010-03-17T19:01:00.007-04:00

They say there are two kinds of people in the world: Irish, and those who wish they were Irish. On St. Patrick's Day every year, when I was growing up, I would listen to my uncles tell the story of the night I was born. It was during the blizzard of '67, and in Yonkers--which is full of hills--there was no way to get the cars to the hospital. Everything got stuck in the snow, so my mom's brothers all walked to the hospital. Being of Irish descent, they were all eager to greet the St. Patrick's Day baby who was on the way. They ate terribly stale sandwiches from the vending machines, calmed my soon-to-be dad, and whiled away the hours in anticipation.

I showed up at 2a.m. on the 18th.

To this day, I refuse to be late for anything, and assure my family that I planned my birthday as such because I have never liked corned beef and cabbage. As a result, I always got to eat spaghetti and meatballs on St. Patrick's Day, while the rest of my family happily shared the traditional meal. And there was nothing my uncles could do about it but tell me the disappointing story of my birth, again and again, throughout my entire childhood.

Now that I've grown, I forgive them for torturing me. Mainly because it's such a good story.

For some interesting history on the rest of the Irish, check out USARiseUp.com.

Cheers!

Ah. NOW I Get It

2010-03-01T21:27:00.002-05:00

DanseDance from Julien Vallée on Vimeo.

This is a great visual example of what writer's block can feel like. It's also a great way to explain to others what ADD feels like.

Security Breach

2010-02-23T20:04:00.014-05:00

We got Bailey, our Golden Lab/Retriever mix, two years ago this month. Since then, he has become like our third child. So I decided it was time to start being a bad mother to him as well. After all, I didn't want him to feel left out, comparing himself to his brothers Ben and Jacob all the time.

To do this, I accepted a volunteer position at my local library for two mornings a week. To keep things fair (after all, the children came first), I sent the children back to school yesterday, after a 10-day vacation, but I didn't make Bailey suffer until today. After a brisk walk with my neighbor and his Beagle, with whom Bailey is good buddies, I brought Bailey inside, changed into work clothes and left for three hours.

He may have taken this as a personal insult, as I usually spend my days with him in the house. If I'm up and down the stairs doing laundry, he shadows me. If I am working on the computer, he sleeps curled up against the heater right behind my chair. Heaven help him when I go to the bathroom, because he seems convinced that there is another exit from the house in there; he cries and whines relentlessly from the time I close the door until he can see me again.

But my dog doesn't handle insults the way some do. Other dogs might pee on the furniture, lay on my bed or rip up my tablecloth while I was gone. Not Bailey. Bailey instead becomes very insecure. (Clearly there is no cat DNA in him.) First, he took the doggie pillow he sleeps on and twisted it up by swinging it around with his mouth. Then he humped it across the room. (Don't ask me how I know this. You'll just have to trust me.) After that he dragged his wool blanket downstairs to the front door. And finally, when I got back home, he ran and brought two different toys to me before I had even taken off my coat.

What is the answer? Quit the job? Doggie Prozac? I say nay to both. Call me selfish, but for the first time in over a decade, I'm going to relish the feeling of being fully appreciated, sorely missed and warmly welcomed when I come home. I'll reassure him by playing catch with him and taking him for a walk, and I'll give him lots of attention.

And then I'll throw throw his doggie bed in the wash.

Color Me Happy

2010-02-22T21:35:00.004-05:00

Ben: "Mom, if oranges are called 'oranges,' why aren't lemons called 'yellows' and limes called 'greens'?"

Me: "That is an excellent question, Ben. What should we call bananas, strawberries and apples then?"

Ben: (silence) "Hm. I'm going to have to think on that one a bit."

I Heart You

2010-02-14T14:33:00.013-05:00

Call me old-fashioned. Because that may be the reason I just don't get all of this "it's so hard to find true love" talk that swirls at this time of year. Books, articles, Valentine's Day haters, bitter singles--it seems everyone spends today pontificating on the elusive, indefinable, different-for-everyone state of true and lasting love. The divorce rate is off the charts.

What's the answer? Are there just no more perfect mates out there anymore? Are all the good ones truly taken?

I say no. In fact, if everyone would read and follow this blog entry, there'd be a lot more perfect mates out there. That's because I've got the fix for everyone. Call it the Atkins Diet for love. Three simple rules.

Ready?

1) Always be respectful of your partner. Treating someone with respect, even when you're mad at them or disagree with them or are frustrated with them, is not easy. OK, it actually stinks. Because you're forcing yourself to argue without being petty, mean, spiteful or cruel. But here's the thing. By working hard to do it anyway, you are being a better person. This argument will soon end, but your relationship will continue. Your partner will probably forget all about the argument down the road, but will remember how you treated them. Make that a good memory.

2) Give more than half. Keeping score of whose turn it is to scrub the toilets, who needs to apologize and who washed the dishes last time is a crumy way to live. Maybe if you're living with a slacker college roommate, it needs to be addressed. If that's the case, use a job chart. As for love, think of it this way: if you were alone you'd have to do these things all the time by yourself. So if you had to wash the dishes four times this week and your partner only did it three times, that's still three times less for you. Be appreciative. If you disagreed during an argument, chances are you both have room for improvement. Apologize. Maybe you did more laundry this week, but your mate took out the trash and cleaned up the dog vomit. Say thank you. And then let it go.

3) Don't hold grudges. Holding grudges is like going to bed without brushing your teeth. The yuck seeps down inside and starts doing damage. The longer it's in there, the more unhealthy you become. Did you know that tooth decay can kill you? In the same slow, painful way, grudges and resentment can kill a relationship. Take the high road. When the issue is resolved, leave the past in the past. You'll both be better for it.

That's it. Three rules. What could be easier? But, like love, by following these rules, you give a little but reap so much more. Kindness begets kindness. Being respectful inspires respect.

Life is hard. That's why it's so great to have a partner to help you through it. If you can let the little, petty things go, all that's left are the big things that keep us together.

And, as that Little Rascal Alfalfa once said oh-so-poignantly, that's what love is all about.

On The Fence

2010-02-09T10:29:00.012-05:00

As Jacob moves closer to adolescence, his behavior has become something I liken to climbing a fence.

Some days, he's still on this side. He wants me with him constantly: when he's brushing his teeth, he wants me in the bathroom with him. When he's done in the shower, he wants me to towel and blow dry his hair for him (he likes the warmth). At bedtime, he wants me to tuck him in and sit with him a while to talk about his day's trials and tribulations.

But other days, as he tries out the other side of the fence, I am an embarrassment, an albatross, an annoyance. Lately, for example, if I am singing along to a catchy tune on the radio while making dinner, rather than sing along with me as he used to, or even smirking at me, he will throw me a "get over yourself, Mom" look. It's a visual version of giving snaps, as if he wonders why I bother, for my voice could never trump his. A look that says I should know better than to show such displays in my kithen (forget about outside the house!), that I should just stick to cooking and leave the singing to him.

Unless he does something that is outright rude, in these situations I usually laugh at him or sing even louder. But this week, perhaps fueled by his performance at the school Variety Show (and the accolades that followed from friends and strangers), he envisions himself as the next Michael Buble, and actually had the nerve to tell me to stop singing.

'Tween or not, hormones or no hormones, I gave it right back to him.

"Dude, who do you think *gave* you that set of pipes, that rhythm, that musical ability you love so much? Toys 'R' Us? Noooo. Your dad? Noooo. He couldn't carry a tune if you put it in a backpack. It was ME, boy, singing to you even before you were born, using ASL to sign the words of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to you as a baby, paying for your piano lessons and showing you how to place your hands on the keyboard. All RIGHT then!" Now it was my turn to give snaps.

