Holy Crap He Just Rode a Bike

OK he's seven so it isn't that remarkable in the greater scheme of "first time bike riders". But I kid you not that there is a tear in my eye right now and a relief that runs bone deep that only another parent of a bike-phobic kid can understand.

Night after night there were heatedly negotiated 10 minutes of "bike time". All of our neighbors were privy to the screams of terror as the bike rolled 1/2 inch without enough support. We took every one's how-to-teach-a-kid-to-ride-a-bike advice to no avail. As the bike toppled again and again to the ground amidst tears, my fears of "can my baby even do this?" constantly battled with my bad mommy thoughts of "man up, you baby!" It wasn't like this with his sister. A few falls and off she went.

He didn't want it. I did.

I mean it. He didn't care if he ever rode a bike or not. He was just terrified and that was enough to say "no bike, no way". But you can't give into your fears, can you? Can a parent let that happen? If he never rode a bike he might not ever rise to any challenge he meets in life. His whole future could hang on getting up on two wheels. Why couldn't he see this?

Bribery failed. Comparisons to friends and younger children failed. The following conversation/argument played out time and again. Like a CD set on continuous play.

"But whyyyyyy Mommy? Why do I have to ride a bike?!!" screamed through tears.

"Because you do."

"But why??"

A fair question met with an unfair answer. "Because I said so!"

It's for the best. Right? He'll learn and thank me one day. Right? When he's 35 and on his shrink's couch he'll understand why. He'll know it was in his best interest and not just to torture him. Won't he?

I met a girl once who was 17 years old and she couldn't ride a bike. Her mom said she tried when she was six. She fell off and said she wouldn't get back on. Now she was 17 and still couldn't ride a bike.

I judged that parent that day. How could any parent let a kid give into his fears? That of course was years before my kids were even out of diapers. At one point I had judged the parents of kids who kicked the back of airplane seats too. I had lived to regret those thoughts and become one of those parents.

I was wrong to judge the Bike Mom. Trust me I now understand how you can't stand to see the fear in their eyes anymore. How you begin to not see the blurry line between "best for them" and"something you want". Until you walk a mile in the shoes of a parent bent over holding the seat of their terrified kid learning to ride a bike you will never understand.

So today L rode a shaky line down the middle of the rode. We have a way to go but we have gotten over the "will he/won't-he" hump and can just coast down the other side to the "when" conclusion. And I can breathe a sigh of brief relief. I am not confident anymore that "you must ride a bike to live a fulfilled life" but I am thankful L won't have to test the theory either. Whew!

Now as for shoe tying ... will the shrink judge me when my 35 year old son is lying on his couch in velcro z-straps?

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The Most Stressful Day of the School Year

No I'm not talking about standardized tests. I talking Picture Day.

Every year the night before Pictures I make sure the kids have chosen what they want to wear and have it all laid out. Granted it makes for a late night of fashion shows and "what do you mean I can't wear the [wrinkled, sweaty] shirt I wore to bed last night?" But for a peaceful ,easy morning it is worth it. Right????

Why, oh why, do we end up in a mad dash the next morning?

Because the Duncans can never actually be prepared. We must change our clothes at the last minute searching for that "you know the shirt from last spring with the thingies on it". No, I don't know!

We must insist on eating breakfast fully dressed only to smear cream cheese on the only shirt in the world that can be considered acceptable for Picture Day then cry when I insist on a change.

We must remember that "oops I did have math homework last night". A particular favorite of mine especially when combined with tears and "my teacher is going to kill me". She won't but I wouldn't count me out right now, Missy!

We must complain that "we hate our hair". Which BTW is G-O-R-G-E-O-U-S! Or worse yet go with the "its fine" when it is clearly a "rat's nest". Yes, I have one of each. Jealous?

We must spend precious "the-school-bus-is-coming" minutes deciding on the perfect pose for our Picture. And the perfect smile - teeth or no teeth?

One more last minute change. Another "God I hate my hair". Then as the bus rumbles up the road my cherubs dash to the bus as I chase them down with payment envelopes in hand. BTW I'm in my pj's and sporting my own rat's nest!

All for what? I don't scrap book. We don't even use school pictures on our walls. We're more partial to candid snapshots. We're talking hours of angst over a picture that will be thrown in a drawer.

Can't wait until next year!

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We decided to Hold - Just Deal With It

My youngest was born 7 years ago August 15. Hours after delivery my sister-in-law asked me "Are you going to send him to Kindergarten or hold him when he is five?' I looked at her like she was crazy and rolled my eyes. As the years passed in a blink though I began to grasp the enormity of the question.

L makes the school age cutoff by a mere 16 days. Depending on what we decided he would either be the oldest or youngest in his grade. Our decision "to send" or "not" and the repercussions of both could affect his self-esteem and school success for years, maybe for life. For a while it felt like L's whole life would be defined by what we decided. Total stress!

We finally decided to hold him and begin kindergarten late. At 7 and 2 weeks he just started first grade. Which BTW is the cause of an untold number of unsolicited opinions from friends, family and oddly enough complete strangers. It seems like everyone has a strongly held opinion on the subject of "to-hold-or-not-to-hold" and I apparently look like I want to hear it. I don't.

"We sent our daughter and she has done just fantastic. She is president of her class and is getting all straight A's....." - This comes from parents who decided to send their children even though they fall very close to the cutoff. Somehow our holding L is a challenge to their decision. If it worked for them then we should assume it would have worked for us and we are doing L a dis-service by holding him.

"So your kid is 1 year older than everyone?" - This typically comes from parents who have children in the later half of the year and feel we are giving our son some sort of unfair advantage thereby directly making their kid's journey through school more difficult.

