A soccer mom speaks

A piece of me

2012-01-30T12:13:00.001-08:00

I am overwhelmed.

On Sunday I donated a small sample of breast tissue to the Susan B. Komen for the Cure Tissue Bank. I was one of 700 women who gave over a two-day donation event. If all goes according to plan, researchers from all over the world will have access to these tissue samples as they search for a cure.

The process itself was a cake walk. Frankly, the hardest part was getting on the scale. The procedure is the similar to what my dear friends have endured when they underwent a core biopsy to check for cancer cells. The doctor comes in, numbs the area and uses a hollow needle to remove a breast tissue sample. I tried to convince him to remove a little from my waist and butt, but he just laughed. Maybe he's heard that before.

Along the way, I crossed paths with numerous volunteers. I was lucky enough to have more than a passing conversation with a few of the volunteers. My phlebotomist is a survivor of inflammatory breast cancer who now runs a foundation that raises money for research and patient education. My nurse has a sister-in-law who is fighting breast cancer. My surgeon came from Illinois to volunteer his time. I even had a quick conversation with Connie Rufenbarger, the woman who was there from the beginning.

"You started this, didn't you," I asked when I recognized her name on her nametag.

She brushed off the comment. If it were up to her and only her, the idea might have stayed an idea, she claimed. Give credit to the other people who took the idea and ran with it, she said.

I think she was being modest.

This doesn't happen by accident. Connie told me that each donation event costs a couple million dollars. Much of it is raised through in-kind donations, but people like Connie are working to raise money for the next drive. I was privy to a few stories, but I left with the sense that each person there had a story, a motivation for participating.

My nurse said that before she left this morning, she told her husband that maybe today was the day she'd hold the cell that unlocks the mystery behind breast cancer. We know it's not that easy, that there's probably not going to be a "Eureka!" moment that makes breast cancer a diagnosis of the past. But maybe through this event and others, we're a bit closer to the cure than we were yesterday.

When this project was still in the discussion stages, a review group considered this idea and said no way, women aren't going to donate breast tissue. But 700 women stepped up on Sunday to add to the samples already in the bank, and countless others are on the wait list for the next donor event. For a few hours, I was part of a group that is focused on doing things that people said couldn't be done. And that's why I'm overwhelmed. And lucky. And grateful to those who won't stop fighting.

A Facebook friend note

2011-10-28T12:30:00.001-07:00

Dear young Facebook friend:

Remember when Facebook was new? You sent out friend requests to everyone you remotely recognized, including your friends' parents. I accepted your request, and I've enjoyed having you on my news feed. I love reading your status updates. I love the pictures you take of yourself mugging for the camera. I love reading your answers to "truth is" and hearing about what you're doing this weekend.

However, a few of you are raising my "Mom" concern meter. Sometimes you use your status updates to throw out curse words. Sometimes you drop sexual comments that would make my sailor cousin blush. This worries me.

Now, let's set something straight. I was your age once. Really. It was a long while ago, but I vaguely remember the age. I did enough stupid things to fill a book about stupid things people do when they're stupid. Maybe that means I should shut up and let you do your own stupid things. But I can't do that.

You see, I believe young people do a lot of stupid things because they don't yet appreciate the person they're becoming. It's hard to see the good in yourself when your body is changing and your emotions are going haywire and you're not even sure if the friends you have today are going to be there tomorrow. And, it's hard to see beyond yourself to what's going on around you. That's normal. But I'd like to challenge you to step back for a moment and look at what you have to offer this world.

I've known a lot of you for years, and some of you for months, and every single one of you has something great inside. I love your enthusiasm for life. I love your fun-loving ways. I love that if I post for prayers or good thoughts, you are often the first ones to respond. I love seeing your smiles in those goofy photos. I love that you're not afraid to be yourself and have fun.

And that's why I worry when you throw out profanities and sexual innuendo. You may not mean anything by it, but those words can start to define you. The more you talk like this, the more people start to think of you as the girl who's always cursing, or the boy who likes to talk about sex. The world is full of cursing folks who like to talk about sex. They are not special, nor are they unique. But you are.

Don't sell yourself short. I wish I had a mirror to hold up to you, so you could see yourself as I see you. You're so full of life and energy. You're quick to laugh. You like to be with your friends and make them happy. You're smart. You're beautiful. You're so much more than a few curse words.

Now, you may read this and think that you need to defriend me. Please don't. I'd miss you. You add life to my news feed, and without you, I'd only have political comments that tick me off and descriptions of what other adults ate for dinner last night. I'm not your mother. I can't ground you for using curse words, and I'm going to tell your mother if you continue to use them.

But I hope you'll think a bit about what I've said. Your light is shining so bright right now. Don't hide it. Don't cheapen it. Don't let the ugly words overshadow the beautiful person are you are. You are awesome. Awesome. Believe it. I do.

A middle school fairy tale

2011-05-25T06:04:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a little girl who liked to look pretty. Let’s call her Becca (not necessarily her real name.) Becca was a cute little girl who looked pretty in everything, even during the summer before kindergarten, when she refused to wear anything but bike shorts. Alas, that is a story for another day.

Becca grew into a beautiful young woman, although she suffered the plague of adolescence and did not see the beauty. When Becca entered the eighth grade, she began to talk about the eighth grade dance.

“Mom,” she said, “When the eighth grade dance comes, I’ll need a nice dress.”

Her mother, who didn’t wear a formal dress until the senior prom, assumed that meant Becca would wear something she might wear to church or to a nice dinner. But no, Becca said, everybody would be wearing a party dress. Her mother then wondered if Goodwill would have any party dresses that had been worn once to the eighth grade dance. But no, Becca said, everybody would be wearing something brand new.

The mother, hereafter known as the Extraordinarily Generous Mom, took Becca and her girlfriend shopping at the local mall, where they tried on a number of party dresses. Some were too short. Some were too long. One made Becca look like a smaller, cuter, less orange version of Snookie, which Becca thought was a compliment. It was not.

Finally, they found an adorable black dress that was fitted enough to hug Becca’s figure, but not so skin tight that she would need industrial strength undergarments. The dress was even 30 percent off, and the the Extraordinarily Generous Mom bought it and a fun necklace to dress it up. Because the dance rules said all dresses must have straps, Becca and her Extraordinarily Generous Mom took the dress to the tailor's to have spaghetti straps added.

(Note that mothers of boys merely had to find a nice dress shirt to go with the khakis their sons wore to church, dinners with grandparents and an occasional sports banquet. Lucky!)

The dress was finished on the day before the big dance. Becca tried it on at the tailor’s and looked unhappy. She assured the nice tailor that everything was fine, but once she was in the car with her Extraordinarily Generous Mom, the tears started to flow. The dress was hideous, she said. She looked ugly in it. It was too big. It was too long. The color made her look horrible. The Extraordinarily Generous Mom rolled her eyes and said, “You will wear this dress. I’m not buying another.” More tears. Didn’t Mom understand? Becca had been looking forward to this dance all year and now it was going to be ruined.

“Didn’t you ever feel this way,” Becca asked her Extraordinarily Generous Mom.

Extraordinarily Generous Mom said no, she had been a grateful child who would never want to waste her parents’ hard earned money. But then she remembered the haircut.

On the weekend before senior pictures, the Mom went in for a haircut. Her hair was between lengths, so she foolishly asked the stylist to keep it long in back and short in front. Consequently, the 18-year-old walked out with a mullet. Remember? “Business in front, party in the back!” The Mom had a head full of thick unruly hair, so we’re talking “stick-up-the-butt business in front, blow out party of 16-year-olds with no sense of decorum in the back.”

The 18-year-old was devastated. Beauty shops were closed on Sundays, and pictures would be taken at school Monday morning. She sought consolation Sunday from her cool aunt who lived down the street with Grandma. Cool aunt looked at her and said, “Come on, let’s see if we can find a haircut place.” They went out to the local mall, where a wise stylist sent the partying 16-year-olds in the back packing and took the business world from the front. The 18-year-old’s hair was shorter all over, but it looked much better than the mullet. (Did mullets look good on anyone?)

With this memory, the Extraordinarily Generous Mom turned the car to the local mall. They looked at one store and found nothing. Becca noted a new store across the street called Charming Charlie. Check them out at http://www.charmingcharlie.com/. Perhaps they would have a dress.

Charming Charlie, for those who haven’t visited yet, is a store full of fun jewelry, accessories, shoes and apparel. To the relief of Extraordinarily Generous Mom, the prices were beyond reasonable. Becca looked at the dresses and decided there was nothing there. In desperation, Extraordinarily Generous Mom went up to one of the women who worked there, who turned out to be the general manager. The general manager’s name was Janey, and she also had a 14-year-old. Janey was sympathetic and optimistic. Bring the dress in, she said, and we’ll see what we can do.

Becca put on her dress and Janey proclaimed that it would be easy to dress up and accessorize. Extraordinarily Generous Mom snuck away to look at cute little turtle necklaces and dream of the day she could spend money on herself. In the meantime, Janey treated Becca like a fashion model, bringing a selection of belts, necklaces, shoes and earrings. Other employees made suggestions, including a jeweled belt that accentuated Becca’s waist and added flair to the dress.

For the next hour or so, Janey worked with Becca, giving her advice on creating a new look that complemented the dress without overwhelming it. She scoured the store for shoes. She brought out an assortment of jeweled headbands. The tear-provoking dress was now a winner. Extraordinarily Generous Mom bought everything – shoes, belt, necklace, earrings and headband – for a mere $54 and decided Charming Charlie was the best store in the world.

The story doesn’t end here. Extraordinarily Generous Mom knows there will be other episodes throughout adolescence, where her daughter can’t see the beautiful person in the mirror. But thanks to a little luck and Janey’s magic, Becca will smile tonight when she puts on her outfit.

And the Extraordinarily Generous Mom can go to bed dreaming of the day when she goes to Charming Charlie and asks Janey to transform her from frumpy middle aged soccer mom to Extraordinarily Generous and Cool Mom. But that’s another story.

Parental truths

2011-03-02T08:41:00.001-08:00

Remember when our children were never sick?

Sure, most of us can recall nights with fussy toddlers and days of doing multiple loads of laundry to try to wash the germs out of the environment. But, when children are babies, parents like to believe their children are rarely sick, and they credit that robust health to something they did:

Mom 1: I exclusively breastfed for 16 months, and my baby is rarely sick.

Mom 2: I think my children are healthy because I stay home and don't expose them to daycare germs

Mom 3: Actually, my doctor says that daycare germs are good for children, because it helps them strengthen their immune system. My kids may have been sick as babies, but they've been the healthiest kids in their elementary school.

New parents are pretty intent on having perfect children. I imagine this has something to do with the belief that we have the power to control our children. We're bombarded with messages about how to make our children smarter! healthier! less prone to obesity, diabetes, nearsightedness, attention deficit disorder, fussy eating and learning disabilities! We invest our time in these articles, and we spend our money on organic veggies or simple wooden toys that cost four times what we'd pay for a plastic toy at Target. Surely, this investment is worthwhile, and we reassure ourselves by pointing out our child's strengths and giving ourselves credit for each one.

By the time the kids are 'tweens, parents start to realize that we're maybe not as on top of the parenting game as we thought we were. Maybe the stuff they teach in the book doesn't work, or maybe we've decided to ditch the book in favor of cutting parental corners on occasion. Sure, the book says kids need a consistent bedtime. But our kids balk at going to bed on Friday nights, and we tell them to turn off the lights when they come to bed, because we can't stay up as long as they can, at least not on a Friday. Still, parents don't yet want to admit their parental gaps. Instead, we learn to redirect before the conversation turns to our little dears.