OK, so when I step back, I understand this is just the beginnings of Jacob's budding independence, his need to feel separate yet capable, confident and talented. And as a kid, it's all about putting himself above others to prove to himself he really does have worth.

I concede that maybe sometimes I respond more like a kid than necessary. Perhaps it makes me sad to think of my little boy growing up. But I find that, as he climbs that fence between childhood and adolescence, turning occasionally to throw rocks at me down on the ground, that this is the best way to get my point across to him. And if I can make both of us laugh in the process, hopefully I can slow his journey just a little bit, and the climb won't be any harder than it has to be, for either of us.

I'm With Cupid

2010-02-08T16:44:00.010-05:00

There's something about the mystery of children that I love. Now I know some of you are saying, "mystery? What are you talking about? Kids are as transparent as puppies!" And maybe that's it. They are undying in their devotion, can't get enough of their mother's love and attention, and no matter how many times she yells at them, they remain unfazed and attached.

This, of course, only adds to the gobs of guilt that moms get to carry home, along with their baby, when they leave the hospital. One would think that, as we become more proficient in our roles as parents, the guilt would begin to dissipate. One would be wrong.

This guilt grows as our children grow, magnifying our imperfections like the flourescent lights in a women's changing room. Sometimes it's brought on when they cry over something we've said to them, like, "no." Conversely, it's also brought on when they accept what we say blindly, demonstrating their faith and trust in us, thus leaving us to our late-night brooding sessions (to replace the sleepless nights we had when they were babies), the ones in which we wonder endlessly whether we are damaging our children for life, and how much.

Even when we are acting with love, we blow it. Take today for instance. I wanted to blog about my kids' unending well of love, and the wonderful Valentine's Day card Ben made for me. I decided to take a picture of it to post with this entry. He heard the camera clicking and came in to the room asking, "Mom, what are you doing?"

"I'm taking a picture," I said, realizing at that moment that I may be doing something that wouldn't be well-received.

"Of WHAT?" he asked as he got closer. There was no hiding now.

"Of the beautiful Valentine's Day card that you made for me!" I said cheerily.

The tears started flowing and he cried out about what a terrible thing I had done. I had read it before Valentine's Day, and now it was 'ruined' and Ben would have to make a whole new one. And this one had taken him "like, FIFTY minutes to make!"

I tried to soothe him with, "It's OK, Honey, it's for my blog!" but he was completely uninterested in my motives.

Sigh. I swallowed my guilt, apologized and offered him some pink construction paper, glue and glitter in the hopes of inspiring some creativity (and yes, distracting him from his dismay).

It worked, he seems unscathed, and a new Valentine has been created, even before dinner is ready. Perhaps it's just youthful innocence, short attention span or a love of art. But I prefer to think of it as more evidence of that undying love which, guilt aside, will always remain a mystery to me.

Snob? I Wouldn't Say That

2010-02-01T17:08:00.008-05:00

OK, I'm a writer, right? So friends send me things they've written and ask me to look them over, edit, proof and maybe spruce them up. It's something I'm proud of, as I do this in daily life (though I try not to do it when it's unsolicited), so to be asked makes me feel a little less like I'm being a word snob and more like my editing skills are valued. After all, everyone needs to read and write. Like any endeavor, don't we want to do so to the best of our abilities?

Apparently not.

I'm not talking about fifth graders here, or even adults with limited educational opportunities. I'm talking about professional adults in finance companies, college students who edit literary magazines and graduate students in writing programs in charge of the quarterly newsletters.

"Mr. X spoke with your wife whom stated..."

"It donned on me that if we want to encourage..., than it would be good to..."

"In this vain, we felt a strong..."

Commas where there should be periods. Capitalized words that should be lower case. Misspelled contributors' names in the table of contents. And these are just a few examples.

Am I being too nitpicky?

I suppose I'm really lamenting the decline of the publishing industry, with so many good writers and editors being let go in the name of saving money. Books aren't being published, not because they have no literary merit, but because they won't be blockbuster sellers with movie options. Newspapers are thinner, their articles more likely to contain errors (I've seen many as I am still a daily subscriber).

Perhaps this is a testament to the disorder of our priorities as a society. "It's only worthwhile if it makes money." "Quantity, not quality, is what matters most." It really seems that literacy is going the way of the payphone. With email, texts and tweets being the most common ways news is passed from person to person, is it any wonder we don't care about spelling or grammar anymore? Too many characters to worry about! Just get the jist of your message across!

Don't get me wrong. I love the new technologies that enable us to access and send information from anywhere in the world. It is now possible for even the laymen, in addition to paid writers and journalists, to share their words and messages with thousands of people at once. But to me, that's just one more reason why the message should be legible and accurate.

Truth And Consequences (or) Ode On A Dithering Mom

2010-01-30T15:38:00.017-05:00

Keats may have said that beauty is truth, but I take issue with whether truth is beauty. Especially after reading a memoir by my ten-year-old this week. Granted, memoir to a fifth grader is a fuzzy concept. Let's just say he took a lot of artistic license.

This was part of "curriculum hour" in Jacob's classroom, where parents are led around to view the various tools and topics their progeny are engaged with during a typical school day. Let me tell you, there is nothing like a day in the life of your fifth grader to deliver a crushing blow to your previous sense of intellectual superiority. It turns out I'm actually not smarter than a fifth grader, at least when it comes to the latest technology. And science? I may be able to spell buoyancy, but don't ask me to define its principle.

But then Jacob shared his writing folder with me, including his journals, memoirs and fiction pieces. This was what I had been waiting for, and I enjoyed his descriptions of campouts, contests and other experiences he'd had. But the one that he had typed up on fancy paper for me to take home (and frame?) was called Rings on a Pillow. It was his memory of the day he was a ring bearer in my cousin's wedding three and a half years ago.

It began impressively with a building sense of anticipation prior to the ceremony, a great alliteration about the sound of his shoes hitting the floor as he walked down the aisle, and the crowd of hundreds with all eyes on him. I beamed with pride when I read how "the bride was dithering over the groom's tie." What fifth grader uses a word like dithering? Surely, he'll be a writer one day, I smiled to myself.

And then I got to the next paragraph, where he talked about me. I read his description of me wiping my "teary red eyes with a hankie." Red eyes? It sounds devilish, or at least very unattractive, although I conceded to myself that he was going for a visual image. But the next line was like a smack across my head:

"My loud-mouthed, hard-to-please mom smiled."

Now wait just a cotton-pickin' minute. Did he read this to the class? Did he get any feedback from his teacher? What, exactly, ran through her head when she read that line? And how am I supposed to hold my head up at the next parent-teacher conference?

But worst of all, is this how Jacob really sees me? Loud-mouthed? Hard to please? Just because I don't let him play LEGOs from the moment he gets home until bed time, but actually make him do homework, practice piano and eat vegetables? Indeed, if that's the case, there is no beauty in truth. At least not when you're ten.

I'm going to tell myself that he did this for effect, to illustrate that an 'ear-to-ear smile' is not something I flash every day, but that the wedding was a special occasion.

And you can be sure that we'll be having a little talk about his writing, when I'll promise him free editing services on any future works he produces--especially memoirs--from now until I die.

Hopefully he'll accept, thus preventing what would surely be my premature death by mortification.

Keeping It Simple

2010-01-29T10:06:00.009-05:00

I want to be in second grade again. This week, Ben's second-grade class filled up their "warm fuzzy jar." This jar is in the classroom, and every time someone in the class does something nice for someone else--helps out, offers sympathy, shares--the teacher puts a cotton ball in the jar. I know. How cool, right?

Wait. It gets better.

The jar was finally filled this week, which earned the children a special treat: a pajama breakfast party. Parents all contributed something: waffles, chocolate chips, strawberries, whipped cream, syrup and milk. The kids were instructed to wear their pajamas to school.