"We didn't hold our son in kindergarten and now in middle school he is struggling socially. We're seeing behavior issues as he tries to keep up with an older crowd. You are totally doing the right thing." - This comes from parents who decided to send their children even though they fall very close to the cutoff and for whatever reason they think they made the wrong decision.

"He's so smart. He'll be bored." - This typically comes from grandparents, relatives and friends who think today's parents over-protect our children. Back in their day you played the hand you were dealt. We are therefore coddling L.

Right or wrong we held him. That was our decision. I know it seems crazy but your child did not come into our decision making process. We did research and based OUR decision on OUR child, OUR circumstances and OUR values.

Not that it matters but we're talking 16 days. I have no way of knowing where the other path would have taken us. I am tired of having to justify the path we're on. It has been three years can we just move on? I truly and sincerely wish you the best on your path but stay the hell off of ours.

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Is it ok to swear in front of your kids?

Have you ever been following someone on a highway to a place you have never been and lost them at a toll because you forgot to bring your speed pass? So you sit at that toll for 15 minutes jockeying for position in a sea of hundreds of cars funneling through three very slow toll booths. As the 15 minutes eek by you try to call the people you were following but they don't answer their phone.

You, BTW, have no clue how to get where you are going. Because you are the only people on the planet without a GPS and didn't think to Mapquest your destination before you left.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Time is creeping by. You will be late assuming you even get there.

Is that guy serious? Is he really going to try to cut me off? Is he f''n kidding me? Your sole goal in life is now whittled down to keeping that idiot from getting in front of you. Forgetting that just 5 minutes prior you sat there in the same wrong lane trying to cut off the poor sucker now behind you.

This is the scenario we found ourselves in yesterday. Hubby was driving, kids in the back seat and tempers rising. We were on our way to watch my nephew be the honorary captain for the New England Cannons, a professional lacrosse team, who play at Harvard University Stadium. Ooo la la!

The honor is all the more special because my nephew walks with great difficulty. He can't run or jump like his friends but he lets nothing hold him back. In his neighborhood he hangs with a group of boys who ride bikes as he whips along on a motorized scooter. He is just Noah to them. Just one of the guys. He'd kill me for saying so but he is adorable in that cool dude fourth grader way. Being honorary captain at the game on a night when most of his home town lacrosse players and their families would be in the audience was a big deal for him and our whole family.

And we are now late and lost. The Auntie of the Year Award is slipping through my fingers.

Through the tolls and back in phone contact with the group we were following things are looking better. Until....

"Do I go straight here or turn?? WELL..... DO I??" Hubby is asking. Print doesn't do justice to the tension and tone in his voice. Just trust me, pleasant it was not. I have no clue where to go and he is freaking out because the traffic is insane. We go straight. Guess what? We should have turned. No biggie. Right? Go down a block turn around and BAM! we are smack in dead stop traffic.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

We are now in and amongst Harvard University buildings. We can see the Charles River. The sun is splitting the rocks outside our car on a beautiful spring day. People are strolling hand-in-hand on a lovely Saturday afternoon. And inside our car all hell is breaking loose.

"He's touching me!"

"No! You're touching me!"

"Are we going to miss Noah?" Now tears and whining.

"We won't have any time to play!"

"Too frigging bad. Now shut the F up until we get out of this traffic." Yep, that is what we said. 'Frigging' , 'shut up' and 'f''. The whole package of no no's in parenthood and just outside the walls of Harvard.

Hubby hates driving in the city when he knows where he is going and has forever to get there; so being lost in dead stop traffic with the real premise of missing Noah's big moment and the kids annoying the crap out of him is not bringing out the Zen in him. Or in me either for that matter.

Eventually we get back to the road we need; but, go to the wrong parking lot.

Tick. Tick. TICK! TICK!!!!!!

Oh we get there. We even have some time to spare. However, being just out of traffic and a labyrinth of Cambridge roads, we are far from good company.

My pal, Laura, meets me at the tail gate with a vodka laden Cape Codder. What a girl!

Family, friends and neighbors cheer as Noah's name is announced and we see him on the jumbo tron. A great night. A stellar night for that matter! But...

...the question remains. Is it OK to swear in front of your kids?

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What's in a label

For whatever reason M, the 9 year old, has taken an interest in reading every inch of a label. Yesterday she freaked out when she read "Causes substantial but temporary eye injury" on the label of Buzz Away Citronella Insect Repellent.

So started the education on label warnings and litigation. Yes it can cause "substantial but temporary eye injury" IF sprayed directly in the eye.

Why would you do that?

Good question. It could be an accident. Like a toddler gets ahold of the can. Or you could just be an idiot. Either way the label tells you what to do in the event you do spray it in your eye.

I then reminded her of the time when she was five and she sprayed Loves Baby Soft directly in her brother's eye. The label came in handy that day.

Since the door was open. We moved on to the concept of litigation. Companies can get in trouble for not letting consumers know of potential hazards with their product if someone gets hurt then sues them. Common sense does not play into the equation so companies must really stretch their imaginations to cover all their bases.

Here are a few other labels she found with seemingly idiotic advice on them. But none-the-less you can't argue their validity.

Our hair dryer says "Do not use while bathing." Duh!

Our curling iron say "For external use only." Really??!

In stitches she now turned to the Internet to keep the good times rolling. Check out http://www.rinkworks.com/said/warnings.shtml for some great ones. My favorite on there is:

"Beware! To touch these wires is instant death. Anyone found doing so will be prosecuted." -- On a sign at a railroad station.