Mom 1: Did we hear about Susan? I ran into her at the grocery store, and she says her 12-year-old is a holy terror. She's talking back, refusing to do homework and texting boys. (Note: Mom 1 does not want to discuss the fact that her own 'tween broke her bedroom door last week slamming it during a tantrum. Instead, she will focus on poor Susan's troubles.)

Mom 2: Why does she put up with that? If she were my child, she'd be grounded for six years. I refuse to let my children act like that. (Note: Mom 2 hopes nobody saw her own 'tween standing on the sidewalk last week, screaming that she was going to run away, and if she wants to fail all her classes, she can!)

Mom 3: That's nothing. Have you seen Marsha's daughter? I saw her at the park last week, and she looks like a 20-year-old. Her face was caked with makeup, and her clothes looked two sizes too small. I can't believe Marsha lets her out of the house looking like that. (Note: Mom 3's daughter is obsessed with her "boyfriend," and Mom 3 caught them alone in the daughter's bedroom last week when they were supposed to be studying in the family room.)

Twelve years after the cute and cuddly stage, parents aren't ready to admit that this parenting gig isn't quite what we signed up for. We don't want to relinquish control to these little humans who are flexing their independence muscles, trying to assert their individuality by refusing our advice. We go out and buy more self-help books, and sign up for more classes, and hang onto the hope that we still have some influence on our children. And according to the experts, we do. They're still listening. Our words and actions may still influence their actions. But we're also starting to realize that we aren't perfect parents, and we cannot control our children's every action.

If we still don't believe that, here come the teen years. The teen-age years serve to humble the proudest parents. Even good teens defy rational thinking at times, and the more challenging teens make us wonder what business we ever had getting into this parenting gig. We struggle, yet we're afraid to tell other parents about it. After all, the other parents all seem to have such perfect children. They're all perfect parents. We're the parental failures.

And finally, someone 'fesses up. The kid is driving her crazy.

Mom 1: Last night, we received a call from the school. Apparently our daughter was caught making out in the janitor's closet. That's not how we raised her.

Cue the confessions. Mom 2's daughter is failing gym and refuses to go to summer school, potentially sacrificing her high school diploma. Mom 3's daughter is in therapy, because she's convinced she's ugly and fat, and last month she made some threatening remarks in a school diary that resulted in professional intervention. Or maybe the kids are just mouthing off. Every. Single. Evening. Mom 1 cautiously admits that her daughter called her a bad name, and she called her one right back. Mom 2 laughs and says if she's lasted this long without losing her temper with her teen-aged daughter, she's behind the curve. Mom 3 admits that the best part about putting her daughter in inpatient treatment was getting a slight break from the daily battle.

It takes a decade and a few years, but eventually the truth comes out. Our kids aren't perfect. We aren't perfect. Don't walk by our houses between 6:50 and 7:10 a.m. on a school day unless you want to hear nagging and screaming with a dash of sarcasm and eye rolls. This wasn't in our plan. When they were cute and cuddly, we imagined we'd beat the odds and raise respectful, talented, happy academic overachievers. We held them as babies. Read to them as toddlers. Volunteered in the classroom. Bought them the cool clothes. Helped them with homework, at least until they knew more than we did. What happened to the perfect children?

Heck if I know.

I do know, however, that I have come to cherish parents of adult children. Remember them? They were the ones who laughed when we produced a funky looking pacifier, claiming it was going to reduce the need for braces in the future. They smiled knowingly when we sent out the emails proclaiming that our darlings won the classroom spelling bee or scored the most points in a game. They withheld their comments when the public bragging came to a screaming stop. And more importantly, they shared their successes.

"It gets worse," one friend warns me. "It gets worse, but then it gets better."

"We went through high school knowing that he could do better, but his grades were horrible," another tells me. "Then in college, he suddenly decided to turn it around."

These veteran parents do more than calm us down. They give us hope, as we look at their well-adjusted, adult children who are successful citizens even if they didn't go to Harvard or make the World Cup team. They reassure us that the journey is worth it, although we may need to readjust our expectations. Perhaps most importantly, they reinforce the notion that we eventually have to let go of our own dreams and help our children discover their own passions, even the passions we never imagined.

So parents, speak up. This isn't a competition. It's a journey we're taking together. We need to be honest, so we can support each other. Nobody's child is perfect. Some are better than others, but I don't think any parent gets out of this without occasionally wanting to assume a new identity and move to a small town in Montana.

Let's hope that someday we'll be the ones telling new parents to hang in there, because it was all worth it.

Life lessons

2011-02-01T05:22:00.001-08:00

It's official. I am 45 years old. Halfway to 90, if I should be so lucky.

In preparation for the big day, I challenged myself to come up with 45 things I've learned so far. I'd like to say I've learned all of the important things, but many of the lessons elude me. However, I've compiled a list of things I've learned over the years, in hopes of reminding myself that age does bring a measure of wisdom, with plenty of room left for more.

Lessons from life – chapter 45:

When you find a swimsuit that fits, buy it in at least two colors.
Dogs make life better.
If you date someone you don't want to introduce to your closest friends and family, re-evaluate the relationship.
Being a parent is much harder than it looks when other people are doing it.
Be honest if you want something from someone else. Dropping hints rarely works.
When you said you'd love "for better or worse," that included the things about your beloved that drive you absolutely bonkers.
Don't buy the least expensive item. Pay a little more for quality.
Life doesn't always seem fair. There are always people who are prettier, smarter, richer and more successful. Yet life seems to even out. Focus on what you are, not what you aren't.
Keep in touch with important people in your life.
Sometimes if you pretend you know what you're doing, people will believe in you. And sometimes they'll see right through your little ruse.
It's better to be a little overdressed than a little underdressed. It's better to bring a little more than not enough.
For $3 and some change, you can buy a carry-out order of chips and fresh salsa from Cancun's Restaurant. Really, there's no reason to buy salsa at the grocery store ever again.
It's never too late to say thank you.
Don't move to a retirement community when you're single and in your 20s. It's not fun.
Hate wastes valuable energy.
The English language has more than 200,000 words, so you can rid your speech of the words that hurt: retard, faggot, stupid.
Do not forward a mass email until you have checked it out with Snopes.
Everyone should have at least one friend who can make you laugh until you cry.
There's a fine line between healthy competition and unhealthy obsession. If you're not enjoying the journey because you're focused on the finish line, you're probably taking things too seriously.
Everyone is good at something.
Listen to the little voice. When your gut is telling you something isn't right, it probably isn't right.
When someone your age dies, you realize that getting older is not the worst thing that can happen.
Your dreams for your children may not come true. Sometimes our kids don't want the gifts we want to give them.
Your child's accomplishment is not yours. Go ahead and be proud, but you don't own the accomplishment.
"They" won't have a cure for everything by the time you get older. Turn down the music and wear sunscreen.
Your perception of beauty will change over the years. So will your perception of "old."
Cats always like to walk over the keyboard when you're trying to use the computer.
It's great to have the heart of a child, but sometimes you need to be the adult.
Occasionally you have to let go of your skepticism and just believe. I believe there's a lot I will never understand about this world and beyond, and that's OK.
Sing out loud in your car. People can assume you're using a hands free device.
If you really hate your new haircut or color, give it a week. If you still hate it, go back and ask for a fix.
Things that annoy the heck out of you now may not seem like such a big deal in 24 hours.
You will need math skills again one day when your child needs help with her math homework.
Exercise is a lot more fun when it's over.
Everyone should visit Hawaii at least once.
We will make mistakes. We are wonderfully human. Don't get so hung up on mistakes that you forget to move on.
You don't have to convince everyone to agree with you. You may even be wrong.
It is possible to gain three or four pounds overnight if you indulge a bit too much in the evening. It is impossible to lose three or four pounds overnight, unless you have a horrible stomach ailment.
Some of the worst times in life really are the precursors to something better.
Bring an Ipod to your child's sports games. Listen to your favorite music and resist being pulled into any sideline drama.
Throw away any underwear you wouldn't be willing to wear to a doctor's appointment.
I should never wear the home team jersey on game day, unless I want to jinx them.
A jalapeno plant produces lots of peppers.
Success is a combination of hard work and luck. Work hard, but give luck credit where it's due.
Love is so worth it.

Ed

2010-12-01T16:23:00.001-08:00

His name was Ed, and I suppose he was middle-aged. That means he was probably younger than I am now, but when you're in your 20s, anyone over 30 is middle-aged. I was assigned to do a newspaper story on him, to be featured on December 1,World AIDS Day. Ed had AIDS.

He lived alone in a little one-bedroom home in Florida, far from his Chicago family. He had medications lined up on his windowsill, a constant reminder of the illness he lived with. He was plain spoken and not afraid to talk about AIDS, or as he called it, "hiv disease." The "hiv" was lowercase, he said, because he didn't want to give it any more power. Ed had a picture on his wall, a drawing of the Biblical Daniel in the lion's den. That was his inspiration, he said. He was facing down a lion of disease without fear, even though he knew the odds were against him. He believed God had his back, just as God had Daniel's back.

I was young and gung ho. Look at me, writing about this disease that grabbed the headlines. Give the girl a star. Every year, more people were affected by AIDS, and more people died. The medications back then were just a Band-Aid, something that probably gave people like Ed a few extra months of life. He was a man living a death sentence, and I was the reporter who was going to tell his story. I gave myself so much credit in those days. It was Ed's story to tell. He told me what it was like to live with hiv disease. He told me about how he kept the disease a secret from his parents, even when they visited and saw the line of medications on the windowsill. A few weeks after they headed back north, his mother called him. "We're going to talk about your damned health," she said. The only thing he wouldn't talk about was how he contracted the disease. If Ed was gay, he didn't say so. I didn't press him. He didn't want the focus of the story to be on how he got the disease. He wanted the story to be about how he had the disease.

After the story ran, we stayed in touch. Again, life back then was all about me. I selfishly called Ed when I needed perspective on life. A rotten boyfriend had nothing on living with AIDS. I'm not sure why he let me ramble. Maybe he needed something to distract him from the row of medications on the windowsill. Maybe he needed someone who needed him. Somehow we became buddies. When he was hospitalized with an infection, I visited him. He was Ed.

I generally felt quite proud of myself for befriending the guy with AIDS. God, how I'd like to shake my 20something self. But Ed, I think he had my number. A few weeks after the story ran, he brought in some homemade cookies for me. Yup. Homemade. By a guy with AIDS. Put your money where your mouth is, Lori. Even back then, we knew you couldn't catch AIDS from cookies. But before I took the first bite, I had to swallow a bit of pride.

I did a follow-up story with him the next year. That year, I was braver. During our conversation, I asked him to tell me he contracted the disease. He tried to change the subject, but I was going to be a real reporter this time. Just tell me, I said. He laughed, shook his head and grabbed my tape recorder. "I was screwing around. I was partying and having sex and screwing around and I got AIDS." I pushed a bit more. Heterosexual or homosexual sex? I asked. He looked right at me. "I don't know." I wrote that in the story. I'm sure some people recoiled when they read it. I'm sorry, Ed.

I left Florida while Ed was still alive, and we kept in touch minimally, the way people kept in touch back when email was just in its infancy and "friend" was not yet a verb. My new job in the corporate world took over my life, and I was at that desk when I received a phone call from a mutual friend, telling me that Ed had died. Damn that hiv disease.