I don't know which had Ben more excited: the waffles and chocolate chips, or being able to wear his pajamas to school. I often call him 'Hughy' for Hugh Hefner, because if I let him, he would never get out of his pjs. He is a homebody through and through, so the idea of combining his favorite breakfast with all his school friends and a day in his pjs gave him good dreams for over a week.

Today was the day. Ben got up, took off his footie pajamas and put on his long underwear and fleece pjs over them. He took his vitamin, drank his orange juice and brushed his teeth, and didn't even ask for breakfast (he was building his appetite). When it was time to go, he grabbed his backpack, gave me a big kiss, and hurried down the stairs gushing, "I'm SO excited!!" I honestly think he was vibrating with anticipation.

And that's what being seven years old is all about, right? Do your best to be kind to others, and get rewarded with food and warmth. Actually, maybe that's what life is all about. Be kind. Help others. And every now and then, reward yourself with the simple things that feed your soul.

Yummy on every level.

The Change of Life

2010-01-23T20:58:00.014-05:00

I am an inappropriate crier. I cry at weddings (real and movie), as well as at Hallmark commercials, videos of my kids when they were babies and sappy songs on the radio. But I don't cry after reading books. At least, not lately.

This, apparently, is a problem. I can hide behind "hormones" or "I'm just a big mush" when it comes to the first examples. But when everyone in my book group cries at the end of a book and I don't, eyebrows go up.

"You didn't cry?"

"Really?"

"What do you mean you didn't cry? Did you at least feel like crying?"

"Er, no, not really."

They look at each other and wonder how I got into this club. I can see their minds going, wondering what kind of cold-hearted, unfeeling biotch I am to have not cried at the end of this story. I actually consider lying and saying that I did, in fact, cry.

But the thing is, I used to cry at the end of books. When I was younger, and romantic stories showed me how love is supposed to be, what wonderful men were out there just waiting to fall in love with me, I cried. Mostly because my parents thought I was too young to date and therefore I had no way to meet these young princes, but still. The point is, I cried.

Until I became a writer.

Maybe this made me colder and more calculating when it came to words. I subconsiously read stories and think, "ooh, good line," or "no, that's not plausible after all we know about this character." Mostly, though, I think, "this could have been done better."

Granted, I'm not saying I could have done it better. OK, sometimes I feel like I could have. The point is, I no longer read stories purely for the emotional reaction they cause in me. I read them to learn how to write better. Or in some cases, how not to write.

So maybe this is not the book group for me. Maybe I belong in a book group made up of all writers, and our goal could be the same: find the formulas, the holes, the things that work so we can use them ourselves.

Or maybe I should just keep an onion near my nightstand when I am finishing a book. At least then I won't have to lie.

FreePhotos.com

Dog Days

2010-01-22T10:19:00.006-05:00

Ben: "Mom, there are three reasons Bailey's lucky to be a dog, and three reasons he's unlucky."

Me: "Oh yeah? Why is he lucky?"

Ben: "One, he doesn't have to go to school. Two, he doesn't have to do homework. And three, he gets to stay home with his mom all day."

Me: "Hm, yes, I guess that is pretty nice. But why is he unlucky?"

Ben: "Well, he can't talk so if he's hungry or has to pee, all he can do is whine. Also, he only gets to see his friends if you take him to a playdate. And three, he doesn't have opposable thumbs."

Me: "All true, Ben. So which would you rather be? A dog or a kid?"

He's still thinking about it.

Author, Author!

2010-01-18T14:18:00.010-05:00

Ask anyone who reads voraciously what is most exciting to them, and they will likely say, 'discovering a new author to love.' The same goes for me. Finding a poet or novelist who affects, me to the point that I put off everything else to spend time with his or her works, ranks right up there with finding $20 in a coat from last winter and getting an unexpected vacation day.

OK, so it doesn't take much to get me going. But it's also difficult for me to find such writers. I recently discovered Westchester author Jonathan Tropper thanks to an interview I heard on public radio. Tropper was promoting his most recent novel, This Is Where I Leave You, and I found myself laughing out loud at the excerpts being read over the airwaves. I jotted down the title at a red light and later joined the long line of people on a waiting list to borrow it from the library.

It was worth the wait.

The book is a sharp, funny page-turner, but the characters have depth and emotion. Their family's dysfunction is award-level, yet they approach their relationships matter-of-factly, with frankness and humor. Early in the book, Judd, the main character, describes his brother Phillip:

Phillip is our youngest brother, born nine years after me. It's hard to understand my parents' procreational logic. Wendy, Paul, and me, all within four years, and then Phillip, almost a decade later, slapped on like an awkward coda. He is the Paul McCartney of our family: better-looking than the rest of us, always facing a different direction in pictures, and occasionally rumored to be dead.

Their father has just died, and Judd's sister Wendy says of Phillip,

"I've left messages at all his last known numbers. On the off chance he plays them, and he's not in jail, or stoned, or dead in a ditch, there's every reason to believe that there's a small possibility he'll show up."

Besides zipping through the book, I recommended it to several friends, added it to my shopping cart at Amazon.com, and reserved some of Tropper's other books at the library.

The best part about such a discovery is this: these books take me back to the wondrous world of reading I first experienced as a child, when I spent endless hours losing myself in books. Reality would fade away, and I'd wonder, worry, laugh and cry with the characters in my books. We'd find wrinkles in time, discover hidden worlds through wardrobes, unearth secret gardens. Anything was possible, and in my favorite authors' hands, I felt safe.

Such an experience is the epitome of childhood imagination. Finding it again as an adult is, in my mind, nothing short of magic.

To Do Today: Eat

2009-10-20T11:48:00.009-04:00

When I was young (I found out much later), my parents were worried that I had an eating disorder. I preferred white food overall (milk, pasta, rice, bread, crackers) and produce passed my lips rarely and often against my will. It's a wonder I reached average height, in my opinion. Of course to me, food was not something I thought about unless I was hungry. There was always a book to be read, a diary to write in, a cousin outside waiting to play. Food was a necessity, but I gave it little more thought than the air I breathed.

So I shouldn't be surprised that the apple...OK, the noodle...doesn't fall far from the tree in my house. Jacob is my parents' revenge on me, doing to me exactly what I unknowingly did to them.

Cereal for breakfast. Bagel for lunch. Pasta for dinner. No juice, milk. Dessert? SURE! Fruit? Veggies? Eh, not so much.

Lately, Jacob has been bringing home just about his entire lunch from school. Apple intact, bagel whole, sans one bite. Milk money and dessert are gone (no surprise), and it pains me. How does he get through the day without eating?? How will he grow if he doesn't eat?

I ask him and get no answer other than "I ran out of time," or "I wasn't that hungry." So I ask other moms.

"They are so busy chatting that the 25 minutes they get for lunch disappears before they realize it! My kid does the same thing!"

Ah.

So there it is: we're moving into the 'tween years, when socializing takes precedence over eating, and relating and navigating the social order is more of a necessity than food. Like in my youth, food is important when I want it, but otherwise eating is a poor use of time.

I understand it. But oh, how different things look from this new perspective of adulthood.

Chew On This

2009-10-02T09:15:00.009-04:00

The second saddest thing in the world is the foodie who can't eat anything with his usual exuberance because he's got his first, hyper-sensitive loose tooth. The saddest thing is that this tooth has arrived right before his birthday, limiting what would be the usual, yummy celebratory nosh options.

And the most frustrated person in the world would be me, trying to figure out what to do for dinner on Ben's birthday tomorrow that won't cause him pain yet will still be fun.

