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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Miss Me?

A million apologies for not updating this site in FOREVER!

Here are my excuses:

1. It's summer and those short people are around 24x7. Apparently I didn't read the "Mommy Contract" fine print because "they're bored". And I guess I am supposed to do something about it or they have the right to whine until I go completely crazy. Let's just say I am in the market for a snazzy looking straight-jacket.


2. Hubby hasn't done anything completely and mind-numbingly "male". Apologies to 50.24% of the world's population but really I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the pie in the trunk.


3. I've started this other website for fun. www.one-stop-birthday-ideas.com And while I am having fun it is taking a lot of time.
   

So when will I be back?

Honestly on a regular basis probably not until September and the glorious return of the school bus.

However, if something insanely "me" happens I will find the time to blog this summer.

Short of that I'll see you in the Fall. Have a superb summer!!

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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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Set a goal

Setting a goal can be as simple as "I will not hit the snooze button this morning." Or as complex as "I will find a cure for cancer."

You can strive to exercise more or get a new job. Yell less at your kids. Call old friends more often. Run regularly. Stop swearing. Spend more time with your family. Spend less time on the phone. Eat healthy. Keep your house clean. Gossip less. Volunteer. Go green. Make a million dollars a year. Become famous. Or even win American Idol.

These are all great goals.

Experts say to start with small goals first then set day-to-day action steps to achieve your larger goals. Write it down. Check it off. Seeing your progress is what keeps you motivated.

I just found this totally cool site GoalTribe.com that helps you do your goal planning and action steps. It also has a social networking component that you can hook up with other people working toward similar goals. Look for me under "start to run regularly".

I tried to set a goal to keep the house cleaner but just couldn't seem to commit to it in writing. I physically couldn't press the enter key. Craziest thing. So I guess I'll get fit but live in squalor. Oh well.

What are your goals? Don't just think them in your head. See if you can commit them to writing. It is way more difficult than you think. Give it a try.

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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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Something New Learned - Disney World

You should learn something new every day then I guess you can go back to bed.

Percentage of Americans who have visited Disneyland/Disney World: 70%

See Molly we aren't the only ones.

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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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And So Summer Begins

Memorial Day. The official start to summer in my mind. At least back in the day before kids and their school schedules dictating the most beloved of seasons.

Back in the summer of 1993 my roommates and I piled into the car in CT. We drove through holiday traffic to Newport, RI to move into what would be our weekend retreat that summer. A beautiful Victorian right off of Thames Street - right in the mix of things. The house was in serious disrepair but had the bones of a grand home of yesteryear. We were minutes to the beach, downtown and of course the bar scene.

Did I mention there were seventeen of us "young professionals" (read underpaid lackeys) sharing this house for the summer. We'd sleep 5 or 6 to a room because everyone always had friends over. I think the bathrooms were cleaned like twice and the floors were always either sandy or sticky.

Nights were very uncomfortable especially if you got stuck on one of the blow up mattresses on the third floor. Plus no air conditioning meant that you'd lay sweltering in the dark waiting for the oscillating fan to toss a breeze or two your way.

Morning would bring an exodus from the house as we went in search of coffee and breakfast. Then off to the beach to fry in the sun and catch up on our zzz's. Back to the house for a crazed shower schedule. High math was required to follow the thing. Then a BBQ in the backyard and off to dance the night away with friends. Possibly imbibe a little too much.

One or more of the guys would inevitably bring back some clueless girl and beyond all reason sleep with her in a house filled to the brim with bodies. Those poor girls. Talk about a walk of shame. Before they even hit the street full of strangers - in that little black dress that looked so cute last night and so slutty this morning - they'd have to walk through all of us roommates. And we were awful. Superior looks from us girls and knowing smiles from the guys.

On Sunday there'd be brunch at Castle Hill and the dreaded commute back to CT. Only to do it all over again the following weekend. That summer we lived for Fridays like never before.

I can still hear the music and giggles as we four roommates made our way to RI that first Memorial Day weekend. God what a great summer! Fun, laughter, friends, sun, sand, and a feeling of great things to come.

This Memorial Day weekend we will spend two days cheering our brains out for Molly in a soccer tournament. Go to a BBQ with friends and spend some time at my parent's lake.