I think about Ed every year on December 1, as I read about World AIDS Day and think about the two stories I wrote that were going to change the world. I'm sorry I didn't change it, Ed. I'm sorry I didn't tell you how much you enriched my life by letting me into your home and sharing your world. I wish you had been stricken a decade later, as maybe your windowsill would have had a different and better combination of drugs. I wonder what you told God when you met Him. Did you tell Him about Daniel and the lion's den? Did you thank Him for having your back?

During the other 364 days of the year, I don't give much thought to AIDS. AIDS is much scarier when you're young and single and – Mom, don't read this next part – you occasionally do things you know you shouldn't do. AIDS isn't in the headlines as it used to be. Magic Johnson is still alive. Who would have thought it? But Ed is gone. Still, he's going to be with me forever. He let me tell his story, and for that, I am humbled and honored.

Here's to you, Ed. I know God still has your back.

How do I love Facebook? Let me count the ways

2010-11-02T17:07:00.001-07:00

I have a few people in my life who don't "get" Facebook. Their reasons may have some validity. One friend just doesn't need another time-sucking activity in her life. Point taken, said the woman with way too many time suckers. Another believes there is no reason to reconnect with people she lost touch with. I think she's missing out, but hey, her loss.

Like most people, I had to set some Facebook parameters. Facebook is my time killing playground. My playground, my rules. If you're using your news feed to spout annoying political opinions, you're hidden from my news feed. If you're using your status update to spout political opinions I respect (note I didn't say agree with; there's a difference), you may or may not be hidden. It depends on how much spouting you're doing. Occasional spouters are left alone. Chronic spouters can go hide. Your mileage may vary. You may use Facebook to have mind-changing political discourse with some friends. That's the beauty of Facebook. It's your playground, too.

You may be saying, "What? How could Lori, the former journalist and supporter of the First Amendment, advocate censorship?" Despite what some people like to cry, the First Amendment does not grant the right to say what you want without repercussions. It gives you the right to say most things without fear of being arrested and thrown into a dingy prison cell with no hope of ever seeing the sun again. I can promise that I will not have people arrested for spouting political discourse. I'll just hide them.

Who else might be hidden? People who tell me about their sex lives, whether they're being specific or posting the results of a quiz that describes them as "hotter than a burning ember." People who use lots of foul language. People who Vaguebook. Look it up. It's a very apt term for those status updates that say, "I am bitter" or some other alarming sentiment, causing friends to say, "Honey, what's wrong? How can I help?" A true Vaguebooker gives cryptic answers, like, "We'll have to get together later," or "I hoped you'd understand," or "I'm going to have to work through this alone." Hide, unless they provide adequate entertainment value.

Anyhow, after the above discourse, you're probably thinking, "What the heck is she doing on FB? She obviously hates it and wants to hunt down Mark Zuckerberg. No, I don't. Loved the movie, though. And I love Facebook. Here's why:

I no longer forget people's birthdays. I am horrible about remembering birthdays. I typically turn over a calendar page when it's the 10^th of the month, meaning I miss everyone who was born on the 1^st – 9^th. But, thanks to Facebook, I can actually wish someone a happy birthday on their actual birthday. Caveat – you must be on Facebook and list your birthday to enjoy this benefit.
I can look up people I used to know. As a rule, I stay away from anyone I've dated. Until I met Matt, I had awful taste in men, so most of the guys I dated were idiots. Old school friends and coworkers, however, are a welcome find. Newspaper people have this strange fraternity. I guess when you've lived on Ramen Noodles as you work full-time, struggling to pay off student loans while the general public refers to you as vermin, you have a sort of camaraderie. Hence, I enjoy reconnecting with my fellow and former scribes, photographers and other talented folks.
Family members start to make sense. When I was a teen-ager, I'd attend the family reunion and ask my mother to identify relatives. She thought I was interested in my heritage. Frankly, I had my eye on a cute 16-year-old, and I was hoping he was my second cousin's friend, rather than my second cousin. I know, apparently this is legal in some states, but I preferred to stay several family degrees of separation away from someone I wanted to date. Anyhow, thanks to Facebook, I'm finally starting to make sense of some of our large extended family. (Grandpa had two brothers and seven sisters. They all had kids. Need I say more?)
Games. I have great memories of watching game shows in the '70s. I watched many of them at my grandmother's house. "Family Feud" was a favorite. Grandma used to always remark about how Richard Dawson sure did like to kiss the ladies. I'd sit there with my extended family, listening to my grandmother, mother or aunts shout the correct answer at the TV. I dreamed of participating. It would be better than the time my mother appeared on the local game show, "Bowling For Dollars," and won $9. Anyhow, with my family we could certainly plan on winning the $5,000. Plus, my grandmother would get to kiss Richard Dawson. We never made it to sunny California for the show, so I have to be content playing it online. Yes, I know Facebook apparently compromises my privacy with this application. Have at it, Facebook. You now know that I'm a bit addicted to "Family Feud" and I hide the Vaguebookers.
Other reminders. See No. 1. I tend to forget things. But, if my group or organization is on Facebook, they send out timely reminders. Bring canned goods to church on Sunday. Don't forget the neighborhood party on Friday. Facebook even reminded me to vote. It's like having a wife. A wife who remembers things.
Pictures. Seriously, if it weren't for Facebook, would you really have any idea what your second cousin's children looked like? Thanks to Facebook, not only have I seen pictures of my second cousins' kids, I was able to follow another second cousin's labor. All 30something hours of it. Fortunately, she was rewarded with a really cute baby, who gets my arms aching. Baby pictures tend to do that these days.
Pictures, part II: Facebook is an exhibitionist's dream come true. Thanks to modern technology, you can see pictures that document every part of the day. You can see self-portraits. Formal portraits. Goofy pictures. You may not talk to these people, but you saw what they did last summer.
Parental supervision. When the child wanted a Facebook account, we made a deal: She needed to friend us and give us her password. Now, tweens and teens tend to want voluminous friend lists. Consequently, you get a friend request from many of your child's friends. Friend them. How else can you see what they're saying to each other? Plus, you can call them on it when they're careless enough to drop a curse word or call someone a "retard."
TV shows and other products. You really don't reap a lot of rewards when you "like" a TV show or a product. Maybe you get an occasional preview, or you can wade through comments that say "(TV show star) is so hot." But, anyone who knows me understands why I had to "like" Pop-tarts.
Time's a wasting. When it comes down to doing the laundry or checking Facebook, Facebook wins. Cleaning floors or Facebook? Facebook. Writing a story due tomorrow or Facebook? Facebook. Homework or Facebook? Wait a second, are you done with your homework? Get off that computer RIGHT NOW and finish it. What can I say? I spent 30 minutes writing this. You just spent a few more reading it.

Long live the social media.

Hey good-looking!

2010-10-26T09:50:00.001-07:00

I have a theory that everyone gets to be good-looking at some point in their life. I mean, attitude and inner beauty are definitely important, but I really do believe that everyone will have a point in life where they are physically attractive people. Granted, that point could be when someone is 6 months old. And, some people stay attractive for many years. We all know people who are just pretty, no matter how old or young they are. (I'm talking about you, Tina.)

The flip side is that most people will have an unattractive period as well. Granted, sometimes I want to shake the celebrities who say, "Oh, I was soooo ugly in seventh grade," and then they show a picture of a slightly awkward 13-year-old. Really? Because if you want to see ugly in seventh grade, I have much better photos.

Life and Facebook have proven my theory to be true, at least some of the time. How many times have you looked at a photo of a high school friend and said, "Wow. What a nice-looking guy. He sure didn't look like that 20 years ago." Facial features that didn't work at 18 look just fine on a 44-year-old face. Conversely, fresh-faced good looks don't always maintain their freshness after 20 years of sun exposure, frowning and a little too much junk food.

The best part about my theory is that the older we get, the more attractive we are just by living well. I know a guy in his 60s who is always smiling. Even when he's not smiling, he's smiling. I'll bet he smiles in his sleep. When you see him, you smile, because he's smiling. You can tell who's spent most of their adult life smiling and those who were frowning. You can tell who's living life without regrets, because you can read it on their faces.

So smile. And live well. With no regrets. You're gorgeous.

Water woes

2010-08-19T05:42:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, I griped online about our dishwasher. Our dishwasher was leaving white stuff on our dishes. The black utensils were a cloudy gray. The plates and cups had white film on them.

Of course, the dishwasher was just past its warranty period. What is up with appliances these days? I mentioned our dishwasher in a thread about, well, cruddy appliances that poop out much faster than our parents' appliances ever did. Heck, the dishwasher in our old house was harvest yellow, and it still worked fine when we moved. But our newer dishwasher was leaving white crud everywhere. And like most people, we didn't have a spare $700 or $800 lying around, just dying to be traded for a new dishwasher. Plus, the dishwasher was not even that old!

A couple days later, my phone rang. It was my neighbor Mandi. She cut to the chase. "Is your dishwasher leaving white stuff on your dishes?"

What, can Mandi read minds? No, wait, I posted that on Facebook. Mandi went on to say that they had the same problem. Their neighbors across the street had the same problem. Half of my neighborhood is pricing new dishwashers. But Mandi's husband had the presence of mind to make a few phone calls. Apparently, the water supply in our fair citiy is experiencing a glut of calcium. What causes a glut of calcium in the water? Is there a dinosaur molar in the aquifer? Heck if I know. But all that excess calcium was building up on our dishes, turning everything a cloudy gray.

Fortunately, Mandi said, there's a solution. Lemi Shine. I've never heard of Lemi Shine. Mandi hadn't, either. But for $3 and some change, you could buy a bottle at Wal-mart. Put it in your dishwasher detergent cup and run a full cycle in an empty dishwasher. Then load the dishwasher, put the Lemi Shine in the detergent cup, put your detergent in the pre-wash cup, and see what happens. Mandi happily reported that her dishes were sparkling again.

Well, a $3 bottle of Lemi Shine beats a trip to the appliance store for a new dishwasher. I ran up to Wal-mart, bought the purported miraculous powder, and gave it a try.

It worked. My gray utensils are black again. My dishes no longer look like someone threw a piece of chalk into the rinse cycle.

This news is too good to not share. I mentioned it to my neighbor last night, who fortunately has a water softener to get rid of the pesky calcium. But as he was walking back home, he saw another neighbor sporting a lovely pair of plastic gloves. "Don't say anything," she said. "I'm having to do dishes by hand because my dishwasher is broken."

He sent her our way. I sent her home with my bottle of Lemi Shine.

I almost don't want to share this, because I'm afraid that I'll go to Wal-mart and find the Lemi Shine shelf empty. But, as much as I'm sure the shareholders at Best Buy are lovely people, I don't want to contribute to the bottom line by allowing neighbors to buy new dishwashers they don't need. Lemi Shine. Try it. Enjoy the results. And use the money you'd spend on a new dishwasher to pay off those back-to-school expenses.

http://www.envirocontech.com/products/Learn-More-about-Lemi-Shine.html

Time to dance

2010-06-06T10:01:00.001-07:00

Around here, the local radio station often offers an all-'80s weekend. If I can get past the idea that my music is now considered retro, I can have a lot of fun listening to the old songs from high school and college. Remember "Come on Eileen"?

Anyhow, I'm driving along, humming to "Come on Eileen," and the theme song from "St. Elmo's Fire" came on. "St. Elmo's Fire," the movie that launched the Brat Pack. We were still in high school when we watched the likes of Rob Lowe, Judd Nelson and Demi Moore embark on their grown up lives. It seemed so glamorous. The possibilities of adulthood were endless. Soon we'd be out on our own, making undoubtedly large sums of money to support a high partying lifestyle. The best years were yet to come.