More than that, I'm trying to calm his fears each day. What if I swallow my tooth? Will the tooth fairy use her wand to get it out of my stomach? Will it hurt? Will my tooth bleed when it falls out? What if I lose it? What if it doesn't come out until Christmas? What if it falls out at someone else's house and I can't find it? Will the tooth fairy still give me a Bakugan? (Yes, the tooth fairy gives a small toy if preferred in this house. We just shoot her an email before bed, and Mommy keeps a stash of favorite toys on hand for emergencies).

But I must admit that, when the rest of us are worrying about the recession, job security and terrorism, it's nice to know there are a few fears that we can help alleviate. Especially when all it takes is some chocolate cupcakes and pretty sprinkles.

No Better Praise

2009-09-27T20:08:00.008-04:00

OK, I admit it. I'm not a planner. I'm more of a go-with-what-feels-right, see-what-comes-up kinda gal. That's all well and good until it's your kid's birthday and two weeks before, you still haven't figured out a party day, location or guest list.

Thankfully, this year the movie makers helped me out by turning one of Ben's favorite books into a movie, and then releasing it two weeks before his birthday.

Six kids, bottomless popcorn buckets, a family restaurant complete with games and gelato across the street, and a rainy Sunday turned out to the the perfect way to celebrate turning seven.

Hyped up on sugar, snacks and excitement, Ben was a bit beside himself when it was all over, and rather quiet during the car ride home. But after a few minutes of silence (which I realized later was quiet reflection on all the festivities), he said, "Today was a great day."

Whew.

Next year I'll start planning earlier. Definitely.

Sanctuary

2009-09-13T17:09:00.006-04:00

Ben, in the bathroom: "Mom! I have something ksalhfgjfk."

Me: "You have what?"

Ben, walking out of bathroom: "I have something to free...Oops. It flew away."

Me: Sigh.

Bugs love our house. My husband is a huge fan of nature shows, and my boys are big fans of, well, bugs. If they do catch a bugger in the house, they take it to the nearest door and sing Born Free while releasing it. We don't even own a fly swatter, and I think word has gotten out in the insect world. "Cold? Head to Ben's house. Hungry? I know a great little place where you can eat without worry of being squished." We are, for nature-sensitive critters, a sanctuary.

The above was just the most recent of many similar exchanges that happen around here. I've given up, and just laugh about them now. And check my drink glasses before sipping from them.

Cherishing The Now

2009-09-04T22:59:00.010-04:00

What a difference six years make. When I last had a newborn, I couldn't wait until he was sleeping through the night, because I was certain there was nothing worse than extended, indefinite, severe sleep deprivation. Then he got older and started sleeping (kinda) and I looked forward to his being old enough to play games with his big brother so they could enjoy each other's company and I could get something done around the house. This was at a time when I was sure there was nothing worse than playing with a preschooler while trying to entertain, feed and change a toddler from sun-up to sundown. When he reached that milestone, I was excited for my oldest to start school so I could spend some one-on-one time with my youngest, because I just knew there was nothing worse than shortchanging one child because of the needs of the other. When both boys were in school full time, I counted the days until summer when I could have them both home with me to read, play, go on adventures and enjoy some unstructured time together.

Well. Both boys have been home now for three full weeks. They fight, yell, cry, hit each other and generally can't wait until school starts. I'm trying to make the last days of summer fun, but it's hard. They're bored. And when they do spend time playing, there is one thing that puts me on edge: they are LOUD. Yes, I know, it's a surprise only to me. Did I mention I grew up under a rock? Boys are loud. Really frickin' loud. And they're loud all the time. Whether they're fighting, playing, laughing or just burning energy, they are CONSTANTLY, CONSISTENTLY, RELENTLESSLY, DEAFENINGLY L-O-U-D. For a writer, this is not a good thing. And when school doesn't start for another week, this is not a good thing for any of us. They're sick of each other. They're sick of me. And I'm sick of summer vacation. But mostly, I'm sick of the noise.

What brought this incredible realization into stark relief was spending a day with my cousin and her newborn. I should mention the newborn is a girl. She's very quiet. I realize this isn't only because she's a girl. But even when she cries, she's quiet. And she sleeps. A lot. As newborns tend to do. But of course, she does wake up every two hours or so to eat and change her clothes and diaper (as girls are also apt to do). All day and all night. And as a result, my cousin is constantly, completely, unendingly sleep deprived. The funny thing is, I am SO ENVIOUS of her that it makes me laugh.

I suppose what this whole experience has taught me is to enjoy the moment. Don't wallow in the negative, praying for the current situation to end so that things will get better. They will change, and some things will improve, but other things will go downhill. This is not unfair, nor does it mean we are doing something wrong as parents. This is life. Change is the only thing we can count on, and there will always be a mix of joy and frustration. Until, I suppose, the teen years when it's just a long, slow ride through hell.

I have a pen pal who ends every email with the line, "Cherish the now." I finally understand how right he is. And I'm glad I got it before it was too late.

Title Change

2009-08-27T09:24:00.011-04:00

I've decided to change my job title from Mom to Housekeeper/ Childcare provider. It seems Westchester puts more monetary value on the latter title. Case in point, an advertisement I saw the other day:

Housekeeper/childcare provider available: dedicated and very reliable, will keep your house so clean you can eat off the floors, do all of your laundry, will run your errands and take kids for haircuts, doctor’s appointments, the pool, park, etc. Speaks English, has valid international driver’s license (and her own car) and has never called in sick one day in 4 years. Prefers live-in but will consider live-out. $550/week cash.

As soon as I saw the 'has never called in sick one day' I knew this was the job title for me. What mom ever gets a sick day? This describes my job responsibilities almost EXACTLY, though it omits paying the bills and walking the dog. But I'll consider that a trade off for keeping the house so clean you can eat off the floors (unless you are said dog).

I guess what gets me every time I read this type of ad (which is surprisingly often) is the thought that always runs through my mind: why do some women have children if they end up outsourcing every aspect of the job?

Now, working moms, don't get your panties in a twist. I know that working full-time and being a mom full-time are mutually exclusive positions and that no one can do it all. Hey, I'm an at-home/part-time-work-from-home mom and I still have help from my community, other moms, babysitters, etc. I get it. Really.

The thing is, there is so much flexibility in jobs today--thanks to the wonder of technology and the family-friendly nature of most companies--that I wonder if these moms are actually choosing to not take advantage of these options. That they are instead deciding to let someone else do the grunt work of motherhood, and keeping the fun stuff for themselves.

OK, fine, so maybe I am a little jealous. Who of us wouldn't want to outsource the chauffeuring, cleaning, laundry and housekeeping portion of our jobs? As my late sister-in-law once said to me about full-time motherhood, "the drudge factor is off the charts." Yet even with that warning, I really had no idea. In fact, when I think about the time I could spend with my children if I wasn't so busy cleaning, cooking, driving and doing laundry (oh, kind of like when they were newborns?) it makes me realize that I've been going about this job all wrong.

I need to find someone to pay me to raise my kids. You know, like a sponsor. Then I'll be able to do a better job as a mom, and at the same time, outsource all the work that's keeping me from doing said job well. Who knows? I might actually get to do it FULL TIME, as my current title implies.

Hey American Academy of Pediatrics! What do you say? Jacob and Ben would make great cover kids!

Burn, Baby, Burn

2009-08-17T09:58:00.010-04:00

Anyone who knows Ben or has read this blog at any length knows that he is forever in motion. Even when he sleeps, he moves around. And when he needs to move and can't, he lashes out at his brother, just to expend some energy.

So, being the thoughtful and sensitive parents we are, we decided to eschew a two-hour flight to our beach vacation this year in favor of a 12-hour drive. That's if you don't hit traffic. Which we did all through New Jersey, and then again in the area surrounding Washington D.C. in northern Virginia.