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Sweet Dreams!

When my kids were little they'd play so hard they'd just drop. More times than I can count they'd lay their head down on the playroom rug amidst the blocks and trucks and Barbie dolls and just drift off to sleep.

Is it silly to miss that? Because I do.

I miss seeing my little emerging person fight off the inevitable pull of sleep. Watching the rubbing of eyelids and big yawns mingle in with the defiant "no nap!" calls. Even on the days I couldn't "mom-up" enough to pull them from their play, nature would always win. Heads would drop, eyes would close and sweet dreams would come.

Innocence is defined in a sleeping child's face.

My babies are older now - 9 and 6 3/4 (his count not mine). Naps are rare. Maybe after a sleepover when I pick up a werewolf instead of my child and only a rest can transform her back again.

Last night though I had a brief glimmer of the past as my son played before bed. From the first floor we heard action figure banging and car crashes slow then cease all together. We came upstairs to find this ...

All at once he is my little baby again. Sweet dreams!

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The Fruit Salad Personality Test - Who Knew?

M & L were eating breakfast this morning when they started the coolest conversation.

Do you eat the pineapple (most prized fruit in the fruit salad of Gala apple, Bartlett pear and pineapple) first or save it for last?

Liam ate his first which makes sense. He is a live in the moment, good time Charlie kind of kid. He sees the best in things and procrastinates with anything remotely tied to a "must-do" item. It can take a 20 minute conversation to get him up the stairs to brush his teeth for 2 minutes.

Molly saved her pineapple for last. She is the oldest and the most responsible. She is intelligent and observant and wanted to save the best for last. Molly does her chores first then savors the time she has left to play and goof around.

I never really thought about it before but this little stumbled upon test of theirs really does point to their varying approaches to life. Of course this doesn't bode well for Liam's future 401K. But he'll probably have some killer vacations!!

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Happy Mothers Day: to those of us learning on the job

My biggest secret in life is that I feel I have no clue what I am doing almost all the time. From my perspective it appears that all the other mommies in suburbia with the 1.9 kids and mini vans have a key that unlocks this mysterious world of mommyhood that I didn't get. Or more likely did get but lost in my overflowing "to be filed" pile.

Very early on in mommyhood I learned to just go with the flow, learn what you can from observation and punt if you have to.

At 2 1/2 years of age my daughter, M, informed me, while she was playing in the tub, that you can't put money in your 'gina. Immediately the following thoughts raced through my head:

1. Good point.
2. Did someone tell you this rule or was it discovered by trial and error?
3. Is this a rule that every good mommy already knows? And what other rules am I missing?
4. Holy crap. What should I say in response to that!!!

ME: "Well, you really shouldn't put anything in your vagina." Very proudly using the correct vernacular for the female body part. How modern parenting of me?! Keep in mind I was still six months away from M nearly killing an 83 year old lady in the grocery store from a heart attack by screaming in her face "My Vagina is Killing Me!" In M's defense she was wedged up against the safety bar in the front of the grocery cart with a package of diapers shoved in behind her.

Back in the tub my daughter thinks over my advice. I can see the wheels turning as she takes in this new knowledge. After a full minute of processing it she says. "Well you can put these two fingers in if you're cleaning it."

I assume most other mothers would be prepared for this conversation. I wasn't and hence started what would be my back up strategy for all future mind-freak conversations. I punted plus thankfully used a big word for a 2 year old.

ME: "You don't have to be so thorough in cleaning. Just do the outside."

M: "What's thorough?"

Good. A definition question. I can handle that. Whew! Back on solid ground.

Happy Mothers Day! Both to those who know what they are doing and also to those of us still learning on the job.

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Boys!!?

The 6 year old comes down from his 20 minute shower all changed into pj's and ready for his promised 30 minutes of TV. A deal is a deal after all.

ME: "Did you use soap and shampoo?"

You may wonder why I asked such an obviously silly question.

HIM: "Awww! Mom! I'll do it next time I promise. PLEEEEASE!!"

Are you still wondering?

ME: "No. I fell for that last night. Back up you go."

Boys!!?

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Do you remember ankle high white boots and black eyeliner?

So my mom took Molly on her annual birthday shopping trip to the mall the other day. Back they came giddy as school girls about their fab day together with bags of what I am told is the latest in preteen fashion.

Oh, have the tables turned since I was a preteen!

The old lady standing there all smiles as my nine year old prances into the living room to model her new bra strap tank and shorts with some word plastered across the buttocks is not the woman who raised me. "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" springs to mind.

ME: "Do you really think that is appropriate for a nine year old?"

Molly: "Everyone wears this."

(I didn't say, "Would you jump off a bridge if everyone else was doing it?" But heaven help me it did go through my mind. I know that the old lady would have loved to hear her old phrase being bandied about.)

ME: "I think it looks a little ... too ... ummm ... hookerish."

Gram to the rescue: "I think she looks cute. She is right, this is the style."

ME: "Do you remember the ankle high white boots and black eyeliner I wanted to wear to middle school? That was the 'style' in the 1980's."

Gram: "That was just trashy, dear. This is so cute and all the fashion."

She's paying me back. She must be or she has lost her mind. I'm sure I deserve it for countless boundary testing things I did in my teen years. I vaguely recollect Mom saying, "Just you wait. One day you'll have a daughter of your own."

I never imagined that she was planning to team up with her against me in this future world. Yet here we are in a fashion versus good taste stand-off. THEM vs ME. The line has been drawn.

BTW the shorts are going back and the bra strap tank will only be worn as a bottom layer to another top. Take that you alien rendition of my Mom.