The packaging may be different from my crazy Memorial Day weekend of 1993 but the ingredients remain the same:

Fun, laughter, friends, sun, sand, and a feeling of great things to come!

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Something New Learned - Snoring Law

You should learn something new every day then I guess you can go back to bed.

In Massachusetts - Snoring is prohibited by law unless all bedroom windows are closed and securely locked.

So if I open a window Hubby has to stop snoring or face jail time.

Hmmmm...... What would you do for a good night's sleep?

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1+1 equals who the hell knows... if Mars is calculating

Yesterday the kids and Steve made me a spectacular breakfast burrito for Mother's Day. My absolute fav for a Sunday breakfast. Then after a lot of whispering in the other room as I read my book, I was whisked off to a hike in the woods and a cozy family picnic. After which I was asked how I'd like to spend the rest of 'My" day.

Not liking to have things hanging over my head I said that I'd like to paint the shutters we had taken down last weekend. Let me be clear. I don't have some love of painting nor do I dream constantly about the lone pursuit of home repair. We just needed to get it done and yesterday was a nice day to paint. So Steve and I started to clean and paint the 20 shutters.

Two and a half hours later we had only 6 remaining. Steve volunteered to take Molly to soccer practice and here is where things went off track. I thought he meant "drop her off" because really what else could he have meant?

We were in the middle of a project together and the 1 1/2 hour practice was 8 minutes away. Plus we were having a really nice time painting the shutters together. Lots of laughs and spilled paint as we whittled away this dreadful task as a team listening to classic rock.

Oh how I was wrong! I assume this must be one of those Mars vs. Venus things because he took Molly to practice (in the car we had been listening to the radio out of I must note) and stayed. To watch it!

According to the defendant it never entered his mind to come back and help finish. He said, and I quote, "We were almost done. Weren't we?" Call me crazy but isn't 6 out of 20 like one third.

Here's an elementary school math word problem for you:

It takes Moira and Steve 2 1/2 hours to wash 20 shutters and paint 14 of them as a team. The washing takes a total of 45 minutes. Six shutters remain to be painted when Steve leaves. Are Moira and Steve "almost done"?

Answer: Hell NO!

Mars has obviously slipped through the No Child Left Behind Law.

Happy Mothers Day Venus you married him!

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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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Happy Birthday Morgie - 84 in dog years

Morgie is our adorable yet devilish foxhound. Today she is 84 dog years old or so I am told by my 3rd grade daughter.

We adopted Morgie from the ASPC in Connecticut 11 1/2 years ago when she was 6 months old. It was immediate love. She came with the name Daisy but as she playfully pranced around our house the first day we just started calling her Morgan and it stuck - now shortened to Morgie.

For Steve and I Morgie was our first baby. She was spoiled and pampered and worried over as any first born is. I remember coming home late from a business meeting only to find Morgie and Steve curled up on the couch together watching a football game - he with a pepperoni pizza and she with a few Pupperoni sticks. Later in the night when she made a midnight run outside Steve came clean about letting her have the last piece of pepperoni pizza. Probably not the best thing for her belly.

I'm not sure if the pepperoni pizza started the trend of eating anything not nailed down or if it is just in her nature. But over the years she has consumed just about anything she can get her paws on.

• 15 or so remote controls in Connecticut - For some reason the remote controls in MA haven't held the same appeal.
• 2 lbs container of candy corn
• a fairly good gobble of rat poison followed by an expensive trip to the vet and two weeks of vitamin K
• Countless pacifiers and baby bottle nipples
• Dirty diapers by the dozen. If left unattended with opportunity she'd pull out a string of them from the Diaper Genie and go to town. Just another reason I don't miss the diaper days.
• An economy size jar of peanut butter - impressive when you think she had to maneuver the lid off first - this resulted in a week's stay at the vet for pancreatitis.
• A full bottle of my sister's dog's $600 allergy medicine.
• A kitchen sponge - which impressively came out the other end still intact. No, we didn't keep the sponge.
• A bottle of Pedia-cure.
• A bottle of Motrin.
• Multiple loaves of bread - Each Tuesday when the milk and bread is delivered she tries to get out the door before we remember to bring the milk in and she is batting about a 200 for her efforts.
• A raw 18 lbs turkey one Thanksgiving. We had been brining it overnight in the garage in a cooler. She pulled the whole cooler out and into the front yard then preceded to naw away. Happy Thanksgiving neighbors!
• A tray of cheese and crackers left out from a totally fun BBQ. Followed by another bout of pancreatitis.