The first 1/2 of the trip, to Richmond, took nine hours instead of 6.5. For you non-parents, this is, to a six-year-old, an earthly version of hell. For Ben, it was the equivalent of being put into a straight jacket and strapped to a chair. For a year.

By the time we reached the hotel at 7:30pm, Ben was WAY done with the car. We took five minutes to drop our bags before going for dinner. We returned to the parking lot to drive to the restaurant up the road, and when Ben realized we were getting back in the car, he actually started to cry.

Trouper that he is, he agreed to come along, and kept it together long enough to get dinner down. Then, refueled, he was up. He crawled under the table, out into the room and started doing push-ups. People at other tables were laughing and pointing, likely assuming David was some sort of punitive, military dad like the one found in Pat Conroy's The Great Santini. To which David said loudly, "Drop and give me twenty!" Which Ben did, happily.

But 20 push-ups was not enough to burn the pent up energy this kid had after a full day in the car, so when we got back to the hotel, Ben took matters into his own hands. He raced his brother up and down the hallway several times (and won every race). Then, in the room, he devised a game of jumping--no, flying with reckless abandon--from bed to bed. He did this over and over, working up a sweat, and was finally able to fall asleep shortly after 10pm. And David and I laughed and laughed until we were tired enough to fall asleep too.

What did we learn from this little episode? Not much, apparently, because the next day, before driving the remaining five hours, we made sure to sugar Ben up with a bowl of Froot Loops and some toast with jelly. But once the caffeine kicked us into parental mode, we made notes for next time:

-hotel pool would help a LOT
-don't count on anyone napping in the car. They are as excited as we are, and haven't moved in hours.
-for all of my resistance to kids' reliance on technology, a dual screen, portable DVD player is the best 75 bucks I ever spent.
-pack Cheerios

And most importantly, always, ALWAYS carry the camera and spare batteries. Because traveling with Ben is always an adventure, and always funny.

YOU Do The Math

2009-08-14T10:30:00.006-04:00

Isn't it funny how differently kids' minds work? I mean, when they're in first grade, they kind of think the same way as other first graders: farts are funny, dark is scary and knock-knock jokes are silly even if you tell them a hundred times in a row. But when it comes to personality, putting two brothers to work on the same project can really shine a light on where the biological similarities end.

"Hey Jacob and Ben, I need you to go out in the yard and collect all the apples that have fallen from the trees. Fill up the bucket, take it over and dump it across the street and do that until the apples are all gone."

Ben: "OK! Where's the bucket?"

Jacob: "Are we going to get paid?"

Granted, they are three years apart, but wait. There's more.

Jacob: "Mom, there's like a million apples. I'd better get ten bucks for this."

Ben: "Mom, how about if I count how many I collect, and then you give me five cents for every apple?"

Now, my kids get their math savvy from their father. Case in point: when I hear 'pay me ten bucks to do this job,' my first instinct is, 'dream on, kid.' But when I hear 'pay me five cents an apple,' I'm thinking, 'five? That's nothing! I'll give you ten cents an apple!'

After all, what's a measly dime for each apple?

I should point out that, after surveying the yard, I realized there were a couple hundred apples blanketing our lawn. Even at Ben's reasonable rates, I was looking at at least ten dollars per kid.

But seeing that entrepreneurial (some might say crafty) spirit in Ben--the one that made me eager to offer him even more than he suggested to do the job--showed me just how differently these guys look at the world. Well, that and the fact that I'd better brush up on my math skills.

Famous Last Words

2009-08-06T22:00:00.000-04:00

Like all mothers of more than one child, I learned the hard way (i.e. through a second labor) that your second child is never anything like your first. For example. Riding in the car to camp one day, Jacob and his friend were arguing over the correct name of a particular Pokemon character. As the discussion got louder and louder, the friend finally said, “Wanna bet? I’ll bet you two dollars!” And Jacob replied, “NO! Gambling is illegal in New York State for people under the age of 18!”

Silence.

I peeked in the rear view mirror, and his friend was looking right at me with eyes that said, "are you a ventriloquist?"

And I looked back at him with eyes that said, "Dude, I swear he was born this way."

Seriously, how many nine-year-olds talk like that? And he's been like that for, oh, his whole life.

When he was three and got a new teacher at pre-school, the energetic young man tried to put Jacob at ease with the transition.

"Hey, you know we have something in common. Your name is Jake and I'm Mr. Jake!"

And Jacob responded, and I am not kidding,

"Actually, my name's Jacob."

ALL RIGHTY then.

Now let's take Ben. Last night, he filled up on vegetables and could only eat half of his cheeseburger for dinner. So this morning, I jokingly suggested he have the rest of it for breakfast.

"I can do that?" he asked.

"Uh, sure! Do you really want it?"

"Yeah!"

And so there I was, packing bologna for lunch and heating up a cheeseburger for breakfast. When he finished and was still hungry, I sent him out to the yard with a little container. He picked as many raspberries as he could find, then brought them in a devoured half of them.

What did Jacob want?

"Rice Krispies. No fruit."

Right. Like night and day.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when I arrived at camp to pick them up at camp one day and a young counselor-in-training came up to me and said, "Albert wants to talk to you about Ben."

Uh oh. What did Mr. Unpredictable do now?

"Hi, Albert. Is everything OK?"

"Well, yes, but I have some bad news about Ben."

What I asked was, "Is he OK? Did he hurt someone?"

And as my mind began to race, what I was thinking, but didn't say was, "Is he going to be expelled from camp? Are broken bones involved? AM I GOING TO NEED TO HIRE A LAWYER??"

Looking around, I still didn't see Ben anywhere. Truly, at that moment, anything was possible.

"He's fine, it's just..."

At this point, right before I really started to worry, Ben marched up to me with a down-turned mouth. On the verge of tears. In his socks.

As he buried his head in my stomach, Albert continued,

"...Ben took off one of his shoes and threw it in the latrine..." (this is scout camp. Translation: Ben threw his sneaker into a dark, smelly, 20-foot-deep hole in the ground where people, well, you know).

Blink.

"...and he was worried you were going to be really mad at him."

Blink blink.

Mad? He thought I was going to be mad? I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. Did Ben then convince some other camper to climb in and retrieve the sneaker for him, leading the kid to get stuck down there? Did he throw someone's backpack in after the sneaker? That can't be the whole story. Can it? I mean, Ben's not a toddler. Throwing his sneaker in the toilet must be just the beginning. FOR GOD'S SAKE, HE'S A-SOON-TO-BE-SECOND-GRADER. Where's the drama? I held my breath.

Perhaps my silence seemed to Albert to be the calm before a storm. "We, uh, didn't try to retrieve it," he added sheepishly. "The other one is in his backpack."

Wow. That really is it. Silent exhale.

"Uh, OK. Thanks."

The archery coach, another counselor, the camp's assistant director, Ben's brother, another counselor from a different den and, well at that point I lost track, all came over to see if Ben was OK and ask if I'd heard the story. Apparently everyone in camp--like 50 people--knew about this. I mean, it was a big stinkin' deal. And the thing is, while this is so completely unlike anything Jacob would ever do, it is so typically Ben.

So there you have it. The only thing I learned about how to parent Ben by having Jacob first was how to change a diaper.

Let this be a message of enlightenment for those of you in love with, and feeling like a parenting pro of, your first-born. If you're saying to each other, "Hey! This is a piece of cake! We should have, like, eight more!" just keep this in mind. You weren't the first to utter those words. And you won't be the last.