I wondered, as I hummed along, when we stopped looking forward and started looking backwards. When did we start longing for the optimism of our 20-something selves, or at least the waistline and skin tone? When were those best years? How did we let them go by so quickly? When did the fun optimism get replaced by the mundane chores of living, of paying bills, raising kids, making a marriage work?

Later on that evening, I hung out at our neighborhood block party, listening to an incredibly awesome band playing, literally, in my neighbor's garage. It was 10 p.m., the agreed upon curfew for the party and our community, but we asked them to play one more. Just one more song. The band fired up their instruments and gave us Prince's "Let's Go Crazy."

Those college memories came flooding back. I was 18 again, wearing cheap Kmart clothes, hoping to fit in with my college peers who probably never shopped at Kmart in their lives. I was on the dance floor at some snobby fraternity house – sorry Sigma Chi alums – dancing with my girlfriends, wondering if we were going to be noticed, whether our dancing was cool or clunky, how our hair looked, how our makeup was holding up, whether that cute guy in the corner was going to ask us to dance or find someone more beautiful. And if not, would we have to go back to the dorm and listen to the pretty and popular girls talk about their much more successful nights, as we pretended to be happy for them.

Contrast that to my 44-year-old self, who slipped off my Walmart $2 flip flops so I wouldn't trip when I danced. I was surrounded by friends and neighbors who didn't care if I could dance, didn't care what my hair looked like, didn't care where my clothes were from. I knew I'd see these people tomorrow, and we'd laugh about what a great time we had. I leaned against my husband, who's every bit as cute as those circa 1984 Sigma Chis. The band gave us the music from our youth, and we danced.

And I started to realize that those great years – which were a lot of fun – were also fraught with insecurities and limitations. With age, you come to realize how little certain things matter, and how lucky you are to have what you have. You dance because you want to dance, not because you want to attract attention, or look good, or fit in. Life gives us the freedom to dance, and there's no looking back.

Is she strong enough to be a mom?

2010-04-27T18:03:00.001-07:00

I have an incredibly talented and wise friend who writes a great blog. I'm going to shamelessly expound on something she wrote the other day, something that's been weighing heavily on my mind. First, the original blog. If you don't already follow her, I heartily recommend it. She manages to connect with so many of the little moments we all share as wives, mothers and women:

http://4thfrog.blogspot.com/2010/04/its-her-loss.html

Now, onto Jillian Michaels. As Amy noted, Jillian doesn't want to have kids because she doesn't want to ruin her figure. Amy says plenty of good things about this attitude, which we agree is a
bit incredibly shallow, yet it plays into what we value as a society. "The Biggest Loser" is a big hit because we can all relate to wanting to lose weight and live up to society's standards. You don't seen reality shows called "The Real Mom" because nobody wants to watch some mother with gray roots and a few extra rolls around the waist trying to keep up with her kids' schedules.

Back to Jillian. I don't watch "The Biggest Loser," so I don't know a lot about Jillian. I did, however, stumble onto one of her workouts through my cable TV's exercise on demand. She immediately puts her viewers into a back breaking workout, and just as you're groaning, she says something like, "Come on, I work with 300-pound people every day. Don't be a wimp." At that point, I decided she was mean, and I turned her off.

Jillian thinks she doesn't want to have kids, because she doesn't want to lose her body. That's all well and good. But I wonder if she realizes that the increased waistline is just the first challenge of being a mother. When you become a mom, you don't realize that you're setting yourself up to some of biggest trials of your life. Yes, those middle-of-the-night wakeup calls can have you weeping in your rocking chair, as you hold a child who wants to eat for an hour straight while the other parental unit blissfully sleeps on. But as my kids grow older, I realize that those moments were nothing compared to what was waiting for me.

When you're a mom, your heart is going to break even as you're encouraging your child to continue the action that's killing you. When your 2-year-old walks into preschool for the first time, you understand what it's like to leave a part of your heart in someone else's body. A year later, you need to find the fortitude to convince a stubborn 3-year-old that it's OK to poop in the potty – in fact, you beg and bribe her to poop in the potty. Once they're in school, you find yourself living those years over again. When your child comes home crying because someone called her a name, you have to offer compassion while fighting the desire to go in and beat the ever-living heck out of the mean kid. Motherhood takes you on an unpredictable journey. For six months, your little angel only wants to wear bicycle shorts, so you stock up on those. A week later, she says bicycle shorts are stupid and wants you to buy regular shorts. You buy a bunch of purples and pinks, because those were her favorite colors, and you find them stuck in the back of the drawer, because her new favorite color is green. If you're going to be a mother, you have to have the patience to turn around during a road trip to drive back an hour to the rest stop where your baby left her special blanket, hoping and praying that it's still there. Then you blink, and that same child is leaving the special blanket behind when she goes to a sleepover, and you feel like chasing after her and asking one more time if she wants to bring it along.

Before you know it, your child thinks she's smarter than you. That's really fun. Your days are spent standing your ground against a 12-year-old who can't understand why she's not allowed to wander the streets without a curfew. When a boy breaks her heart, you are acutely reminded of that pain that defies rational thought. You have to bite your tongue and not say, "You're too good for him," because she doesn't want to hear that. You're always wrong. Always, always, always. Get used to it. You try to help her with their homework, but she only gets mad at you because you're trying to teach the math methods you know, and "that's not how the teacher did it today." You point out that her hair looks good, and she makes a face and tells you it looks awful. Yup, wrong again.

As they get older, you try to find that thin line between allowing too much and not allowing enough. Teen-aged tragedies hit every community, and you grapple with the desire to lock them in the basement, where you don't have to worry about one bad decision changing their lives forever. You launch into the "remember that decisions have consequences" discussion, and their eyes glaze over. You wonder if they heard you. You wonder what they're doing when you're not looking. Are they behaving themselves? Or are they one of "those kids," the ones you used to shake your head over when you saw them at the mall?

I don't even want to think about the day they come home and tell me they're going to college six states away. I don't want to imagine what it would be like to watch them go down a path I wouldn't choose for them, but I imagine it's going to happen. I hope I'm strong enough to support them without trying to live their lives for them.

Sometime between the newborn years and the teen years, you realize that being a parent is so much more than making lunches, kissing boo boos and giving them strong values. You realize that you can do everything right as a parent, and you still find a multitude of things out of your control. Part of being a parent is giving up that control, even though your brain is screaming, "Don't let go! Let me live her life for her so she never gets hurt!"

I guess I have to commend Jillian Michaels. In a strange way, she knows her limits. She may think she can't be a parent because she can't sacrifice her hard body. But really, being a parent goes well beyond the thicker waistline. If you can't handle a few extra pounds, you're not going to be able to take the "I hate you" moments and the times when parenting brings you to tears. If sagging boobs scare you, then you probably won't want to deal with the Target outfits you wear so you can afford to outfit your kid in designer clothes, because you remember what it's like to want to fit in. If stretch marks are your biggest nightmare, then maybe you're not up to figuring out how you're going to cover the sports carpool while making sure the other kid is picked up from her friend's house on time and dinner is something that doesn't come out of a fast food bag.

Jillian Michaels looks great. There's no doubt in my mind that she's a physically strong person. But I don't think she's nearly as strong as the parents I know. As far as I'm concerned, their strength goes beyond what you can measure in weight machines and hours on the treadmills. They may not be able to do 200 sit-ups or run a half marathon. They may never be "The Biggest Loser." But they're winners. They're the strongest winners I know.

Hey baby

2010-03-25T13:47:00.001-07:00

I got a cat call the other day. I was out walking the dog when a young guy in a passing car made an approving noise out the window at me.

I can remember when cat calls began. My girlfriends and I were maybe 13, walking down West 140^th Street in Cleveland, and guys started yelling out the window to us. At first, there was confusion. Were they talking to us? Then there was a little thrill. They were talking to us! Of course, even at that age we knew that the proper response was to roll our eyes and look disgusted. Who did they think they were, talking to us? (But they were talking to us!)

When we grew a little older, the feminist instinct kicked in. How dare they objectify us? Didn't they know that women are not impressed by cat calls, despite the commercial for Mr. Microphone where the guy says, "Hey good looking, we'll be back for you later!" much to the chagrin of his female companion? Pigs.

But I'll be honest with you. Completely honest. This 44-year-old mother's initial response was "Thank you thank you thank you." I admit it. I was doing a little dance inside, even though I quickly remembered to roll my eyes. I couldn't quite conjure up the disgusted look, mostly because I felt sorry for the driver. I'm pretty sure that once I looked up and he saw my 44-year-old mom face, he drove straight to the stress center for psychiatric help.

I haven't thought about cat calls in a while, primarily because, well, I haven't heard them in a long time. Somewhere between the feminist and the mother, I segued from a walker to a driver to a soccer mom. Guys in cars typically have their windows closed to keep in the air conditioning, and their stereos would drown out any cat calls. And let's face it, I'm long gone from the typical cat call demographic. The feminist in me doesn't get too worked up about them, either. I get more worked up when women are objectified on TV or through the internet.

Then I realized something scary. My daughter is almost the age I was when the cat calls started. There's a very good chance that she and her buddies will be the recipients of a cat call this summer. Some 25-year-old will be driving by and see their gorgeous legs in their short shorts, and their cute little bodies that haven't had a chance to sag or wrinkle. They're not going to see the girls who aren't quite ready for that sort of attention. They're just going to see the women they're becoming.

And suddenly, cat calls are more than just something to roll my eyes at. A word of warning to the next guy who considers yelling out the window to my daughter: If I'm anywhere nearby, I'm going to jump through your window and wrap my hands around your throat. That's my baby girl you're cat calling. Don't even think of it.

If you give a 'tween a cell phone

2010-02-20T13:54:00.001-08:00

Shamelessly stealing a classic concept here, now updated for parents of 'tweens.

(The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual 'tweens is merely a coincidence.)

If you give a ‘tween a cell phone

She’ll probably need texting, because you’ll have to pay for every text she sends AND receives.

Then she’ll need internet access so she can check her email while she’s out.
If she’s going to check her email, she might as well check Facebook.

If she’s going to check Facebook, she’ll need a Facebook account.
Once she’s on Facebook, she’ll see what all of her friends are up to.

She’ll see that they are allowed to go to movies without a parent, so she’ll ask to go to a movie as well.

She’ll point out that she now has a cell phone, so you can call her to check up on her.

Once she goes to a movie, she’ll want to hang out with these friends some more.

She’ll notice that all the friends wear Uggs, so she’ll tell you that she must have Uggs.

If she’s lucky enough to get a pair of Uggs for Christmas, she’ll wear them until spring. Then she’ll say it’s too hot for Uggs, and she needs a pair of Coach tennis shoes.

If she’s lucky enough to get a pair of Coach tennis shoes for the next Christmas, she’ll also want a Coach wristlet.

Her friends will want to sit around and talk about their name brand stuff.
She’ll decide that she doesn’t have as much stuff as her friends.

She’ll beg you for a trip to the mall so that she doesn’t have to wear nerd clothes.

She’ll lend her new jacket to a friend.

You’ll ask her where it is, and she’ll tell you not to worry.
Instead, she comes home in someone else’s brand name jacket.

You’ll wonder if the other jacket wearer’s parent is wondering where that jacket is.

With all this time spent on clothes, texting and Facebook, she’ll run out of time to do homework.
Then she’ll get the cell phone taken away.

You’ll argue, and she’ll call you mean and horrible.