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Fire is Dangerous Mommy

This past weekend the mom of one of Molly's friends called to ask if she could go to a local hibachi restaurant. She wanted to know if Molly had overcome her past traumas. Sounds like a crazy question but it's not.

When Molly was 3 years old we took her to this very same restaurant and thought she'd love it. So much fun with the Onion Tower Volcano and the knife flipping. Well Molly did not see it that way. She sat there scowling as the chef pulled out every trick in the book to entertain us. Of course, six month old Liam squealed in delight at everything. To be honest though at six months a napping dog is on par with a July 4th fireworks show in terms of entertainment value so his review should be discounted. I myself thought it was tons of fun and couldn't understand Molly's obvious disdain. After the spectacular onion tower being set ablaze to resemble a volcano it all became apparent when I was sternly told by this three year old, "Fire is dangerous Mommy. And you shouldn't play with knives." Who could argue with that logic?

Flash forward three years and we decide to give it another go. We have a long discussion about fire and knives being dangerous but that some adults spend years learning and practicing how to do tricks to entertain people and this is their job. Molly gets it and is very excited as we sit down to our table. Out comes our chef with the rolling butcher block of food and razor sharp knife assortment. The cooktop is put on to heat and the chef starts sharpening his knives. If you have ever been to a hibachi restraurant you can picture the knives as he starts to clang them on the cook top and flip them in the air only to miraculously catch these juggling implements moments before hitting the now scalding cooktop. All is going well. Molly is entranced watching the flying knives when one blindingly sharp knife ever so quickly looks as if it gently brushes the chef's face. It all happened so quick. The chef collects all the knives and just stands there kind of looking at us. Only seconds go by but it seems like forever. We hear it first. The sizzle. Then another and another. As the chef reaches up to his face the blood has finally risen to the surface of the 6 inch gash from the corner of his eye to the edge of his chin. The sizzles are the blood drops hitting the burning hot cooktop. In shock we stare as the chef politely excuses himself and runs into the back, his face as white as a ghost and pouring out blood.

Apparently Molly had it right all along - you really shouldn't play with knives.

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I Love Him but Here's Exhibit A

This past Saturday we had a million and one things to do. We were hosting 16 girls at a Kids Choice Awards Slumber Party, Molly had soccer practice and Liam had a birthday party. Not to mention we needed to clean the house from top to bottom for the party (missing that cleaning lady yet again). And of course the usual parenting routines of making sure the kids get up, dressed, find soccer clothes and equipment, wrap present and make card, be nice to each other and the dog, say no to drugs and become productive members of society. So with soccer practice looming at 10:00am and the clock striking 8:45am as the first eye in the house opens the love of my life rolls over and says, "I think I'll go for a run." Mind you he hasn't exercised in like 6 weeks but thinks the start of a marathon parenting day would be a good time to go for a run!!! Speechless I watch as my very own Steve Prefontaine dresses and disappears for his run.

"Is he kidding me?" races through my head as the door slams shut. Only a man could wake up on a day like today and think (1) I really need some "Me Time" and (2) actually go out and do it. I don't know whether to be completely impressed or mind rattlingly furious though I am leaning toward the latter. Since I don't have the luxury of doing anything else I start my day. Wake the dead (oops I mean kids), clean the dog's pee spot (our fault for sleeping so late - note here that Runner Boy either stepped directly in or deliberately over the pee spot and it is still here), make breakfast, locate missing soccer cleats, find matching socks, wrap birthday present, oversee card making for the Kindergartner ("B-I-R-T-H-D"-"no D points the other way"- "no it's not ruined" - "OK fine start again" - "B-I-R..."), find soccer ball, make tight but not too tight ponytails, and breathe.

In comes Runner Boy. He heads straight over to me and gives me a huge kiss. Then says "Thanks I really needed that I'll take over here. You go take a nice long hot shower." Yeah right? Here's what really happened:

In he comes and heads straight over to his IPhone to check email then unbelievably hops on his laptop. I finally boil over when I see Facebook pop up on his screen. I very calmly say, "For the record this will be Exhibit A in court." This is a common phrase in our house in reference to our imaginary divorce proceedings. It is quite useful in getting the "you're-F'ing-pissing-me-off-right-now" point across. As dawn breaks on marble head he understands the enormity of our looming day and giggles as he says, "Hey, I'll drop them off if you start in on the cleaning." Blatantly taking the least painful of the day's co-parenting routine I am yet again impressed by the workings of the male mind. I really must take lessons someday.

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And The Winner Is...

Oh, to be nine years old again! To giggle and scream, run and play as if your life depended on it. This weekend we hosted a Kids Choice Awards Slumber Party for my nine year old daughter's birthday. What a total blast!

That is Molly in the middle with the silver glitter sun glasses on her head and the trench coat. Here the girls are enjoying the (sparkling grape juice) Champagne and Pizza reception as they pick out jewelry and shades. Can you see the Orange Carpet in the background? As opposed to the the Oscars' Red Carpet the Kids Choice Awards has an Orange Carpet.

Each of our celebrities was asked to leave their hand prints next to their star on our Walk of Fame. These would be taken home later and hung on bedroom doors I am told.

With all those famous stars on hand security was tight. We used the movie industry giant Little Brother's Security Firm. If you weren't a celebrity you weren't getting through that door. Grandma was even sent through the garage.

Everyone got a chance to walk the Orange Carpet through throngs of screaming fans and paparazzi.