Ms. Fix-It

2009-08-05T13:00:00.001-04:00

Not long ago, a friend was telling me about her what-turned-out-to-be-disgruntled washer repair man. The short story is that she had a problem with her washer and suspected what was causing it. But the repairman wouldn’t listen to her theory. He misdiagnosed the problem. He changed out the wrong part. The machine still didn't work. My friend had to call and request that the repair man come back again.

Mr. Maytag, his man-pride likely hurt after being emasculated by one who was not only a non-washing machine repair person but also a WOMAN, started giving her a hard time about it over the phone. So she did what any self-respecting customer would do: she hung up and called his boss. AFTER WHICH THE REPAIR PSYCHO CALLED HER BACK AND YELLED AT HER BECAUSE HE HAD TO COME BACK AGAIN TO ACTUALLY FIX THE PROBLEM. I'm sorry, did I offend you by insisting that you do what I'm paying you to do?

Look, I was in customer service for about 20 years, but regardless, I'm thinking most people would see this action as not-very-customer-friendly. And now my friend had to let this guy back into her home? While she was alone with her kids and her husband was at work? What is the world coming to when you feel threatened by the Maytag repair man?

Suffice it to say that the supervisor took care of the “personnel” problem as well as the washing machine problem. But the whole thing got me to thinking. In this day and age, when we tell our kids not to talk to strangers but are willing to let people we don’t know into our homes, there’s something to be said for being able to take care of these things yourself. Especially if you don't have a gun permit. Cost savings aside, the last thing you want to worry about when an appliance is broken is whether your repair man is going to turn out to be Mr. Fix-It or Psycho Killer. I love my journalist friends, but not enough to sacrifice myself for their headlines.

And of course, there’s the bonus feeling of accomplishment when you CAN fix something yourself.

For example, last year when my washing machine started acting up, I did some research to find out what it would cost to get a repairman to come out, diagnose and fix the problem. When it turned out to be roughly twice what we paid for the machine itself, I decided to do even more research. It seems my agitator wasn’t agitating. I’m a mom, so I know from agitation. Thanks to the magic of the Internet, I was able to look up pictures of the agitator’s insides, diagnose which piece wasn’t working, figure out where to buy it and print out step-by-step instructions for replacing it.

Yes, yes, I know. But I figured if it didn’t work, all it would cost me was an hour of my time and six bucks in parts.

The good news is, it worked. My machine was once again as agitating as my children. And the best part about it was not actually telling my husband how much money we’d saved. It was swinging my tool-belt-laden hips in a come-hither way while waving my cordless power drill and telling him I had fixed the washing machine myself. The POWER! The ADRENALINE! I was ready to change the oil in both cars.

And, now that I no longer own a gun, the fact that I didn’t have to let some strange man into my home was also a plus. Of course, once the washer was fixed, I had to go back to doing laundry again… But I’ll take that over fear of bodily harm any day.

The Fourth Dimension

2009-08-02T14:30:00.001-04:00

I noticed this weekend, when we took the kids to a movie, that many of the new kids' movies coming out now and in the future (according to the previews) are being made in 3D. This was interesting to me, mainly because of the dichotomy of the whole quaint, retro, 3D-theater experience that our parents enjoyed in the 1950s when they dated as teenagers and the INCREDIBLE AMOUNT OF MONEY IT COSTS TO GO TO SEE A 3D MOVIE TODAY.

Granted, both of my kids are old enough now to actually sit through an entire movie together, so we've just started doing this family movie night thing. And I had finally become OK with the $7 per ticket admission fee. But 3D movies automatically tack on another $3 per ticket, and matinee prices no longer apply. Nor do children's prices. And you don't even keep the glasses--in the interest of 'going green' there is a recycling box for the glasses outside the theater. So. Let's recap.

Large, buttered popcorn: $7.50
Tickets for two adults and two children at a matinee: $40
Total: $47.50

I'm no mathematician, but that seems like a boatload o' money for just a two-hour movie. Did I mention it was animated? They didn't even have to pay the actors a bajillion dollars each to make this one.

Not for nothing, but babysitter fees have gone up five-fold since I used to hold that gig, and that's a killer on its own. Today, taking the kids to a movie for two hours is the same price as hiring a babysitter for five. It just adds a whole other dimension to the question of the best way to spend quality time together. I love my kids, and I love being with them. But I also love my husband, and these days can only dream of spending five hours alone with him. It's a tough choice for parents to have to make.

I'm not complaining. I'm just saying.

Mommie Dearest

2009-07-27T21:37:00.008-04:00

Ever have one of those days at work, even at a job you love, where you just do everything wrong? You know, you spill coffee on the boss, accidentally delete that important file that was due yesterday, schedule two critical meetings for the same time, lose your cool with an important client and basically wish you'd get fired just so you could be put out of your misery? Yeah, well, that was my day today. When you're a mom wishing you'd get fired, you know you're either really tired, really PMS-ing or worse, really both.

And if that's how YOU feel, think about how you're making your KIDS feel. Right. Well, that's hard to do in the (choose any crappy) moment, which is why now, hours later when my kids are in bed, I'm weeping onto my keyboard as I realize what kind of day THEY must have had with me.

Take a bad night's sleep, mix it with PMS and add a whiny, clingy child who insists on staying home from camp and filling your day with challenges, tantrums, tears and demands. Top it off with some pouring rain and two hours of round-trip driving to drop off and, later, pick up the other camper and you've got a recipe for an eight-hour battle of wills, which no one will win.

Indeed, if motherhood involved employers, I'd have been fired today. And escorted to the door. By security.

The funny thing is, I wouldn't have ended the day wracked with guilt and filled with tears. I'd have headed right to the nearest bar and ordered up a Cosmo over which I could read the want-ads and soothe my bruised ego.

But that doesn't happen in motherhood, because it's not just a job. It's life, and for better or worse, it is always going to be filled with passion. That's why we love it on some days and hate it on others. That's why I keep coming back for more.

So here I am, taking a rain check for that Cosmo. I figure I'll use it to toast whichever son comes out with his best-selling memoir first, right after he toasts me for giving him so much great material.

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night

2009-07-20T11:01:00.009-04:00

On a typical camp day, I headed out a little bit early to get to the cub scout camp in the woodsy mountains about 25 minutes from my house. My boys had been there for the day, and in the afternoon, just before I was to leave the house to pick them up, it started to rain.

As I gathered my things and looked for an umbrella, the thunder started. My dog hates thunder. BOOM! (bark! bark! bark!) BA-BOOOM!! (BARK! BARK! BARK!) I imagine that, to him, thunder is some big, invisible truck banging down our street. He always barks at loud trucks, but the fact that he can't see this one pisses him off, so he just keeps barking and barking. I was happy to leave.

I began driving and the rain got heavier, the lightening brighter, the thunder claps louder and closer together. I was beginning to feel like Pavlov's dog owner because (I realized) every time the thunder rolled, I waited for barking to follow.

Further up the mountain, the roads get narrower and the rain was now teeming. Even with my wipers on 'high' I couldn't see 10 feet in front of the car. Higher and higher the car climbed as I downshifted into second gear to maintain traction. Looking up, I saw lightning crack down toward the top of the hill RIGHT WHERE I WAS HEADING.

Before reaching the final dirt road that leads into the camp, I rounded a bend and squinted: is that something in the road? Something large? WAIT. IS THAT A FALLEN TREE ACROSS THE ROAD, BLOCKING ALL ENTRANCE AND EXIT TO THE CAMP ON THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN WHERE MY CHILDREN ARE TRAPPED IN A RAGING THUNDERSTORM??? Yes, the answer turned out to be, and beside it were a couple of downed wires for good measure, just in case I was entertaining the idea of trying out the off-road feature of my Subaru.