But she’ll finally do enough work to get her grades back up.

You’ll give her back the cell phone.

And she’ll tell you that her cell phone is old and outdated and she needs a new one.

Cash only

2010-02-10T08:00:00.001-08:00

Does anyone remember the days before debit cards? Remember how you had to make sure you were carrying cash, or at least had your checkbook? When you went to the grocery store, you tried to keep a mental tally of how much you were buying, so you wouldn't go over in the checkout line? Then debit cards came along. How awesome. You just put the card in the machine and it took the money right out of your checkbook. Whoosh! Suddenly it was easier to make those impulse purchases. If you were shopping for produce and saw a really nice cake, you could get both the carrots and the cake. Then came the next level – debit cards were accepted at fast food restaurants. No need to carry cash for those impulse trips to the Golden Arches. The kids caught on quickly. If you claimed you didn't have the money for a Happy Meal, they'd point out that you could just put it on your card. And you thought, "You know, if I stop at McDonald's, they can eat their fries in the car and maybe we can get a few more errands done before the complaints start."

I don't know about you, but the debit card became my lifeline to instant gratification. I didn't have to plan anything. If I was out, I could swing by Target and grab that laundry detergent I needed, as well as about 13 more things I didn't realize I needed. Debit cards made it easy to spend money. Sure, there's that annoying task of actually recording your purchases when you came home. I always tended to underestimated how much I spent in a week, too.

Lately, the husband and I are wondering if we can live on a little less each week. We've decided to give our debit cards a break. Each week, we take out enough money to cover grocery runs, Target runs and an occasional meal out. We leave enough in the bank to cover an emergency debit purchase, but most of our purchases have to be in cash. If the cash runs out before the week is done, we stop buying. Crazy concept, I know.

I went to the grocery store and immediately noticed a spending difference. The M&Ms looked yummy, but did I want to add another $3 to the grocery bill? Could I live a few more days without Diet Coke, or should I take advantage of the $5 for 24 deal at Meijer? Even so, it's Wednesday now and I have about $24 to last until Friday. Matt was working last night, which sometimes translates to a trip to Steak N Shake for the girls and me. Instead, we stayed home and had pancakes for dinner.

I have to be honest. I'm not sure how long this will last. I miss my debit card freedom. But I do like the feeling of saving money, and I do like living without the guilt of extraneous purchases. I kind of like having cash in my pocket, too. When I'm at church and want to put an extra buck in the collection plate, I can. When my daughter remembers that she needs $3 for a field trip, I can give her $3 in singles, rather than write a check. Target trips may never be the same, but I do love the feeling of living within our means. I've missed it.

Why I’m a mean mom, Saturday edition

2010-01-30T09:34:00.001-08:00

I refused to let my 12-year-old ride her bike to the drugstore unless she wore a helmet.

Team player

2010-01-24T14:02:00.001-08:00

As we speak, the Colts are playing the New York Jets for the AFC championship. I am not watching.

Here’s the deal. I have this frightening power over sports teams. I can change the outcome of a game by moving. Or not moving. Or turning off the TV. Or getting on the treadmill. It comes down to me. That’s why I don’t wear a jersey on game day. If I wear a jersey, I jinx the team.

Anyhow, I started watching the game at the home of Matt’s sister and brother-in-law. I wound up leaving, because halfway into the second quarter it was obvious that my mojo was not working. Briefly I considered knocking on the door of the home where I watched last week’s game, but I was afraid that would think I was crazy. Yes, they’d be right. I came home and turned on the game. The Colts were down. I ate a bunch of Hershey’s Kisses with caramel. The Colts scored a touchdown. I went and found more chocolate.

Currently, we’re in the middle of the third quarter. The Colts are down 17-13. I had to turn off the TV when the Jets made a fantabulous pass during the previous drive, and turning off the TV helped ensure that the Jets missed their field goal. Currently, I’m playing on the computer while “watching” the game on MSNBC. Basically I’m periodically clicking “refresh” on the scoreboard page.

Why is this important? Surely we will all wake up tomorrow, regardless of the outcome. For me, it comes down to clothes. Four years ago, when the Colts won the AFC championship, I went out and bought AFC champion T-shirts for the whole family. Those shirts have become dingy over time. I need a reason to buy new shirts. Please, Colts, help me clothe my family.

I’m not sure if I can turn the TV back on anytime soon. I suppose I’ll miss some great plays, but you can’t accuse me of not taking one for the team. Now, where did I put the rest of those Hershey’s Kisses?

Shopping list

2009-12-14T14:13:00.001-08:00

It's the holiday season (the holiday season), and some people are already done with their Christmas shopping. Those people are obviously killjoys and should be forced to stay home and babysit the children of the people who wait until the last minute to hit the malls.

I suppose I could be one of those people. I mean, it's not like my recipient list changes yearly, or someone changes the rules on what we can and cannot buy. Theoretically, I could be done Christmas shopping in July, if I were one of those (cough cough fun suckers) organized people. But what fun would that be? What's Christmas without rushing through the stores while on your cell phone, asking your sister-in-law's nearly deaf grandmother if she knows what size your niece is wearing these days. How can it be the holiday season if you're not frantically looking through the sweaters, seeking the one size that's always missing? How incomplete would the holiday be without a spousal argument in the middle of the mall because neither of you can figure out what to really get his mother, who has enough things to outfit a small third world nation? (For the record, the abovementioned scenarios are not theoretical.)

For me, holiday shopping starts in September, when I tell the kids to "put it on your Christmas list." See a toy you like? Make a list. Need designer shoes? Deal with the Kohl's brand and put the pricey ones on your list. Kids don't like this answer, but it's served many a mom during the fall months. A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, I begin to form gift lists in my head. That means I look at sale papers and think, "Hmm, that would be a nice gift for Danielle." Then I promptly forget about it. Later on, I wonder how I could possibly forget such a great idea, because I remember it was a great gift, I just can't remember what the heck it was. As Thanksgiving draws near, I briefly think about hitting the Black Friday sales. Then I decide to avoid the (cough cough insane cough) Black Friday shoppers and sleep in.

Suddenly, it's December, and the only thing I've bought is a fleece vest for my dad, because we buy him a fleece vest every year. Now it's time to hit the internet. I might Google some ideas, such as "What is the best brand of socks for people who are so anal about their socks that they label them, in order to keep them in pairs?" Google spits out some answers, and I look them over. If one of the answers shows up on Amazon, I might even add it to my wish list. As a rule, I don't buy from merchants I don't know, because I live in fear of a gift that cannot be returned. Ditto on Ebay. Great deals, sure. But what if someone doesn't like their gift? To the best of my knowledge, Ebay doesn't take returns.

Then it's time to hit the mall. If I'm smart, I hit the mall during the day, when it's not so busy. Armed with coupons from Sunday's ads, I attack the stores. Let's see, I have an Aeropostale coupon for $10 any $50 purchase, so let's go to Aeropostale. Hmm, I can't remember if Emily's wearing a S or a M these days, and Becca insists she's still an XS, but I think she's probably a S. Let's wait on Aeropostale until I can drag the girls out and make them try on a few things. I meander through the mall, talking to nobody on my cell phone so that the kiosk people don't try to beckon me over to their wares. (I once paid something like $70 for a scented pillow thingie sold by an extremely cute and flirtatious salesman with a great accent.) Dad said he wanted a sweater. But my brother mentioned something he might want to go halves on for Dad. Granted, brother hasn't responded to the email yet, but I'd better hold off on the sweater. Ooh, maybe the nieces would like some of this body spray. I should buy some. No, wait, maybe they already have this body spray. Maybe they have the body spray and hate it. Maybe their mother doesn't want them to wear body spray. Better wait on that. I can't leave the mall empty handed, so I buy myself some expensive shampoo at the JCPenney salon using the coupon from Sunday's paper. Yay me.

As the days draw near, I begin to feel a wee bit of panic. Should I go ahead and move things from my wish list to my cart at Amazon? If I buy the nieces the body spray, what if I find something they want more? Why can't I find the one Transformer that my nephew asked for? I can't risk buying him a different one, because he has an extensive collection, and I'd probably buy him something he already has. My husband said he wants an air compressor. Does he really need an air compressor? Can't we rent an air compressor?

Then the e-mails start coming in. "THREE MORE DAYS OF FREE SHIPPING IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS!!" OK, if I don't do something soon, I'm going to end up at Walgreen's on Christmas Eve, buying Chia Pets for my nearest and dearest. Finally, about two weeks before Christmas, I start to buy. I buy the blouse that is almost like the one I liked in November, but that one is long gone. I buy a bunch of little gifts to complement the expensive gifts for the kids, and wind up spending at least twice my budget. I check out the "gift book" table at Borders, because it's bound to have something my brother can read in the bathroom. By the Sunday before Christmas, I'm nearly done. On Monday, I'm finished. On Tuesday, I'm buying "just a few more things." I've been burned before, when I was up Christmas Eve looking for last minute deals online, because I was convinced we hadn't bought enough for my in-laws. On Wednesday, I'm swearing that I'm done, really, except for the one little thing I really want to get the kids. On Christmas Eve, I'm running to Walgreen's because I just counted the kids' presents and they seem uneven. Christmas Eve. Finally, it's Christmas morning, and I can enjoy the lights and the carols that have been playing for the last two months. Then I wonder where the season went.

Once again, I'll say that next year will be different. I'll plan better and do the shopping by Thanksgiving, so I can spend the season baking cookies and listening to Christmas carols without guilt. Who am I kidding? Chances are, you'll find me at Walgreen's on Christmas Eve. I'll be in the Chia Pet aisle.

Clean up

2009-11-09T12:48:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows my husband knows how much he prizes a clean house. Alas, I do not place quite the same priority on cleanliness. If cleanliness is next to godliness, I’m somewhere between purgatory and hell. Unfortunately for my husband, our kids have inherited my tendencies and not his.

But I do know when the house crosses the line, and I do try to keep myself closer to purgatory than hell in the clean house department. Consequently, I’m not a big fan of messy projects. I don’t like things that might involve serious cleaning up time, and woe to the child who wants to do something that might result in dragging out the floor cleaner or other appliance. That’s what art class is for.

Anyhow, the 10-year-old wanted to make Puppy Chow. Puppy Chow, or Muddy Buddies, is basically Corn Chex coated in a chocolately, peanut butter coating and topped with powdered sugar. It’s a shame that something so good has to be so messy.

I was feeling benevolent, though, and said sure, let’s make it. I carefully heated up the butter, peanut butter and chocolate chips, and poured them over the Chex cereal. Then I scooped the cereal into a Ziplock bag, trying hard not to spill the chocolate covered mixture over the side. Finally, Emily and I added powdered sugar to the bag. I closed it and gave it to Emily to shake.

Mission accomplished, with only a few dirty bowls that would clean up quickly. As Emily started shaking, I reminded her to be careful and make sure the bag doesn’t open. Famous last words, right?

The moment I turned, I heard the words every mother dreads: “Uh oh.” The bag had opened, and the floor was covered with Puppy Chow and powdered sugar. The dog had been lying on the floor in the kitchen, and she, too, had a streak of powdered sugar in her fur. If you could read dog minds (which I can), you’d know she was saying, “HOLY COW. THIS IS GREAT. I LIE DOWN AND ALL OF A SUDDEN LITTLE CHOCOLATE GOODIES ARE RAINING ON ME. WOO HOO, IT’S MY LUCKY DAY!”