Out of their glamorous paparazzi attire the girls donned fun clothes and shower caps for the beginning of the slime games. Icky green oatmeal played the part of the famous Nickelodeon Green Slime. One of the girls said, "It looks like throw-up." To which we answered, "What do you mean LOOKS LIKE?" Only a nine year old can truly appreciate good bathroom humor.

Let the Slime Games Begin!

Inside for a quick change into PJs, a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday and some birthday cherry pie (b-day girl is not a cake fan) then into the makeshift movie theater (family room converted with a projector) for the 10 second count down to the 2009 Kids Choice Awards. As the winners were announced horns were blown in agreement or a flurry of boos and dissenting comments filled the air. After the awards the girls headed downstairs for some dancing, nail polish and all around goofiness. I think the last head hit the pillow sometime after 1:30am. Whew! What a party!!!

Happy Birthday Molly! May all your dreams come true. You are an amazing person full of joy and compassion. I would proudly call you a friend had I not already been blessed to call you daughter.

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Where Did I Go Wrong?

Right this instant I am flabbergasted! Actually, totally beside myself in mind bending disbelief is more accurate.

The six year old is walking around asking something or other because he is six and is always asking something. Can we go to a hotel right now? Can I watch TV on Tuesday four weeks from now until midnight? Can I have pizza for breakfast every day until I'm ten? Who is your favorite mythical creature? Would you rather be eaten by a shark or fire ants? Real mind benders - you get the picture. And to be honest I was out late last night at a friend's house with more than my fair share of red wine consumed then up at 6:00am this morning driving my mom to the airport so I am going with the ever popular "what do you think" or "let's see" type of responses from the trusty mom tool kit. I do notice, however, as he walks by a wet spot on the back of the leg of his pants. Since my mental processing is not operating at full capacity right this moment, I can't quite comprehend how a bathroom accident could have resulted in a wet spot in that strategic location. But who knows what can happen? I, myself, pee sitting down and I am proud to say hit the mark pretty much every time. Fifty percent of my household though pees standing up and without getting graphic let's just say that I desperately miss my house cleaner. Damn this economy! Upon asking what said wet spot could possibly be, I am told that his 8 year old sister spit on him.

"She what?"

"Spit on me."

"She SPIT on you????"

"Yep. That's what I said."

Are you getting this? My one month shy of 9 years daughter spit on her brother. Up she comes from the play room. And you will be happy to hear her reasoning.

"I didn't try to spit on him."

Well, that's a relief. What was she "trying" to do? You're gonna love this. I know I did. Apparently she had (and I am quoting here) "those sticky boogery things" in her throat and was spitting them out. Spitting them out where you ask. Well, on the floor of course. What the F***! I know my mental processing is slow right now but how in any sane way could she actually think this is what you'd do? Correct me if I'm wrong but first choice would be into a tissue in the bathroom. Any of the following would also do: into the sink, the toilet, maybe the garbage, or possibly even out the back door if you must. But on the floor? OMG!!! Apparently she was really tired from a sleepover and just couldn't muster the strength to alleviate her sticky boogery throat in a less disgusting manner.

Is this how it happens? A before and after moment when you realize - Holy Crap! We're THAT family. The ones you see on "Dr. Phil". They live in unbelievable squalor with feral children running all around eating with their hands from the overflowing, maggot-filled trashcans. You always wonder with your head shaking in a sympathetic yet superior fashion how did they get this far gone? I bet it started in many cases with an otherwise intelligent, kind and beautiful child hawking snot loogies onto the playroom carpet and thinking that's what people do. I know for a fact that "non-THAT family" people don't see this as acceptable because up until a few minutes ago I thought I was one of them.

Should I write Dr. Phil for an intervention now or wait for the maggots? I think I'll wait. Maggots do make for better TV.

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All Registered for Summer Camp

This year Molly is going to turn nine and will be old enough for over night camp. We are opting for a 5 night ecologically focused camp. To be honest I don't know who's more excited she or I?

Man, did I love summer camp when I was a kid! Archery, campfires, swimming, capture the flag, boating, new friends, ropes courses and NO parents!! Totally awesome! I am so excited for her.

Back in the day I went to an all girls camp for a week or two every summer. As my mom tells it I came home covered in dirt with the biggest smile and hours and hours of stories. Sounds about right to me.

Camp was cool. I remember the year we slept in a platform tent and had to rent mosquito netting for $2/week. The parents of this girl Karen didn't cough up the $2 and decided a face full of Deet would do the trick instead. By the first morning her face was three times its original size with a zillion bug bites. Karen spent a night or two in the infirmary then came back with a mosquito net of her own. Of course this was way before the over-protective parent came into fashion. No one thought twice about poor Karen's health or her slightly negligent parents. Good Times!

Another year the session was two weeks. Unbeknownst to us campers, every morning at breakfast the director sent counselors to all the tents and cabins (150 in all) and ranked cleanliness. At the end of the first week my tent mates and I were surprised and I remember quite honored to be awarded the "messiest tent" designation. Our prize/punishment was to "slop" the pigs daily. Slop is great stuff. At our camp it was a vat full of the left overs from every ones plates scraped together into this congealed mass. Picture the drain at the bottom of your kitchen sink after dinner dishes. Bits of food of every texture, color and smell all wet and slimy. Now visualize this multiplied by 500 and dumped into a less than clean 5 gallon bucket. Umm. Memories. After breakfast the five of us with Rob, the handyman, would haul this slop up the hill to the resident pigs. Clara, the mom pig, was humongous and she had 5 very large piglets - Huey, Dewey, Luey, Snoopy and Pinkie. Once you got used to the mud, muck and smell they were really quite cute. I remember like it was yesterday the last time we saw Clara and her adorable family. Saying goodbye was hard and tears were shed. As we left we asked Rob, "How long have the pigs been pets?" He laughed and told us they weren't pets but were raised every year, fatted up, then slaughtered by the owner for a huge Christmas dinner. As I said before Good Times!