I turned around and drove down the road until I found a clearing where I could pull over and make a call. Who should I call? I thought to myself. My husband is in New Jersey. I don't know the number of the camp, or the Boy Scout Council office, where there might be someone who could contact the camp. Hm. Maybe I'll call my den leader. I hope I can hear her with the rain coming down so hard and loud on my car, I worried. I needn't have worried. I had no cell signal.

Beginning to feel as if I was in a Stephen King novel, I took a few deep breaths. "Suddenly, a shot rang out!" No, not really, but wouldn't that fit in perfectly right here?

After driving back down the mountain to get a cell signal (thumbs down for T-Mobile), I called my den leader. Through some unfortunate twist of fate, she was in the pediatrician's office at that very moment with her son. She had picked him up from said camp some time earlier because he had fractured his wrist. Because the camp had called her cell phone, she had the number with her.

I assured the camp leaders I was on my way. I told them about the tree. I got alternate directions. And I finally arrived to find one of the large canopy tents had blown down--posts and all--onto the pavilion at the camp, the pavilion under which all the campers were sitting and watching reptile man introduce a snake.

Two and a quarter hours after leaving my house that afternoon, we arrived home safe and mostly dry. By then, my biggest concern was making sure the boys washed the snake germs off their hands while they told me the wild stories about their thunderstorm adventures.

And thank goodness. Because when you're a kid, isn't adventure what summer should be about?

Dynamic Do-Over

2009-07-14T15:44:00.011-04:00

Parents like to think that we run things in the house, that we orchestrate how things will go based on how rested, fed and healthy our kids are. This may be true when they are infants, but there comes a point when it's actually the firstborn child who holds the key to a happy household. Especially when there are siblings involved.

After school ended and before summer camp started, my kids spent two weeks at home together with no set schedule. We took day trips here and there, but the rest of the time, they were at each other's throats. And the noise! I couldn't hear myself think. I had had it up to here one day with the poking, teasing and tattling, and when I heard, "Mom! He's breathing my AIR!" I knew that someone was not going to survive the summer.

Fortunately, it wasn't long before day camp began for both boys. Jacob had been to this camp before, but Ben had not. I could tell Ben was anxious when I dropped them off: he didn't know anyone in his group, but Jacob knew at least three kids.

"Jacob," I said, pulling him aside, "if Ben gets upset or anxious today, can he come to you? I think it would help him to know that he could."

"Yeah," he answered grudgingly.

Such heartwarming enthusiasm was sure to ease Ben's mind (read: Jacob answered in the affirmative), so I went over to tell him before I left. No sooner did I reach him than Jacob was beside me saying, "Ben, I know you're nervous, but I had a great time at this camp last year. It's lots of fun and you'll make a lot of friends. I'm here if you need me."

That was a turning point in the day for all of us. Jacob stepped up and acted like the big brother that Ben was always longing to look up to. He made me proud to know that he could show such genuine kindness and understanding to his brother. And it continued even after they got home. Jacob set the table, helped his brother with various games, offered to help me cook and cleaned up afterward. He even checked in on his brother after Ben had gone to bed but was calling for me with a question.

I pointed out to Jacob that, when he acts as he did that day, it changes the dynamic of the entire family. Being nice to his brother makes Ben happy and kinder. That leads to no fighting, which makes me happier and means less yelling. That makes dad happy when he gets home to find a harmonious family waiting for him.

And Jacob holds the key to it all.

"So, I'm like the first domino," he said. "If I fall, we all fall, but if I stay standing, we all stay up."

Exactly.

There comes a point when our children begin making conscious choices that impact the rest of the family. Teaching them how they can support the 'team' by being their best and helping out gives them the power to control the level of happiness in the house. But it also makes them feel like a valuable member of the family, and ultimately society.

Ooh, and did you hear that? I'm pretty sure I just heard a pin drop.

Conditioning

2009-07-08T20:41:00.005-04:00

I know many moms who lament that, back in their days before children, they were beautiful. Thin, sexy, smokin' ladies. A couple of kids and too many chicken nuggets later, we're all buying treadmills and trying to get back to our younger, more fit selves.

Part of it, of course, is for us--we want to feel good, and looking good makes us feel good. And part of it is that we don't want to give our husbands any reason to let their eyes wander elsewhere. We also hate swimsuit season, and recognize that all those ladies' nights of two-for-one martinis are catching up to us. Why is it that the older we get, the faster time flies and the slower fat burns? I'll bet a man made that rule.

Thanks to my dog, though, I'm still a hot mama. Well, for this week anyway. No, not because I walk with him briskly several times a day. And not because I take him to the park and run around with him, the kids and a ball. I'm hot because every time someone lights a firecracker outside, my dog starts barking loudly enough to wake the dead (or, in this case, the sleeping child down the hall). So I have to run around and close all the windows, and then quickly run downstairs and call him so I can close him up in the basement. I am such a hot mama. Seriously, I'm sweating.

I suppose I should be happy that he doesn't puke or pee all over the house or, as my cousin's dog used to do, curl up behind the toilet bowl in the basement until it ends. That's because she was rescued as a stray from the streets of New York City by some friendly policemen when she wandered into their precinct and my uncle decided to keep her. I'm sure she thought fireworks were gunshots.

All dogs are different I suppose, depending on their history. Some call it conditioning. Personally, I could go for a little conditioning myself right now. Air, that is.

Brain Candy

2009-07-05T12:05:00.007-04:00

It seems to me that our society values children as a demographic only, and markets to them as if they were miniature adults. In a way, it's a step back in time to the days when children as young as three were put to work on the farm, given tools, chores and responsibilities and were preferably seen and not heard. This explains why, in all those old-fashioned family photos, no one is ever smiling.

But that was before television and newspapers, before Sunday comics and Cartoon Network. In today's comics pages alone, which my children love to read, there were two strips that raised my eyebrows. One talked about their child asking questions about sex, and the other used the word "damned." Ironically, I read them and thought, WTF?

When I occasionally stroll by the television when the boys are watching, I sometimes catch them viewing a cartoon that has a scantily clad, big-boobed female character who is not a superhero. And since when did cartoon characters start using words like 'stupid,' 'crap,' and 'moron'? One of my favorite cartoons as a kid was The Pink Panther, and that had NO DIALOGUE AT ALL.

I used to love to watch PBS with my kids when they were small. Their spongy, SpongeBob-less little minds would soak in all those songs about colors and numbers--heck, I could still sing most of them because I learned them when I was a kid. At what point does educational television become too babyish, forcing kids to other channels that push sex, bad language and poor manners under the guise of "entertainment"?

At least, I comforted myself, they both love to read. And now the comics are following suit with television. As publishing continues to tank, it's as if everyone is grasping at straws to sell, sell, sell (and everyone knows, sex sells). But to children?

That, then, is the point. When it's animated, kids assume it's for them. Sadly, so do many harried parents. School-age children are now viewed as 'tweens- and teenagers-to-be, ready to learn life lessons before they hit second grade, as long as those lessons are couched in animation to soften the blow. Cartoonists see kids as mini-adults, turning today's cartoons into the kind of 'educational' television that I'd rather my kids not learn from.

I may have grown up in the oh-so-dangerous 70s, before technology, but I turned out OK. So I'm revoking the brain candy this summer and encouraging my kids to eat sugary Good Humor ice cream instead. I've shipped my oldest off to the Adirondacks with his dad for a week of sleep away camp, and my youngest and I are off to the lake with friends.

Call it "roughing it," but we're going to spend as much time outside as possible this summer, bugs and UV rays be damned. I mean darned.

Pack Animals

2009-07-03T11:15:00.006-04:00

My dog has a problem with luggage. I don't mean he owns too much of it, or that he has a sudden urge to bite someone when he smells an alligator bag. But it seems he's smart enough to know that luggage=change.