And the piece de resistance:

After baby #2 we decided two would be our limit. Having been the responsible party in family planning for the entirety of our relationship I decided I was done and Hubby should get the snip. For whatever reason he didn't agree. I made it clear that I was off FP duties and the rules were that this holster was off-limits to his gun unless there were blanks in the chamber or the safety was on. His decision was to go back to high school for a solution and off he went to the pharmacy for condoms. So it was one afternoon when I was taking the kids to a birthday party - and popped back in the house like 10 seconds after I had left to get the present I had forgotten. Only to find hubby growling, "What the F**k!" as he stared out the window. Always one to follow a rant in progress I looked out the window to find poor Morgie squatting in obvious strain trying to squeeze out a long and getting longer rubber that was hanging from her butt.

"What do you think we should do about that?" says the man afraid of a little out-patient procedure.

Since I was officially off family planning duty and this loosely related, I said, "If I were you I'd wear a glove." To which I then gleefully walked back out the door with the present.

Back 3 hours later I found Hubby and Morgie sitting watching some baseball game. Curious I asked what had happened and he replied, "All you need to know is I took care of it. And Morgie and I decided never to discuss it again."

I always get all teary-eyed walking down Memory Lane on birthdays. Don't you?

Happy 84th Birthday, Morgie!

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Something New Learned - Baseball and the Moon

You should learn something new everyday then I guess you can go back to bed.

The power of words is amazing.

In 1963, baseball pitcher Gaylord Perry remarked, "They'll put a man on the moon before I hit a home run." On July 20, 1969, a few hours after Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon, Gaylord Perry hit his first, and only, home run.

So watch what you say and say what you mean because once it is out there - there is no taking it back.

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Did your butt just call me?

Ever get an @$$ call or worse yet make one? You know the ones when someone's cell phone is in their pocket and their butt accidentally activates the phone to dial out.

The phone rings and you pick up only to hear muffled conversation having nothing to do with you - or maybe a person singing off key to the radio - or god forbid squeaks and squishy sounds as the caller makes a sitting adjustment with your ear wedged between his butt and the seat. You have just received the dreaded @$$ call.

Just last night I called home to pick up our messages and listened to 5 minutes of wind whipping over someone's phone. Very Zen! Turns out it was Hubby's phone as he watched M's soccer practice. Steve proudly owned up to the call by saying, "Yep that's an @$$ call and I guess I'm the @$$."

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The Couch That Just Loves Me

We have this diminutive yet unfathomably heavy pull-out couch that just can't seem to say goodbye. Let's call her Bertha. We originally got Bertha from my aunt and had her reupholstered in what I thought at the time was a beautiful floral pattern. Today I wonder, as you often do 12 years later, "What the heck was I thinking?" At the time it went perfect in our house in Connecticut - its dainty proportions fit the living room and the pull out was great for slumbering Massachusetts relatives. When we moved to Massachusetts almost nine years ago, Bertha started her slide into the dreaded "how-the-heck-can-I-unload-it" status and she was having none of it.

First the moving men made the usual Bertha type remarks.

"Shit. This is heavy."

"No man, I mean really f'ing heavy."

"I never seen a couch this heavy."

"Lady, you better know exactly where you want it 'cuz we ain't moving it again."

So it was that Bertha found her new home in the totally unused living room of our current house. No, she didn't fit. She was puny in the high ceilings. No, she didn't match. The walls and the rest of the house are warmer tones and her burgundy is more of a wine color with a floral pattern of blues and pinks with some grayish-pink-taupe color popping through. But no biggie. We had just moved in and it was just temporary until I decided what color to paint the living room.

Nine years later...

I am embarrassed to say that I still have not decided what what color to paint this little used living room. Mostly because it would involve buying a whole new set of furniture and truth be told I just didn't care enough about this space to put the effort into the whole decorating thing.