My typical reaction began to form. Didn’t I tell her to be careful? Holy moly, there’s a huge mess on the floor. This is why I don’t like to make snacks, because something always happens. Now I’m going to have to drag out the vacuum, and the floor cleaner, and we have to clean up this mess before the dog eats it and throws up on the carpet in an hour. I saw Emily’s face, waiting for the inevitable parental meltdown over the mess.

Then I looked at my powdered-sugar-covered floor and the dog who was happily munching. I couldn’t help it. I began to laugh. And as I laughed, I watched my daughter’s face change from trepidation to relief to laughter, as she joined me in laughing and cleaning up the mess. That's when I had a parental learning experience. Sometimes it's easier to clean a floor than rebuild a crushed spirit.

Pass the Puppy Chow.

Taco soup - everyone should have this recipe

2009-10-09T14:23:00.000-07:00

I just mentioned on Facebook that I'm making taco soup. Honestly, everyone should make this, especially on cold, rainy days. You can tweak the recipe to your taste - add different types of beans or sausages, or make a meatless version.

Be prepared to share the recipe.

Taco Soup

2 lbs ground beef or sausage (I did just one pound the last time and added an extra can of beans)
1-2 envelopes taco seasoning (use whatever "strength" you prefer)
1 pkg dry ranch dressing mix (do NOT use low-fat)
2 cans Mexican-style stewed tomatoes
1 can green chilis
2 cans of black beans, pinto beans or one of each
1 1/2 cups frozen corn
Fritos
Shredded cheddar

Brown the beef. Drain and rinse under water to minimize fat. Return the beef to the pot and add the rest of the ingredients, except the Fritos and cheese. Add four cans of water. Simmer for at least 15 minutes. The longer you simmer, the better it tastes. Serve over Fritos and top with the cheese.

This is so incredibly yummy! I throw the tomatoes in the blender before I add them to the soup, because we don't like tomato "pieces." My SIL, who gave me this recipe, says she takes the leftovers and rolls it up in a tortilla. This recipe freezes well and tastes even better the second time you heat it up.

A prayer for mothers

2009-09-30T09:00:00.001-07:00

When I was pregnant, I had this prayer/mantra that I would repeat to myself all of the time: Dear God – please let this baby be healthy, safe and normal. And if not, please let me be the parent this baby needs.

I never felt quite right praying for a healthy, safe, normal baby. Who was I to ask for the easy route? Besides, I knew many people whose children deviated from the healthy, safe and normal route, yet those folks felt no less blessed than the ones whose kids were deemed healthy and normal by medicine and society. Hence, the second part of my prayer. If God was going to choose to send me a child with special needs, then I hoped he would give me the strength to meet those needs.

When my kids were born, I rejoiced that they came into the world safely, and were pronounced healthy and normal. Thank you, God. Life kicked in and I forgot to be grateful, unless I caught one of those specials on Discovery Health about children with severe issues. Then I'd look at my husband and say, "We've been blessed."

Lately, though, I've been wondering if I need to resurrect the second part of that mantra. Raising two 'tween girls can be a befuddling, frightening, exciting and awesome experience. I used to think I'd be up to any challenge a kid could throw at me, but lately I realize how utterly unprepared I am. Let's face it. I was up to the challenge of raising a kid like me: a gawky kid who liked books over boys, a klutz who considered hide-and-seek to be an organized sport, a kid who feared the parental words, "I'm disappointed in you." Instead, I'm dealing with these gorgeous, athletic kids whose interests are completely different than mine were, and the words "I'm disappointed in you" seem to carry no weight.

Now more than ever, I find myself asking God to give me the strength to be the parent these girls need. I'm stunned and scared by the fact that there are no do-overs in parenting. Sure, we joke that some of the things we do are going to land our children in therapy for years, but I don't really mean it. I want to get this one right. I'm thrilled that they're healthy. I pray they remain safe. I hope they discover a normal that works for them. But mostly, I hope God can help me be the parent they need, because I don't think I can do this one alone.

Maternal mind changers

2009-08-26T13:35:00.001-07:00

Last night, I attended the annual back-to-school night at Emily's elementary school. The assistant principal, who looked to be about 24 years old, went over the attendance policy with us. He stressed the importance of attending school regularly, and went over the school's policy for calling in sick kids or taking a planned absence.

"Those of you who are planning to go to Disney World, well, shame on you," he deadpanned.

Cue nervous laughter from the parents, especially the ones who like to go to DW in November.

"I'm just kidding," said the young 'un in the tie. "I just wish you had been my parents."

No kidding. I wish I had been my parents, too. My parents subscribed to the "You must be dead to miss school" policy. My parents weren't afraid to let you know about those parents who kept their kids out of school for a mid-winter beach vacation. For instance, when I lived in Florida, my parents visited every February. (They were well out of school and didn't need to fill out any prearranged absence forms.) Still, my father got his swim trunks in a wad when he'd see 8-year-olds frolicking in the sand.

"I wonder what they missed in school today," he'd muse. "I wonder if they're going to ever get another chance to learn that."

I tended to agree with him, remembering the days when I'd struggle to make up homework for a mere two days home with the flu. School trumped vacation. Period. I'd say that only funerals trumped school, but my parents sent my brother and me to school on the morning of my grandfather's funeral, only allowing us to come home at lunchtime to attend the mid-afternoon service. Family vacations during the school year were high on my list of things I'd never do as a parent. The list also included parking the kids in front of the TV, letting them stay up until midnight on any day except New Year's Eve, making them pay for every luxury item they crave so they'll appreciate them more, and taking them to church every Sunday.

Truth be told, though, I've fallen short on most all of the abovementioned things. We've done a couple Disney trips in January, although I will argue that they were prompted by a soccer tournament that happened to fall in January, and we planned the trip to minimize the time away from school. I even sent the girls to school for half a day when our flight didn't leave until 2:30. I've let them stay up as long as they darned well pleased this summer and over Christmas break, as long as they didn't bug me after I went to bed at my normal 11 p.m. The TV is on all the point, to the point where Spongebob is part of the normal background noise of our home. As for luxury items, well, we kind of missed the boat on that, because our kids don't have money. We screwed up the whole allowance thing, mostly because we couldn't agree on what chores were necessary to earn the allowance. And church, well, we've recently recommitted to going each week, as long as we're in town and healthy. This time we mean it.

I'm not giving up, however. I still have a list of things I am going to stick to. These include:

No dating until 16. I predict this will be the source of many headaches during the next four years. Dating will be defined as boy/girl, no chaperones, no other people. I'm not sure of the group date thing. Maybe 15? Already, I'm hearing ideas of going to the movies with a girlfriend, and a boy just happens to be there…. Gah.
The first car will be a clunker. I'm thinking that a nice 1996 Toyota Corolla will be a good find in another four years. Maybe I'll splurge and get a 1992 Camry. Insurance must be subsidized by the driver.
No parent-free spring break trips. Sorry, kids. If you don't want to hit the beaches with Mom and Dad in April, you're not hitting the beaches. I've seen too many "Girls Gone Wild" commercials.
No ridiculous amounts of money spent on sports. I'll get back to you on how that goes in a few years.
No computers in the bedroom. I want to be able to sneak up on them when they're AIMing.
College must be subsidized by the student. A part-time job must be procured by senior year of high school, to start contributing to college expenses.
No pets smaller than a cat. I re-instituted this rule after the last of 11 carnival goldfish went to the great fishbowl in the sky a few months ago.

I'd list more, but I hear my 12-year-old's cell phone ringing. Yes, that would be the cell phone she wasn't going to get until high school.

Guys: Don’t read this

2009-08-06T16:59:00.001-07:00

If you're a guy and you're reading this, come on. Can you not read? This is not a blog post for guys. The subject matter contained within has been known to cause grown men to put their hands over their ears while they sing "La la la la I can't hear you."

Yes, I'm going to talk about female things. You've been warned.

Guess what? I have a circle in my breast. Yes, I'm sure you've all been wondering if Lori has a circle in her breast, and the answer is yes. An almost perfect little hollow circle, about the size of a pin head. How do I know this? Because this evening I had my annual mammogram, also known as the beginning of the most vulnerable, nerve wracking couple of days women go through each year. You can go into the office feeling fine, and then you pick up a copy of some health magazine and read a story about Sheryl Crowe. Suddenly, you're thinking that she's gorgeous and fit, and she had breast cancer, so what right do I have to hope I'll be spared?

Anyway, back to my circle. I go down the hallway, put on the gown and go to the imaging room, where the nice lady puts me in place and lets the machine do its job. I'm recovering from the first squish when she says, "Have you had any surgery on your breasts?" I look down and think, "Lady, does it look like I've had surgery here? Because if I did, I want my money back." Instead, I say no, and she beckons me over to the screen. "Look here," she says, pointing to a perfect little circle on the image. "That almost looks like a piece of metal or something."

Being Lori, I say, "Do I need to freak out?"

"Oh no," she says. "It's probably just a calcification. They're not usually perfect circles, though."

Fortunately, I remember having been diagnosed with a calcification some years ago. I had to go back for a mammogram every six months to see if it changed. After three mammograms with no changes, I was given the OK to go back to annual exams. The nice lady suggests we do the second image from a different position, to see if it shows up again. Sure enough, there's the little circle, in the same place. Again, she tells me not to freak out. We finish the other side and she takes me down to a computer room where she can pull up last year's mammogram. Sure enough, there's the circle. A perfect circle. Same size. Same place. In a freaking out way, it's almost kind of cool.

Why do I share this story? Because those of you who know me know how much I freak out whenever I have a headache that won't go away. Those of you who know me know that I'm going to fret over the circle for the next few days, until I get the call of "all clear" or (gulp) "come back for more pictures." As I said above, it can be a horrible few days for women. It's almost horrible enough to put it off for a while.

But I don't. Again, those who know me know that one of my best friends was diagnosed with breast cancer last year. I lost an online friend to the disease a couple years ago. So if my circle story serves as a timely reminder to someone who's reading this and thinking maybe, just maybe she should go ahead and schedule her annual mammogram, then I'm glad I shared this story.

And guys, if you've completely ignored my warnings and read through this, do me a favor. Tell the woman you love to make sure she gets hers, too.

It’s called underwear, not outthere

2009-08-04T18:58:00.001-07:00

I took my almost 12-year-old shopping today. Tomorrow is her middle school registration, where she'll get her schedule and her locker, and she'll sit for a picture that will double as an ID photo and school photo. She pointed out that she didn't have anything new to wear, although her T-shirt drawer can barely shut these days because it's so full. But I remember being 12 and wanting something new for the school picture, so we headed to the mall.

I figured she wanted a cute T-shirt, preferably one that advertised Hollister, Aeropostale or Victoria Secret's Pink line, a marketing tool designed to lure 12-year-olds into what used to be a decidedly adult venue. No, she wanted a poofy tank top that she could wear over a white T-shirt, because spaghetti straps aren't allowed in middle school. Nothing like a specific need when you're shopping with a mom who likes sale racks. We scoured Aeropostale, Hollister and Vic's Secret. No luck. On a whim, I said let's check out Delia's, even though I usually gasp at the prices. (I'm talking $26.50 for a T-shirt. Yes, they're often "buy one, get one half off," which translates to roughly $19.88 a T-shirt. When you're used to Kohl's prices, that's pretty steep.) She immediately found a top that worked. I decided to be generous mom and let her try it on. It looked adorable on her.

"OK," I said," "Let's walk down to Justice and get a plain white tee."

"That's OK," she said. "I don't need a T-shirt for the picture. I'll wear it like this. I just have to wear a T-shirt underneath when school starts."