Then there was the time that Sarah was my partner and I saved her life. Sarah was always my partner that summer on account of the red bag she had tied around her neck. The bag held a needle of medicine that Sarah had to receive within minutes of being stung by a bee or die. So in the imminent wisdom of the camp and with no notification to my own parents; I, a mere 10 year old, was shown what to do in the event of a bee sting and assigned as Sarah's permanent partner. Nothing was supposed to happen because we were almost always with a counselor and they knew what to do. But on a walk back from the showers one afternoon Sarah and I met up with a bee. She freaked out and was stung. I gave her the shot then got the nurse just like I was told to do. Sarah ended up being fine but left camp nonetheless. I'll say it again...Good Times.

As a mom these memories scare the shit out of me. But I lived through them as a kid and really didn't think twice about any of them at the time. Why send my kid to camp if this is my base of experience? Because 2009 is not 1979 and these crazy memories are more than overshadowed by all the really good stuff:

roasting marshmallows
care packages from home
swimming across the lake
snipe hunts
camp songs
Popsicle stick art
kickball
staying up all night giggling
50's Sock Hop dances
twin look alike competitions
night hikes through the woods
sneaking across the road to spy on the boys camp
talent shows
sailing
animal safaris
the mile high ropes course
capture the flag when we beat the boys camp
And hours and hours of pure childhood joy!

Have the time of your life Molly!!! I can't wait to hear all your stories.

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My apologies to future girlfriends

Penis. There I wrote it. I think it is the first time I have ever done so. I feel so dirty even writing the word. That Catholic upbringing of mine was obviously a success. Nonetheless I must press forward.

To circumcise or not? That was the question six and a half years ago. I don't recall all the specifics of the discussion. I do know that Steve cited some wacko on Howard Stern saying there was a probable 70% loss in sexual sensation as a reason against but couldn't find another more credible source. There was some pro discussion including the locker room and same as daddy issues. In the end we decided to circumcise our little bundle of joy but I think it could have went either way. And that is where this apology starts.


Early in his young life Liam was a big baby. Born at 9 lbs 2 oz he was 30 lbs by his first birthday. According to his pediatrician this added chubbiness while cute and perfectly normal tended for his foreskin to push forward and adhere or basically reattach. So I, the lucky mommy, had to pry apart these skin layers daily and rub them with Bacitracin. It was painful for little Liam and to be honest very awkward for me. Obviously I don't have my own penis but yes I have seen them and can find them quite useful in a certain aspect of my life. However, I have never been a huge fan of detailed inspection. They do their job and I am thankful for that but on a whole I find them rather ugly. So there I am confronted on a daily basis with this little lump of flesh (he is Irish but I do think "little" at that point in his life had to do with age) as an integral part of my precious baby that needed tending to, and I was,... well,... squeamish. Raised in a house with no brothers and a well-covered father at all times, my only interaction with this male organ has been through boyfriends and my husband. My mom is a RN and decided my sister and I needed the facts; so at a young age we were sat down for the talk and even given a book that showed detailed pictures that I was too embarrassed to more than glance at. I had the facts: That goes there. Got it. Don't get pregnant. Got it. Boys are after one thing you need to be the responsible one. Got it. Then something about waiting for marriage.

Back to daily penis care 101 for the chubby baby. As Liam got a few months older and was able to move around more the adhesion problem went away and the constant penis attention thankfully ended. Still I wonder if some day years from now he'll tell some future girlfriend, "That is not how my mom did it." Ew! Ick! Gross! Nasty! I know, but may lightning strike me dead this fear has in fact floated through my mind.

Then just last week this penis thing crept right back into the forefront of my parenting insecurities. Liam's first Tae Kwon Do sparring class was on Thursday. Steve was working so I get the bag of gear out that came in kit form - pads, helmet, mouth piece, etc. - to help him dress. Do you know what the etc. was? It was a cup. A cup! He's six! Holy crap, what do you do with this? Well, theoretically I know. But is there a correct way to wear it? Do you wear underwear over it, his tae kwon do pants are white after all? We fumble through and he is all suited up. Looking like the Michelin Man with all the pads and walking like he just got off a horse because of the cup. It is on wrong obviously but for the life of me I can't figure out how to make it more comfortable. We adjust this way and that. Both of us tugging and rearranging the gear and the package to make it better. No luck. I decide to go with the "just deal with it" approach. Now I lay awake wondering if a cup can do damage that would affect a future hopefully wife's but maybe girlfriend's desire for children. I can't take it. I can't take the pressure. I am officially relinquishing my penis-rearing duties. I'll still pipe in with the casual, "Feel free to touch it. It is yours afterall but please do it in privacy. If you can't keep your hands off it while we're watching TV then you won't be allowed to wear boxer shorts as pajamas." That I can handle. But the rest of it I am dropping 100% on my co-parenting partner, who by the way has a penis. From here on out he's in charge of our littlest member's member.

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Good Morning Hot Stuff

School vacation. Kids home and screaming of boredom. Ugh! Get to sleep late though. Yeah! OK sleeping late wins. All is good.

So this morning hubby hits the shower early. Poor baby has to work and I get to entertain an 8 and 6 year old on a no-play-dates-planned day. Ugh. Sorry I forgot I was going to focus on the positive - sleeping late. OK here goes. As luck has it I can't get back to sleep after the big guy's waking and subsequent shower and dressing routine. No biggie. I exchange the sleeping late thing for a nice, long, hot shower and a chapter or two of my latest read before the kids wake starved for attention. This is even better than the sleeping late plan.