I still hate poor neglected Bertha. For nine years Bertha has sat unloved in a big room with other unloved pieces. Except for when the kids went through their fort building years and used her cushions for all manner of wall, ceiling and bridges; Bertha got almost no attention at all. Only at Christmas does she have anything to look forward to - the annual visit of Chrissy, our Christmas tree. They are great friends but she pales in his shadow.

Chrissy visits once a year for a month or so. The whole family makes a special trip to pick him up. As he arrives the air fills with festivity. We fawn over him with decorations and worry daily about his health - he has a hydration issue. After New Years though he is off to bigger and better things. He gives one last wave to Bertha from the curb as he hops in the back of a truck toward his next adventure. Bertha never moves. Never gets decorated. And never is the center of festivity.

But today it is finally time for Bertha's adventure. On Tuesday my sister and brother-in-law dropped off a new couch and chair that will be Bertha's replacement. As the new younger, more hip furniture sat in the driveway we moved Bertha to the very spot on the curb that Chrissy sits and waits for his ride every year. My brother-in-law was the first out with, "Holy crap. This couch weighs a ton!"

The three of us huffed and puffed as we lugged the diminutive load out the door. I must admit I was relieved as we placed her down on the curb. Friday is trash day and she'd be out of my hair was all I could think. Poor Bertha. Could she read my mind?

She sat motionless as we moved the new furniture into her old room and took out the paint chips talking excitedly about which colors would best match these youngsters. Night fell and the wind kicked up. Bertha was alone and waiting for her adventure to begin.

Friday morning broke and Bertha still sat patiently waiting. But before the trash men came, a pickup truck stopped. The driver, a nice middle age woman, asked directions to myself and two neighbors who stood gabbing rudely at Bertha's side since the school bus had departed some ten minutes prior. Within minutes the driver had returned. We thought she was still lost but instead she sheepishly looked at Bertha.

"Are you getting rid of that gorgeous couch?"

"She's all yours if you want her."

"Really?!"

The driver had a bad back so my neighbors and I hoisted Bertha onto the bed of this pickup. Bertha smirked knowing my back would hurt for a day or two thanks to this final goodbye lift. She was a good couch who served us well and only looked for a little love in return. Love I just couldn't give in this new place with this new life. May the driver's niece, who is graduating college this spring, appreciate Bertha for the beautiful and useful couch she is at heart.

Bon voyage! Bertha. Enjoy your new life. I will probably not think of you nor even miss you. But my scrap books are filled with your pictures from every Christmas morning. And you do look pretty underneath all that spent wrapping paper sitting next to your old pal Chrissy.

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You have a complaint for everything

It's 10:35am on Easter Sunday. We are due at my parents house at 10:30. Yep, we're late. No surprise there. I wish it were but apparently I lost 15 minutes of my life years ago and I can't get it back no matter how hard I try. By the way we're running around crazy you'd never know we only need to get two kids and a just-out-of-the-oven pie into the car. As I search the endless shoe pile for my missing left shoe in he comes. He, being my beloved. "I dropped the pie. I'm really sorry."

Instantly I want to scream but even I understand that it is only a stupid pie, not the end of the world. I'm just mad because we are late and I have nothing else to replace it with and no time to find an open store. Plus where the hell is my other shoe? But really we're talking about a pie here. Internally I beam with pride at my self control as I say, "No biggie. It could have happened to anyone." But could it?? You be the judge.

Upon getting outside to help with the mess. I am startled to find no pie splattered across the driveway. Holy crap, it must be in my car all over the seat. We are really going to be late now! I check the seat. No pie there. OK you've got me. Where is this dropped pie?

Out he comes with his chosen "pie-clean-up" implements - two spatulas (hello?? but whatever) and heads toward the trunk of all places. The trunk of the car, hmm? Now I'm intrigued.

Treading lightly so as not to shift the calmness-in-the-height-of-chaos-mood we got going on here, I find myself asking. "So what happened?"

"I was trying to put the pie in the trunk."

"Yeah?..." says I, trying for that interested though not judgmental tone. Come on, a pie in the trunk?? I still don't get it. In a million years would you ever think to put a pie in the trunk of a car. Wouldn't it slide all over the place? Wouldn't the soccer ball, mud-caked folding chairs, emergency roadside kit, dog leash and other assorted crap get in the pie? The ride is like 10 minutes. Why wouldn't you just hold it? As my eyes settle on the chocolate blob that used to be a pie, my head hurts from the overload of unasked curiosity questions.