Now, my almost 12-year-old follows a trend that I find a little unsettling. She wears cute little camisoles over her cute little bras, and she lets the bra straps peek through. I admit, as someone who went to great lengths to ensure that a bra strap never even peeked out of a sleeveless dress (ill-fitting strapless bras, anyone?), I had a hard time getting used to this look. I don't know why I'm surprised, when I'm almost always seeing the underwear of any wearer in the under-20 crowd. That's right. I know what color boxers the skater kid is wearing and what color thong the high school girl is sporting. And I've gotten to the point where I'm OK with the under-20 crowd flashing a bra strap, because they tend to wear cute little colorful bras with delicate little straps. I think that if you're going to flash a bra, you should at least have cute little bras to flash. The middle-aged mom, two-inch wide bra straps in white or cream just don't work.

But even though I've learned to live with the peeking bra straps, I really, really, REALLY didn't want to see them in my daughter's school picture. I brought this up in the Delia's fitting room, and she rolled her eyes at me. I used my "I hold the checkbook" veto power and said she had to find a solution that didn't involve sharing her bra straps with her grandmothers and anyone who happens to visit Grandma and look at the grandchild picture display on the wall. She begrudgingly agreed to wear a tank top or a T-shirt for her school picture.

I guess I should consider myself lucky. At least she's not flashing her thong panties, which she doesn't have and won't have until she's old enough to buy her own underwear. Which I wish would stay under there.

Spend, spend, spend

2009-07-06T10:53:00.001-07:00

Many years ago, as I prepared for my first year in an apartment, my brother took me grocery shopping. I stocked up on the essentials: Pop-tarts, English muffins, peanut butter. I was on a tight budget, so I grabbed the generic peanut butter. My brother wisely advised me to put it back.

"There are certain things you pay more for," he said.

I bring this up because last week, my husband grabbed the wrong brand of toilet paper. We brought it home and thought, "How bad can it be? Aren't all toilet paper brands the same?" The answer, for those who are wondering, is no. Beware of one-ply toilet paper. 'Nuf said.

Most moms learn early to live on a budget, as we take back every grumbling comment we ever made about how our mean mothers never let us buy any snacks unless they were on sale or they had a coupon for them. I'm perfectly fine about staying on budget about certain things. I think Kroger brand popsicles are as good as the brand names. I don't spend excess money on purses, due to a personal rule that I can never spend more money on a purse than I'll normally be carrying in it. I don't need expensive dress shoes for those half dozen occasions each month (at most) where I dress up.

But pinching pennies isn't always a good thing. A wise person once told me that poor people can't afford to be cheap. And while we're nowhere near poor – despite what my 11-year-old thinks – I understand that cutting a corner here might lead to more expenses down the road. As I've grown older, I've developed a list of things that I never, ever substitute, even when money is ridiculously tight:

Poptarts – yeah, yeah, say what you want, but generic "toaster pastries" are awful.

Socks – there's a reason why Gold Toes are more expensive. They last longer, especially if you're like me and like to run out to the mailbox in just socks.

Good outfits – I'm a huge fan of Kohl's and Target for everyday wear. But I think every adult needs a well-made, well-fitting dress or suit for special occasions. I'm willing to make due with a pair of jeans that are a little long, but I'll pay for alterations on a good dressy outfit.

Home repairs – Yes, there are people in the world who are quite adept at their own home repairs. My brother is not afraid to take apart something and put it all back together. I didn't inherit this gene. If something needs fixing, there are professional people who do that quite well. We don't need to be playing with electrical wiring, if you know what I mean. Plus, when it's time to sell the house you can put "all professional repairs" on the sales sheet.

Diet Coke – I don't care if Diet Pepsi is on sale. Some things are worth a couple extra bucks.

Professional hair color – This becomes especially important as the gray takes over. The box is fine once in a while, but I love the feel and look of professional color and try to fit it into my budget whenever possible.

Swimsuits – If you're lucky enough to find a swimsuit that flatters your body, buy it. Heck with the price, buy it. In fact, buy two. The style will probably be discontinued next summer.

What's on your list?

Fashion queen mother

2009-06-16T07:24:00.000-07:00

The other day, my 11-year-old told me I needed new tennis shoes. I looked at my feet, at my somewhat worn pair of Keds. I was kind of proud of these Keds. Escewing the traditional style I wore in college, I chose a pair of retro looking ones, with a wide toe and big eyelets. I thought that for once I could be cool mom, a mom who could keep up with the Talbotts models who double as elementary school mothers in this town.

Then my 11-year-old went on. "No offense Mom, but those look like old lady shoes."

It wasn't always this way. I used to be a shopaholic, spending my single girl's money on that latest styles. I spent so much time in the mall that the manager of one of those junior clothing stores became a friend, and she often had outfits picked out for me before I showed up. No, I wasn't a "Sex In the City" kind of shopper, primarily because a small town journalist's salary precludes that sort of shopping. But I did like to keep up with the styles.

Then kids happened. We went to one income. The mall wasn't nearly as inviting, considering I was pushing a stroller and living on a Target budget. Fashion mattered less than comfort, and the budget dictated that I buy things I'd wear a lot. Jeans and T-shirts became my uniform, although I did finally throw away my mom jeans and went with a lower rise.

(Note to the kids out there: Say what you want about Mom jeans, but we never suffered from muffin tops.)

You'd think I could save myself with shoes, but I've been cursed with funky feet. Nothing fits right. Nothing. Back when it mattered, I'd shove my feet into an uncomfortable but stylish pair of shoes, ignoring the fact that they hurt like heck on the dance floor. Nowadays, give me a pair of runners or flip flops. Anything else is a pain in the foot.

I haven't given up on fashion entirely. As the 11-year-old hits the age where fashion matters, I find that she's inherited some of her mom's love for the shop. The fact that she's a size 00 and looks adorable in just about anything has made shopping fun again, albeit expensive. She sometimes asks me why I don't want to buy myself something from Hollister. She doesn't understand when I shake my head.

As for the shoes, I might let my 11-year-old have some input on what I choose. I'm sure she'll roll her eyes when I veto anything that feels weird, uncomfortable or on the verge of falling off when I walk. But that's the beauty of being a slave to fashion. Eventually, you grow out of it.

Who's blessing?

2009-06-02T11:27:00.000-07:00

Our church is once again hosting homeless families this week. I admit, I was feeling less than charitable about the upcoming week. Emily and I had been out-of-town for a soccer tournament. I was tired, sunburnt and annoyed because the hotel messed up my reservation and I had to sleep on a rollaway cot. Besides, the program itself has had its ups and downs. It was recently revamped with a new director and guidelines, but it's still hard to know if we're going to make a difference.

But, sanctimonious Lori told herself that my place isn't to worry about whether I'm going to make a difference. My place is to help out where I'm needed and hope that maybe someone I can help someone along the way. I dragged my grumpy self to church and met our guests.

As I was preparing dinner, one of the girls came up to me and asked if she could sing a song before we ate. I said sure, and called the crew to dinner. The girl, who was about 10 or 11, sang her heart out to the gathered group. She sang about God and blessings.

Here's a child who has to sleep in a rollaway cot every night, and whose belongings are being toted around in a trash bag. Yet she sings of being blessed.

Who's blessing whom?

Soccer mom speaks

2009-06-01T11:03:00.000-07:00

The youngest had a soccer tournament this weekend. Now, as any sports parent can tell you, sometimes a team is "on" and sometimes they're "off." When both teams are on, the game is fun to watch. But if one team is off and the other is on, the watching can be heart-wrenching.

Our team happened to be on this weekend. The opposing team was off. The opposing team's parents were frustrated as the score went up. Meredith's dad was especially vocal. We were well acquainted with Meredith by the second half, because her dad screamed his directions while she attempted to follow them. Dad's directions weren't enough, though, because the goals kept coming.

"Come on, girls," one of the mothers said. "Don't embarrass yourselves."

Too late. It appears Mom and Meredith's dad have already done the job for them.

These are 11- and 12-year-olds. Most will never land scholarships or play in college. Many won't be playing in two or three years. When they look back, will they remember the good times, or will they remember the times they embarrassed themselves?

Or will they remember the times their parents embarrassed them?

Black bean and corn salsa

2009-05-23T06:41:00.001-07:00

In honor of Memorial Day weekend, I am sharing one of my favorite easy recipes. I just made it last night, and its popularity hasn't waned since the last time I made it. This is a good recipe to have on hand when someone calls and says, "We're eating out. Come on over and have a hamburger." I almost always have the ingredients on hand. It's yummy.

1 can black beans, drained and rinsed

1 can white and yellow (or just yellow) corn, drained and rinsed

1 small green pepper, diced

1 small onion, diced

1 jar (more or less) of salsa

Marinade: 1/4 cup of each: vegetable oil, white vinegar and sugar

Combine the first five ingredients. Mix the marinade and pour over salsa. Note: You might need to experiment with the marinade to taste. Some people feel the sugar makes it too sweet. I like the sweet/hot combination, but feel free to add less or no sugar. Also, I usually don't use a whole jar of salsa. I pour about half in, let the salsa chill in the fridge and then decide if it needs more.

Serve with tortilla chips or Fritos.

Are we there yet?

2009-04-24T09:50:00.001-07:00

I was on a road trip with my kids earlier this month, and somewhere along I-71 all heck broke loose in the backseat. You see, my kids don't like to travel light. They have to bring along coloring tools, books, Nintendo games, Ipods and DVDs for entertainment. Then they have to have pillows and blankets and a special stuffed animal for cuddling during naps. This all makes for a crowded space, and anyone can tell you that 'tween girls and crowded spaces are a recipe for sibling bickering.

The comments started about an hour into our trip.

"Get off my side." "Get your stuff away from my stuff." "It's not on your stuff!"

Mom, who's not a great driver under the best circumstances, tells them to knock it off RIGHT NOW OR WE'RE TURNING AROUND AND I MEAN IT!

But about two hours in, the throwing began.

"Here's your dumb marker!" (throws marker!) "You did that on purpose! Here's your dumb book!" (throws book.) "Ow! That hit me! Mom, she hit me!" "She threw the marker first!" "I didn't throw it hard like you threw the book." "Yes you did. I have a mark to prove it!"

Fortunately, we were approaching an exit at this point. I drove off the highway, pulled into a Wendy's parking and gave the old "I've had it lecture." I'VE HAD IT WITH THE FIHGTING. DO YOU WANT TO TURN AROUND? DO YOU WANT TO NEVER VISIT YOUR COUSINS AGAIN? BECAUSE AT THIS POINT, I'VE HAD IT WITH ROAD TRIPS. I AM NOT GOING TO DRIVE FOR THREE MORE HOURS WITH THIS SORT OF BEHAVIOR. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?

The fighting continued. I got out of the car and told them they could figure out how to get home on their own. They of course didn't believe me, but the separation calmed us down long enough for the siblings to knock it off and the Mom to gain enough composure to take on I-71 again.

So I'm just a little sympathetic to the New York mom who told her bickering kids to get out of the car. Granted, she actually drove away from them, which I don't think I'd do unless we were only about two miles blocks away from home. Still, there are times when parents reach that proverbial end of their ropes, and no knots are strong enough to hold onto.

For some reason, parents don't like to admit that we came dangerously close to losing it with our kids. Maybe we're haunted by those pre-kid declarations we used to make, where we said no kid of ours would be able to behave like those little banshees we just saw at the grocery store. Maybe we've read too many self-help books that say there's no excuse for yelling and if we'd just abide by the books, we'd be perfect parents. Maybe we're used to reading news accounts of other imperfect parents, and we're afraid someone is going to record the voices coming from our windows on Monday mornings when nobody wants to get out the door in time to catch the bus. Maybe we're surrounded by other parents that seem perfect, parents who never seem to raise their voices around kids.