When duffel bags show up with my parents, he knows they'll be staying for a while; the pack will grow, the food dish will be moved, the schedule will vary. This happened last week, and it took him a day or so, but he adjusted. And then yesterday, out came the bags from the guest room, and the pack subsequently shrank again. Dog dishes were moved, and at bedtime he was once again relegated to the basement.

Yet he seemed content this morning: his own pack was here--kids, parents and no one else--and things seemed to have gone back to normal. But then my husband pulled out a list and a big backpack. Bailey immediately started pacing and whining.

"Wait, now YOU'RE leaving?!?" he seemed to cry. "What the (fill in doggie expletive here)?!" I truly believe if he had hands, he'd throw them up in despair.

And yet as anxious as he is about my husband and son leaving for sleep away camp, I know that he will be the only one of us whose behavior will subsequently even out and be most consistent for the week. He'll keep me on schedule with his walks and meals, he'll wrestle with Ben when he's missing his brother, and he'll cuddle with me when I'm missing them both. He seems to know better than all of us that there is safety--and comfort--in numbers.

We may be at the top of the food chain, but there's something to be said for animal instinct.

Mercury Rising

2009-06-29T08:46:00.006-04:00

In the same way that Jacob has always made everything easier--parenting, fun, learning--Benjamin has always made things more difficult. I don't mean to say that it's intentional. It's just a fact.

Many years ago, a friend made a comment to me about having children. He said, "the first one turns your life upside down. The second one turns it inside out." When I think about how incredibly accurate that statement is now, it strikes me as both funny and sad. For how many of us are able to stand on our heads with relative comfort and ease? We gain new perspective, experience new feelings and see the world in a whole new way. Yet how many of us can turn ourselves inside out and say the same thing? Right.

As a baby, Ben cried a lot, slept very little and the rest of the time wore a frowny face. By the time he was a toddler and we started branching out into the world again, dealing with our new dynamic, he was sleeping better and eating and smiling more. But somehow, he still made things difficult.

The Sunday before the last Thanksgiving for which my sister-in-law and dear friend would be alive, Ben came down with a fever. Not a low-grade-maybe-it-will-pass, maybe-he's-about-to-have-a-growth-spurt, maybe-he'll-be-better-by-Thursday fever. It was 104, the kind that stops him in his tracks and removes his appetite completely. For Ben to stop moving and eating, he's got to be really sick. The fever persisted, yet I held out hope that it would run its course. On Thursday morning I finally had to concede that I was staying home with Ben, and sent my husband and older son off to Thanksgiving dinner without us. I cried all day.

Things have gotten much easier with Ben since those days, though I wouldn't call them a breeze. We can actually make plans now and do things as a family more often than not. For that I'm thankful, and it helps me forget those tough, early days.

This weekend, my dear father-in-law passed away after a long illness. The funeral is this morning in less than an hour. Family members and friends will converge on my in-laws' house with well-wishes and hugs soon after. Why, then, am I sitting here writing on my blog? Because yesterday afternoon, Ben developed a fever.

Yes, I'm upset that I can't go to the funeral, sad that I am at home when my place is with my family. But one of the many things my father-in-law taught me was that each of us is just a piece of the bigger picture. We all play a part in building the future by caring for each other and by teaching and nurturing the next generation. In my mind, my place is with my husband and mother-in-law today. But in Ben's mind, my place is with him. We each need to be comforted, but Ben needs it more.

We will lose people we love. That is inevitable. But parts of them will live on through the rest of the family, because that's what family is. A continuation, a legacy, of love and life. And that is why I'm here.

Thank you, Jack. We love you.

Generation Moi

2009-06-23T21:08:00.013-04:00

OK, so maybe 10 years old is a little young to be given the job of Person In Charge of the World. And maybe it's unfair to expect them to have true global awareness and be thinking of others when hypothetically asked what they would do with such power. But I was pretty disheartened to read what the 5th graders who are graduating from my son's school had to say on the topic, and it's likely because I was hoping for more.

If I Were In Charge of the World...

"I would cancel school; I would make playing video games an every day holiday."
"I would make video games cost less; I would let kids get paid for going to school."
"I would make a holiday where you get free video games; I would make recess all day."
"I would make a national Video Game Day; I would cancel school."
"There would be more video games; there would be grades no lower than a 'B.'"
"There would be a 2-hour subject where you played video games."
"I'd make homework a myth; I'd let us learn to play video games in school."

"I would put a mall in everyone's house; I would make recess all day."
"I would make the school a mall; I would end school early."
"I would go to the mall every day."
"I would turn the world into a mall; I would buy one million things."
"I would make every store an Abercrombie."
"I would make all things at the mall free; I would make summer longer."
"I'd have a mall the size of Boston."

Can you guess which were the boys and which were the girls? Can you see my concern over the direction these kids are heading? Can you believe how many examples there are?

Granted, there were some standouts in each class who wanted to cure all diseases, stop animal cruelty and end global warming and world hunger. But they were few and far between.

I guess my complaint is that these kids are on their way to middle school next year. Isn't that kind of a big deal? Shouldn't their parents be teaching them about the world, how to understand important issues, the responsibility that comes with power and the idea that they can change the world someday?

I know, I know, they're only TEN. But they already sound like self-centered, materialistic teenagers. Why? How is this happening? Someone is feeding these passions they have, and from the sound of it, it isn't their teachers.

Some may say it is my fear talking, my worry that my own child will sound like this next year. I prefer to think of it as a wake-up call. For all of us.

Good Cop, Bad Cop

2009-06-18T11:26:00.008-04:00

I used to rail against parents whose kids would break the law, do something to hurt someone or just be plain old bratty in public, while they stood by and let them get away with it. "If you don't make them take responsibility for their actions, how will they ever learn to change them?" I'd squawk. Consequences, consequences.

Well, today I was called an enabler. At first, I was indignant. But then, as I considered the situation, I realized that it wasn't as black-and-white as I had first perceived it.

Jacob claimed yesterday to have "only a little" homework. What this means in 'tween speak is 'I have a ton of homework, but in only two subjects.' So once he started it after dinner and worked on it until bedtime without finishing it, I informed him I'd be waking him early to get the job done.

When the morning came and he suddenly had a mysterious stomach ache and his jaw hurt, I said "nice try. You're still going to school" and made him get to work. But after 1/2 hour of working over breakfast when he still hadn't finished, I told him I would drive him to school (rather than make him take the bus). This would buy him an extra 30 minutes of time in which to finish the work.

I did this because I've been there: work not finished, teacher to face, spring fever making me not want to do it, sudden, strange illness to get out of facing teacher, etcetera, etcetera. It doesn't happen every day, and it has not been a habit or a pattern.

Yet my husband and parenting partner protested. "You're enabling him. Let him go in with the work undone and answer for it. Why are you bailing him out?"

But I didn't see it that way. I saw it as poor planning and sudden regret. I didn't let him stay home. I didn't give him a note asking the teacher to excuse him. I didn't tell him to lie about it. Granted, I didn't tell him 'get on the bus and deal with it' either, but didn't I find a happy medium? I made him face the problem, but helped by giving him the time in which to tackle it rather than evade it.

Yes, kids need structure, rules and the chance to make mistakes and learn from them. But they also need understanding and a chance to fix mistakes if they can. This doesn't mean they won't still learn from the experience. It just means they'll learn that mom can be flexible and (holy cow) even helpful sometimes, and that maybe she'll be a good person to take my problems to when I'm older. Maybe she'll help me figure out how to solve them when I can't do it alone.

I don't know if that makes me the good cop or the bad cop, but if it means Jacob will be willing to confide in me when the REAL problems arise, I'll answer to whatever title you want.