I think he senses that I'm not fully on board with the first premise - "a pie in the trunk" - since I can hear an edge of defensiveness creep into his voice as the explanation continues. "I was doing EVERYTHING by myself, holding the pie in one hand and trying to empty the trunk into the garage with the other when the pie just slid out of the pie plate and right into the trunk. There was nothing I could do."

A mature adult would have just let that sit there with not another word said. Who cares what happened or why? So what if you wouldn't have put a pie in the trunk of a car ever. So what if running 15 minutes late already you wouldn't have decided to clean out the trunk of the car for a 9 inch pie; even if putting it in the trunk was a remotely logical choice in the first place. So what? We're just different people. OK now go have a happy Easter with your family and don't waste another minute on this trivia.

Who cares? I'll tell you who cares. I do. I don't know why but I care. I am obviously NOT a mature adult. Therefore out of my mouth slides, "Why would you put a pie in the trunk to begin with?" Come on people who does this?

To which I receive a snappish, "You have a complaint for everything. Don't you?"

In my defense I wasn't really complaining. Think of it more as a scientific inquiry. Will I ever fully comprehend how this black box - the male mind - that came standard on my model works?

Now ponder this: If a pie falls in the trunk of a car and there is no wife around to see it, does it still make a mess?

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Something New Learned - Eating Spiders in Your Sleep

You should learn something new everyday then I guess you can go back to bed.

MYTH: You swallow an average of 5 spiders every year as you sleep.

This tasty little myth came up at Easter dinner yesterday. Yum! After a little research it appears that it is possible to swallow a spider in your sleep but not probable. Spiders, while not ranked among the most intelligent of animals, are apparently thought by spider experts to be smart enough not to take refuge in the dark, humid and breathing hole we call a mouth. Though no one can totally discount the possibility it does appear to not be as pervasive a problem as 5 spiders eaten per year per person. I guess that makes me feel somewhat better.

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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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Something New Learned

You should learn something new everyday then I guess you can go back to bed.
After this one though please don't go back to bed. Go out and learn more.

There is an area of the Pacific Ocean that is estimated to be twice the size of Texas called the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. It is a gyre of marine debris or more accurately a floating patch of trash, mostly plastics. And most frighteningly it is growing. All plastic ever created still exists in our environment in one form or another. It never goes away, ever. Some you can still recognize as the baby doll from your childhood or the milk jug from breakfast. Others have broken down to microscopic size bits ingested by plankton then fish and other marine life and then in many cases you!

Learn more...
1) Research these terms Great Pacific Garbage Patch, Eastern Garbage Patch and North Pacific Gyre

2) Watch this video The Garbage Patch

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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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That Bites!

I do hope the Boston Globe article below isn't a case of "thou doth protest too much." But it does make you wonder when the Head Mistress of Boston's most prestigious high school feels obligated to address the otherwise laughable issue formally in writing.

Mar. 26, 2009 BOSTON -Apparently, it’s not the bloody truth. After stories spread that vampires were strolling the campus of Boston Latin School, the headmaster of the prestigious college-prep school put a stake in the rumors. Lynne Mooney Teta sent a notice out Thursday to faculty, students, and parents denying the presence of bloodsuckers. She declined, however, to offer details about the rumors.

Boston Police spokesman Eddy Chrispin said police were called to the school Wednesday after hearing of the vampire tales. Chrispin said he didn’t know if the alleged vampires were among the student body or hiding in old corners of the building. The school was founded in 1635, and its students have included Ben Franklin, Sam Adams, Louis Farrakhan, and Sumner Redstone.

I know the mere fact that someone feels they must deny something makes that something appear possible. The other day I got a voicemail from my Kindergartner's teacher simply saying, "Please call me I have something to discuss." There was no "dun, dun, dunnn..." type background music but I just got this my-angel-has-been-devilish feeling.

So that night I ask him why his teacher was calling me. He responded with "I didn't do anything." Too bad for him because the mere fact that he denied something he hadn't even been accused of let me know I was looking at one guilty 6 year old.