The house is freezing in the morning. So I quickly disrobe and hop on the scale as the water warms to near scalding before I jump in. Notice how I skipped over the scale reading. We are focusing on the positive today so I won't mention that I think the scale must be broken. The stupid piece of junk is obviously stuck. Except for a carton or twelve of Girl Scout cookies I have been a saint on the diet and, except for the days when I just don't feel like it, I am up and at 'em at 5:00am or noon sweating myself silly. So you see my point. Dedication like this means only one thing - a broken scale. That settled; back to my intoxicating shower.

As steam starts to waft through the air I slide into the open-front, glass brick shower stall. The frozen fingers of my left hand are the first to test the temperature. It's perfectly blistering as the pounding jets travel up my left arm and onto my shoulders. Absolute nirvana. I can feel the cold leave my body as the water pours over my shoulders and down toward the drain. My inner core is the last to give up the icy hands of overnight heat conservation. Time for a little aroma therapy. An exhilarating mixture of shampoos, soaps and gels are slathered, combed through and rinsed off.

THIS...................IS...................AWESOME.

A head full of aromatic lather, a blasting stream of scorching water and ever-elusive privacy. This must be what heaven is like. Ummm.... Ahhhhh!!!

My eyes open. My eyes close and my head shakes in disbelief. My eyes open again. Holy crap! He really is standing there and in his coat and tie with his briefcase in hand. A fleeting thought of some steamy office-executive-and-lonely-house-wife porn reenactment is shot dead in its tracks when he utters,"Hate to bother you but you need to drive me to the train. The car is in the garage, remember?"

Hell no I don't remember! Would I be wasting a perfectly perfect shower if I remembered I had to haul the kids out of bed and into this freezing cold house only to rush coats, hats and shoes jump into the even more freezing cold car and drive you to the train? That's my mind talking. However, trying to save face for my forty-year old memory, my mouth says, "Of course, I'll be down in 2 minutes." Unbelievably, I hit that time estimate. It is not pretty and the waking routine with the kids is anything but gentle. I have a towel on my soaking wet hair and the pj-clad kids are in the back with a blanket, but Mr. Missed-His-Shot-as-A-Porn-Star makes the train with minutes to spare. Yippee! Daddy gets to work on time and we get a nice relaxing start to our day.

Back home, now colder than ever with wet hair and clothes, I jump back in the shower. However, it's not the same. Most of the hot water is gone and now I have constant comings and goings with the kids. "What are we having for breakfast?" "What are we going to do today?" My long leisurely morning is reduced to a two minute luke warm shower and zero alone time. Maybe tomorrow. After all a girl can dream. Can't she?

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The Fashion Police

My friend, Kristen, stayed over the other night. We've been BFFs, as the kids say, since we were in 6th grade (pushing on 30 years now). In the morning Kristen, who has no children of her own, becomes a spectator to the Duncan weekday morning routine. She has no idea what she is in for.

It starts as a pretty impressive picture of domestic bliss. A spinach and cheese omelet for Steve, a quick "I love you" and he's out the door to catch the early train. Kids are gently roused from bed. "Get up now. You don't want me to come up there! Do you?" Kristen rolls her eyes and laughs as I tell her that I hope they never call me on this one because I am sure it will not be half as scary as they have obviously built it up to be in their minds. I am now at the stove, on a weekday no less, making pancakes by request. Blueberry, chocolate chip, banana or plain. Pretty impressive, huh?

Did I forget to mention the absolutely amazing grocery store find I made the other day? The Organic Batter Blaster. It is totally awesome. Picture a whip cream spray can filled with organic (must be healthy, right?) pancake batter. You shake, turn can upside down and spray out just the batter you need right onto the pan. A few frozen blueberries, a handful of chocolate chips or even a piece or two of banana and boom! you're like the best mom ever.

Liam scarfs down his chocolate chip pancakes then slips into whatever he finds in his drawer. Today it's a grey pair of sweats and his Tony Hawk skater shirt. Kinda sloppy but Auntie Kristen is here and to be honest I am thrilled it matches and is clean. He's off to tooth brushing, face washing and pre-bus prep (arranging his gear for a quick get away - his back pack, coat, socks & shoes, hat and mittens if necessary). When finished he knows he is free to spend his 15 or so minutes before the bus as he sees fit. With that carrot he is off to the races.

Then there is Molly, 8 going on 16. She's opted for blueberry and hits me mid batter squirt with a shoe location question. I must admit I am not really on fashion police duty at the moment. I give the usual suggestion of places one might locate one missing black flat - shoe pile by back door, shoe pile in kitchen, shoe pile in her room, maybe the bathroom, bottom of hall closet, etc. - and only mildly register the black skirt and white patterned tights. As I offer Kristen coffee, there is some part of my brain trying to recall where she even got white patterned tights and wasn't that skirt really a skort from summer and isn't it now, 5 months later, a tad on the short side. The thoughts are there; just not at the forefront of my brain. Plus what the heck, Auntie Kristen is here and it is a fun morning. Cut the kid some slack if anything is totally inappropriate I know my best pal will have my back.