Turns out he and a buddy were deep into a boy-type humor session when my little bundle of joy was overheard by the teacher saying in a deep voice, "Tell me what I want to know or I'll throw you out the window." The teacher heard this as a threat and boom - a privilege revoked and call home. Never mind that (a) the 2 were kidding around, (b) the other kid actually found the conversation hysterically funny for some only-boys-know-why reason, (c) my son can't pick up a chair let alone another child, and (d) they were on the ground floor which I am told by my 6 year old is why it was so funny in the first place. But my theory on how our "educational system" is raising wimps not able to find their way out of a paper bag let alone cure cancer or compete on an international playing field will have to wait for another session for I have a garlic necklace to make.

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Something New Learned

You should learn something new every day then I guess you can go back to bed.

The economy sucks and the government is thinking give money away, tax less, tax more and of course creating committees. Basically same old ideas just being thrown out there with no real idea of their ability to turn things around. Time to think outside the box as American Airlines apparently did in 1987.

Amount American Airlines saved in 1987 by eliminating one olive from each salad served in first class: $440,000

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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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Happy St. Patrick's Day the Mom Way

Not exactly the green beer and eggs of my twenties but still pretty much in the spirit of the day. Clover shaped pancakes sprinkled with the ever popular green dinosaur sugar thingies, green milk, the good family jewelry and a special guest, Clover the bear. As I run to the crock pot to pop in the corn beef and cabbage for this evening my Irish Nana is probably rolling over in her grave. Welcome to St. Patrick's Day as a mom in 2009.

May you have the hindsight to know where you've been
the foresight to know where you're going
and the insight to know when you're going too far.

Amen to that.

And for later after the kiddies go to bed and you're hoisting a green beer to your lips I offer this Irish toast.

May your glass be ever full.
May the roof over your head be always strong.
And may you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you're dead.

Happy St. Patty's Day to you and yours!

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The Edge of The World

Standing on the rocky Rhode Island shore on a windswept Sunday morning we felt like we were alone at the edge of the world. The ocean spread out before us as far as the eye could see. Molly and Liam scampered over the rocks uncovering all their mystery and wonder as only young children can. A fossil was found and would be lugged back to the civilized world by a six year old paleontologist already practicing his account of how after millions of years by his estimate it ended up in his unbelievably lucky hands. Pocketfuls of shells were painstakingly selected on their first step to becoming a necklace at the hands of an eight year old artist. The birthday boy whose 42nd year of life was the cause for this outing appeared to shed 35 years scurrying as an exuberant equal among the children over the rocks in search of hidden treasures of his own. The oldest of the crew he'd be the only one to get wet by the incoming waves when his boyish curiosity lured him way too close to the the edge. A fact that had the rest of us in stitches. I myself spent much of the time trapped behind the lens of a camera in my never ending attempts to capture nature's pure beauty and raw power. A losing battle on any day the fates intervened here with the dying of batteries and I too was soon lost among the rocks and pounding surf in search of my own discoveries. A lone rock cairn perched a top a gray outcropping gave the only proof that we were not in fact the first to visit this magical place. Who knows who built it or why? But I thank them. For it now stands as a monument to our brief but beautiful time together at the edge of the world where we played with wild abandon and truly lived in the moment.

The Cairn

The Artist and Birthday Boy lost in their own thoughts.

The Paleontologist ever on the hunt for his next discovery.

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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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The Perfect Birthday Gift Quest

Hubby's birthday is on Thursday and I am still trying to come up with the perfect idea. Birthday presents with meaning are the best to receive and the hardest to come up with to give. As I puzzle over his gift I came across this touching story about a gift for an 84 year old woman. It will definitely have you rethinking the quick stop to the mall for a gift.

Saturday, March 7, 2009 (AP) -- BUCKHEAD RIDGE, Fla. — What do you get an 84-year-old lady for her birthday? That's what Carol Brown was thinking a few weeks ago. Her mother, June Pearce, was turning 84. The idea of buying and giving more stuff just didn't appeal to Brown.

Pearce lives in a slow-paced retirement area near Lake Okeechobee in rural Florida. She's been married to the same man, Fred, for 64 years. Pearce is a wife and a mother. She's had a few strokes, which have robbed her mind of short-term memories. Lung cancer has claimed much of her strength. But one memory has stuck with her: riding on the back of a boy's motorcycle in the 1930s. "I wasn't scared at all," Pearce remembers. It was exciting, possibly one of the most thrilling moments of her life. Pearce remembered sliding off the bike and the pain of scraping her leg, but loving it just the same. She told this story so many times that Brown can recite it by heart. "It was during the depression," Brown said. "Not a lot of excitement happened then."

Brown thought of that story as she racked her brain, wondering what to do about the birthday. Then she had an idea. "Come Give Granny A Ride On Your Hog," she typed into an ad on Craigslist.

In the Internet posting, Brown asked if anyone would be willing to ride out and give Pearce a ride for her 84th birthday. She got one response, from a man named Ron Borowski. He said he'd ride his Harley-Davidson Low Rider — electric blue, with dark blue flames and a chrome kickstand shaped like a skeleton's foot — from his house in Palm Beach County to June and Fred Pearce's home, some 65 miles away.

"My mom passed away from cancer, so the ad touched me," said Borowski, 45. "I just figured it would be an adventure."

Brown told her mom the day before, and June Pearce spent the day calling everyone she knew to tell them about it. Brown's two grown daughters also showed up to celebrate. After all, it might be June Pearce's last birthday, since a doctor told her in September there was nothing more they could do for her cancer. On Friday, Pearce spent most of the afternoon walking up and down the driveway, waiting for Borowski. Just about 5 feet tall, Pearce's white hair matched her white cardigan, which was embroidered with butterflies. She wore pink glasses, which matched her pink frosted nails. Just before 4 p.m., Borowski thundered into the driveway, followed by a buddy riding a big, silver Honda.

"I'm your chauffeur today," Borowski said, grinning and taking off his helmet. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and a leather vest. Pearce's eyes widened. She made her way slowly toward the bike and touched the seat. Everyone made small talk for a while and Fred Pearce showed a sepia-tinged photo of the family's upstate New York home he and his wife built with their hands many decades ago. Then Borowski asked June Pearce if she wanted to take a ride. Pearce shook her head — how on earth would she ever get on the bike? "No way," she said firmly.

Pearce is a feisty woman, prone to swearing and stubbornness. Brown, Borowski and the granddaughters looked at each other. Had Borowski driven all this way for nothing? Maybe, thought Brown, her mother was just embarrassed that she wasn't able to straddle the bike on her own. Borowski, Brown and the granddaughters said they'd help her on. Pearce ran her hands on the black leather and, with a bit more coaxing, sat on the bike near the tank. She allowed her leg to be swung over the seat and then Borowski gently lifted her onto the back.

"I wish I was a lot younger," Pearce said, adjusting her helmet. Borowski climbed on. "Hold on tight," he said, and started the motor. The bike was so loud the grass near the driveway vibrated. Brown felt her heart thumping loudly out of excitement — and a bit of fear that Pearce would fall off.

Pearce's husband watched from a few feet away. "I've got all of my fingers crossed for her," he said. There were tears in his eyes; for the last three years, he's been caring for her through her chemotherapy and radiation. "I've been lucky to keep her alive," he said softly. "I hope this gives her another six months."

June Pearce wrapped her arms around Borowski's chest and he took off, slowly. They went around the block twice, past the retirees watering their lawns, past the pastel colored mobile homes — and Pearce wore a tiny smile as they rumbled into the driveway.

"What we're giving today is a memory," said Brown. "She's not going to get rid of it in a garage sale, break it or throw it away. Memories are the best gifts, I think."

Time is ticking closer to Thursday and I'm still pondering Steve's perfect gift. At least I have this Craiglisting "Come Give Stevie A Ride On Your Hog" idea in my back pocket.

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My Personal Battle

I have my sights set. It's a monster I am determined to conquer. I've battled this foe many times in the past and today it stands covered in whites. On other days in the not so distant past I was met with every color of the rainbow. No matter how many times I slay this beast it returns with a vengeance. I will not be deterred in my quest. However, I may be delayed in entering the conflict. I have many pressing responsibilities that pull at my attention. He knows this and waits silently. Growing stronger and bigger with each passing day. So I must wrench myself away from the Illumined One with its pleas to peruse its vast intelligence in search of the holy grail and enter the battle yet again. Pray for me.