Before I know it I hear Kristen asking Molly, "What's up with the boots?" She can't find the other black flat and is going with the boots instead. Knee-high, swede and lambs wool, wedge heeled boots. Moving closer to the front of my mind are Fashion Police thoughts - short skirt, where did the tights come from, and now knee-high boots. Not really the type of outfit that walks out my front door every day. Since Molly is off to do her hair before I turn around, I shoot Kristen the "what do you think of the outfit" question. She shrugs as she sips her coffee and says, "Uh...She looks... cute". Not exactly a rave review but I turn back to my pancakes and slide them onto a plate as Molly hits the kitchen table in her "cute" outfit.

As I deliver said pancakes to my precious child I see that the tights are not really tights at all. She apparently took the knee socks from her Christmas kilt and pulled them up to thigh highs! The skort is from summer and is, in fact, way too short. I know this because I see 5 inches of skin from the top of her homemade thigh highs to the bottom edge of the skort. And guess what? The boots do anything but pull the whole outfit together. In the mere seconds it has taken for the Fashion Police hat to become firmly planted on my head I slam the pancakes down with a shocked, "Oh My God you look like a hooker!" To which Kristen spits her coffee across the table in hysterics and asks does she even know what one is? Six year old Liam in mid pre-bus prep pipes in with the answer, "Auntie, it is when you pay someone to be your girlfriend." More coffee across the room. I give up trying to impress. "Welcome to my life." This is the typical Duncan weekday morning. Fun huh? As if to punctuate my point we are now subjected to a loud foot stomp, an eye roll for the ages and a snippy "you don't know young fashion" as Molly goes in search of a more appropriate outfit.

I can't help but to recall this absolutely typical yet crazy morning as I read in the Boston Globe today:
"Elizabeth ..., 16, was found face-down in a partially frozen Concord brook early Sunday morning after leaving an all-night party on foot."

Somewhere right now in Wellesley, Massachusetts is a grieving mother. A woman who played fashion police to her daughter more mornings than she can count and taught her to look both ways before crossing the street and I am sure taught her the dangers of walking around in the dark alone in a strange town. But 16 year old kids don't think bad things can happen to them and they make rash decisions and they may even be hampered by alcohol flowing through their underage brains. It happens. Don't think your kid won't make a bad decision some day. They will. We all did. This is in fact the second such loss of teenage life in Massachusetts this year. Is there anything we can do to keep our children, every one's children, safe from bad decisions becoming tragedies? Is there?

A Wellesley mother lost her 16 year old daughter this weekend. I weep for her unimaginable loss and cannot help but look at my own children, less than 10 years Elizabeth's junior, and feel totally unprepared and very scared.

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Six Year Olds and Basketball

Kindergarten Basketball.

If you aren't already feeling your blood pressure rise with just the mere mention of this phrase then you have not had the joy of true Kindergarten Basketball. In our town it is a rec league that runs from December to March. Each team has 10-12 five and six year old children with about 90% boys. Each Saturday for 1 1/2 hours chaos reigns over gymnasiums throughout the town. The poor coaches do their best to teach basketball skills to these beautiful sons and daughters of ours. But it is impossible to teach the intricacies of "man on man defense" when 99% of the kids don't even know what defense means and 100% have the attention span of a gnat.

Most of the kids run from baseline to baseline and crash into the wall, slide around on their knees or play chase games. The "lucky duck" with the ball dribbles at a snails pace then either walks over and hands it to another kid (this is the kindergarten pass in all its glory) or picks up the ball and walks to the net where he'll shoot like 10 times before it goes in (with parents thanking the heavens) or worse yet some kid from the other team gets the rebound. Thus becoming the new "lucky duck" and the snail crawl goes the other way.

And so it is every Saturday. It's loud. It's chaotic. And it's stressful. Stressful to the parents. Who try to let the coaches coach but need to step in for behavior control from time to time. And who watch as their kid shoots and shoots and shoots; yet misses every time. Stressful to the coaches. Who are barely keeping the kids engaged. Who have designed what should be fun activities if only the kids would listen and try. And stressful to the kids as they try to grasp completely foreign concepts and do what is expected of them. But somehow amidst all this craziness progress is being made.

Basic rules are becoming second nature. One team shoots one way one team the other way. You should dribble (that means bounce with one hand) to move the ball. You can give it (oops pass) it to a kid on your team if you get stuck. Get back to defend your net if the other team gets the ball. Don't hit to get the ball. Don't cry if you lose it.

Come join us one Saturday. You never know who you might see playing. For sliding across the floor on his or her knees screaming the tune to Sponge Bob might be the next Kevin Garnett or Marcus Camby or Candice Dupree. Skill has to start somewhere and I've decided to view Kindergarten Basketball as a pool of hidden potential - a HUGE pool of very well hidden potential.

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My Mom Drinks Too

Molly comes home the other day and tells me about this conversation she had with her friend and her friend's mom. They were apparently telling Molly some silly story in which the mom came home from a party where she had had a drink or two and she went off on the kids about the kitchen being a mess. So in the morning the kids got up early and started to clean the kitchen. To which the mom was like "What are you doing? Everything looks great." I guess a big family laugh was had. Here is where I get involved in the story. Being female (albeit an 8 year old one) and biologically pre-programmed to show empathy and understanding when in a conversation, Molly says, "My mom drinks too." That's it. Nothing more. Hello? God can only imagine what the friend's mother was thinking. Ugh! I replay it in my head. What would I think if some kid said that to me about their mother? I'd probably smirk; maybe raise an eyebrow. "How much?" and "Does she drink alone?" are questions that would pop unasked into my head. It's in the choice of words really. "My mom drinks too." It has that bottle-of-Thunderbird-in-a-paper-bag implication to it. But how to explain this to an eight year old. So I simply say, "Next time just say, 'My mom enjoys having wine with her friends'." There, that's much better. Right?

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