OK. So I am wasting yet another morning playing on the computer as my ever increasing laundry pile mocks me from the laundry room. But alas! Today the call of clean underwear, where as of this moment there is none, is louder than the call of cyber space. I must bid you farewell until we meet again.

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Cookbooks Are Better Than Scrapbooks

Did you know that Ella Fitzgerald, the First Lady of Song and queen of jazz vocals, collected cookbooks? After she died in 1996 twelve cartons of her cookbooks were donated to the Schlesinger Library on the Radcliffe campus at Harvard University.

I read an article years ago about how Ella loved to collect cookbooks from where ever she went. What I remember most about this article was that it talked about how she wrote in her cookbooks. She had a grading system for recipes she loved, liked or hated. Additionally, she'd write a note about when and with whom she made a certain dish. She noted celebrations, dinner parties and casual get-togethers. When books were borrowed she'd encourage the borrower to make notes as to their feelings about the dish, if they changed anything and how it worked, in addition to where they served it and with whom. The end result was a wonderful collection of memories set amongst a collection of recipes that span the globe and many decades.

After reading that article I started doing the same thing in my own cookbooks. I forget to do it from time to time but have decided to make more of a concerted effort going forward. It really is cool to pull out a recipe and have a reminder of the last time you used it. Parties, family celebrations and meals with good friends are all recorded among my recipes.

Why am I musing on cookbooks today? Could it be that I started the Fat Flush Plan yesterday and am sitting here sipping the 27th ounce of the 64 daily ounces of unsweetened cranberry water I have to swig back today? Hmmm...there may be a connection.

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Something New Learned

You should learn something new every day then I guess you can go back to bed.

"Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia" is the fear of long words.

I love irony. Don't you?

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Like the New Look?

Still on the spring theme just not as desperate for the season as the shocking yellow and pink. Even though I am sitting with a fresh foot of snow outside my door, the brief glimpse of my dead lawn emerging from the melting snow last week mixed with the ever lengthening days have lifted my fear of a never ending winter. I can now patiently await spring's return.

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What is your personality type - a test

Here is the scenario:

You are at work. It takes you 15 minutes to get to the train and it is 6:08pm. The train leaves at 6:20pm. You have only 12 minutes. What do you do?

• Option A - Make a run for it. Literally run through the streets of Boston arriving at the station out of breath and in a sweat with the chance of making the train. You never know, you could be a really fast runner that day or the train could be a few minutes late. Stranger things have happened afterall and you never say die. If you miss it you will have to wait one hour and 20 minutes for the next train. However, you could get a bite to eat or pick out a nice book to enjoy. Maybe even call your wife with a hilarious tale of jumping over an old lady and a dog only to have in fact missed the train.
  
• Option B - Try to catch a cab. If you get one in time, you make your train. If not, you can go back to your office to wait for the 7:40. Calling your wife to let her know that you tried but it just wasn't in the cards.
  
• Option C - Calmly accept in a Zen-like fashion that you will in all likelihood miss the train and wait patiently for the 7:40. Getting more work done and calling your wife like a thousand times to help keep you entertained.
  

Since I designed the test I get to tell you what the results mean.

Choosing Option A is the correct answer. Mostly because it is the one I would choose. You are the type of person to never give up. You would have done well on the Apollo 13 Space Flight or as a Boston Red Sox fan at anytime in the 86 years prior to 2004.

Choosing Option B would be a nice compromise. You are not the type of person to jump in the pool without at least sticking a toe in first. However, you are open to the possibility of the impossible. You just don't think it happens all that often.

Choosing Option C. Apparently it means I married you which might just be why you need this Zen-like peace of yours. I get it. But really what the F**! are you thinking?! Get off the phone and make a run for the F'ing train!!

Men and women think so differently in our house. I don't think I'll ever not be surprised by this little fact of life. How did you score?

For more on this male versus female brain thing check out this hysterical video posted to Beside the Butter. I think the Mark Grungor may be onto something.

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Something New Learned

You should learn something new every day then I guess you can go back to bed.

A housefly spends its entire life within a few hundred feet of where it was born.

That really sheds a new light on the shooing vs swatting debate.
Doesn't it?

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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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