Women's magazines are full of stories telling women to quit comparing themselves to skinny models and actresses who can afford personal chefs and trainers. Love the bodies we're in. Strive for health, not perfection. Maybe parents need to take this advice. Maybe we need to quit kicking ourselves for not being the perfect parents we imagined we'd be. Maybe we need to give ourselves points for the days we do manage to stop the fights before blood is drawn, and the times when our kids say, "You're a great mom" and quit focusing on those moments where we almost lost it. Strive for healthy families, not perfection.

And at the very least, share our transgressions with our friends, so we can support each other instead of trying to put up a false front that's bound to fall apart.

Roll the die(t)

2009-04-17T09:22:00.001-07:00

I come from a long line of hardy Eastern Europeans. Hardy, yet poor, Eastern Europeans. My guess is that winters in my gene pool were pretty rough, what with no 24-hour grocery stores in 19^th century Germany and Hungary. Consequently, my ancestors' bodies must have evolved to a point where our metabolism would slow down to nothing in order to survive the winter.

That's my story.

Of course, this means that every spring, I say things like, "How did I gain so much weight this winter?" I'm sure it's all because of my ancestors and has nothing to do with the awesome Christmas cookies I bake each year and the trip to the Disney World resort where you'd pay the same for a single serving of carrots as you would for a grilled cheese and fries. Plus, that whole hibernation thing doesn't help the waistline. And don't get me started on what happens to women's bodies after we turn 40. It ain't pretty.

Anyhow, every spring, I start to diet, and this spring is no different. On Sunday, the last day of spring break, I decided enough is enough. I'm going to make healthy choices, eat sweets in moderation and exercise daily. There will be a new me in a month, ready for the pool or at least a pair of shorts.

This is my week:

Monday: Start the day with 30 minutes on the treadmill. Eat one small piece of chocolate from the Easter stash in the morning. For lunch, enjoy a salad with just a few pieces of turkey and light raspberry vinaigrette dressing. Skip dinner, because the hubby is working late and the kids are happy with mac and cheese. Get on the scale Tuesday morning. 1.5 pounds gone! Victory! We're on our way. At this rate, I'll drop 10 pounds in a week.

Tuesday: Start the day with 20 minutes on the treadmill. You don't want to push this whole exercise thing too hard, after all. Eat a couple extra chocolates from the Easter stash, because yesterday you lost 1.5 pounds, you're doing great. Add a few croutons to the salad, and go ahead and enjoy some full fat dressing. Life is for the living. Hubby's home tonight, but make a nice pot of homemade spaghetti and meatballs, and enjoy a modest serving with a salad on the side. Get on the scale Wednesday morning. A half pound is gone. OK, we're making progress.

Wednesday: Blow off the treadmill. Treadmills are boring. You'll walk the dog later. Attack the Easter stash, because this darned diet has you starving. Load your salad with turkey, cheese and an extra handful of croutons. It's still salad, right. Besides, dinner is going to be a low-fat, chicken stir fry over rice. Make sure dinner is a smaller serving, to make up for the Easter stash attack. Apologize to the dog, but it's still cold and rainy and you won't be walking outside. Do the easy 20-minute treadmill walk. Step on the scale Thursday morning. No pounds lost. What gives?

Thursday: OK, today's going to be nice, so we'll definitely do a walk. Stay away from the Easter stash, save for one Reese's Egg. (We have to have our priorities.) Blow off the salad in favor of some yogurt and a banana. Take the dog for a nice walk. Make tonight's dinner burgers Steak 'n' Shake thin, and eat only half. Go to bed early because you're so hungry. Step on the scale Friday morning. Another pound gone. Yippee!

Friday: Wake up hungry. Eat extra chocolate, including the second last Reese's egg. Tell the dog you'll walk later. Eat a couple of the Easter Peeps. Apologize to yourself and stick to yogurt for lunch. Promise yourself that you'll eat a sensible dinner, because the weekend is coming and you know you're probably going to splurge.

Obviously, my diary stops here, because it's only Friday. But I can almost guess what happens this weekend: Eat. Eat some more. Tell yourself that walking to the soccer field is exercise. Tell your husband to hide the Easter stash. Find it again. Get on the scale. How'd those pounds find me again?

Blame the ancestors. It's in my genes.

Don't forget the lyrics

2009-03-28T11:13:00.000-07:00

Let’s get something straight here. Helen Keller didn’t talk with her hips. She talked with her hands. Amazing lady, that Helen.
Confused? Google the lyrics for 3OH!3’s “Don’t Trust Me.” If you’re too lazy, here’s what I’m talking about. Catchy tune, but check out the lyrics:

Shush girl, shut your lips
Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips.

There’s also several lines where he sings about not trusting a ho. Lovely.

I always figured I’d be the cool parent when it came to music. After all, I love music. I exposed my babies to a variety of music, from the classical CDs they market to parents who want their babies’ brains to grow to the Sunday school songs on tape and the old time rock ‘n’ roll I loved. When the kids began to develop their own musical tastes, I put up with Radio Disney in the car and even took to singing along with the Cheetah Girls.

But admittedly, I wasn’t hip to popular music. Popular music lost me in the ‘90s, when grunge took over. It wasn’t that I didn’t like grunge music. I couldn’t stand to look at the musicians. I’m a child of the ‘80s. Tailored clothes and two showers a day. I’d watch the music awards and shout, “Dude, comb your hair and put on some clean clothes!”

My middle school daughter’s schoolbus driver plays one of the “popular” stations on the bus, though, and my daughter is quite taken by the music. Radio Disney’s preset button in the car has been changed to the popular station, causing a nice little battle when 3OH!3’s words fill my minivan.

“Mom, it’s just music. They’re just words.”

Are they? Or are they filling my daughter’s mind with ideas, ideas that women are just objects who should shut their lips? Are those “harmless” words the reason why young girls are suggesting that maybe Rihanna was asking for a Chris Brown beating? Are words enough to solidify these notions, or is it worse when the child is growing up surrounded by other people who believe this way? What if they're hearing a different message at home, one that says girls should never have to shut their lips, and a guy who tells them to do so should be shown the door? Will that make a difference?

I’m no fan of censorship, and I realize that my parents may have been equally horrified by “Sugar Walls” if they had ever actually listened to the lyrics. I also realize that a music gap is a requisite to growing up; that most kids take comfort in being different (read: cooler) than their parents. I mean, if I were singing along with 3OH!3, would that cause my daughter to seek a new sort of music, just because she can’t abide sharing musical tastes with her old mom? Maybe I should try it. I'll sing about doing the Helen Keller and I'll leave a copy of the soundtrack from "Sound of Music" lying around, with a note that says "Don't let the kids listen to this!"

I miss the Sunday School song tapes.

Girl talk

2009-03-23T19:26:00.000-07:00

I have a good friend whom I’ve known forever. We grew up on the same street, were “best friends” when people had exactly one best friend apiece, and have stayed friends through marriages, kids, moves, sickness and health.

Oh, but I remember the fights. Occasionally, one of us would say something to the other, or do something, or do something with another girl, or not do something with another girl, and a fight would ensue. Days would pass where we’d snub each other in the neighborhood or shoot dirty looks across the street. Those fights were agony. I can still remember the time I wrote a long note of apology, spelling out my contrition as only a 12-year-old can. I took it to my friend’s house and handed it to her. She went inside and read it while I waited miserably on her doorstep. Finally, she returned and opened the door. “Come on in,” she said.

Life was good again.

I haven’t dwelled on these fights for a long time, mostly because it’s hard to believe that we ever had these types of fights. This friend is one of my dearest friends, and the idea of fighting her seems preposterous. But it was all too real when we were 12. As my adult girlfriends know, girls go crazy as they near adolescence. They trade friends like toddlers trade a cold virus in preschool. They agonize over little comments and throw themselves sobbing onto their bed for minor transgressions. On occasion (cough cough) they’ll break a bedroom mirror because their hair doesn’t look perfect.

Boys don’t have these particular growing pains. If two boys disagree, they either hit each other or say, “Dude, shut up,” and the fight is over.

Which makes female adolescence pure hell on dads. One of my mom friends and I were commiserating at how frustrated our husbands get over what we know is normal girl behavior. She mentioned a dinner one evening where Dad made an innocent comment that caused his daughter to burst into tears. He threw up his hands and said, “What did I do to deserve this?” My friend looked at him and said, “God has blessed you with girls. Deal with it.”

I think we need to cut Dads a break, however. Even those who grew up with sisters can’t appreciate the turmoil of female adolescence. So I offer this cheat sheet of sorts to help dads survive these years and remain their girls’ No. 1 man:

1. Hormones stink. Yes, literally your little angel is going to start smelling ripe when she’s been playing outside. But the hormonal upheaval during adolescence can turn a mood from sour to happy to depressed to exhilarated within 4.2 seconds. Want proof? Think of how your wife acted when she was pregnant. Yeah, it’s that sort of hormonal upheaval.

2. Girls are nasty. The phrase “Mean Girls” was coined for a reason. Your baby girl finds this out all too quickly, when the girls who were nice in grade school suddenly seem intent on making her life a living heck in middle school. Nothing feels secure at this age, especially friendships. You may notice that “best friends” change as often as favorite outfits. Again, normal. Maddening, but normal.

3. Body image goes haywire. For the love of all that is good and holy, do NOT say anything about your daughter’s body, unless you’re telling her she looks good. Do NOT joke about a spare tire or even make a remark about putting back that cookie, unless you want to hear stomping, followed by a slamming door, followed by sobbing.

4. Ditto on “hair image.” You know those curls that were so darling on your 3-year-old’s head? She’s going to hate them. She’s going to long for pin straight hair. If your baby girl was blessed with pin straight hair, she’s going to spend a half hour each morning adding curls with a curling iron. Again, do NOT make jokes. Do NOT say, “Why don’t you just let it air dry?” You don’t understand, Dad. Nobody under the age of 18 understands.

5. Girls need their Dads. Even when they’re being ugly and mean, they need to know that there’s one man in the world who will love them unconditionally. I know this is asking a lot, especially when you’re getting the eye rolls and muttered comments when you dare to suggest that she spend a little more time on homework and less time complaining about how she never has anything to wear. Look for the moments when you click, Dad. Give her a hug. Give her some love. Because if you don’t – and this scares the heck out of Moms who’ve watched our friends go down this path – they’re going to look for that love somewhere else.

6. They do grow out of it. Sure, we women still have our temperamental moments. But eventually, most women get comfortable in their own skins, and they form friendships that they’ll keep for the rest of their lives, if they’re lucky. And if they're really lucky, they're going to realize that they have a cool Dad who hung on for the ride. Hang in there, Dads. It’s going to be a heck of a trip.

Sick daze?

2009-02-25T10:51:00.000-08:00

As a parent, I learned early that it’s not so easy to determine when a child’s sick enough to stay home from school. Sure, a high fever is a no-brainer. Ditto with vomiting. But what about the sore throat without a fever? What about the “really bad headache” or the queasy stomach that may or may not result in a rushed trip to the bathroom?

Over time, I’ve developed the motherly gut instinct that tells me when we’re dealing with a nervous gut and when we’re dealing with one about to be spilled. I’ve learned to say things like “If you stay home, you absolutely cannot play with any friends today, even if you’re feeling a lot better” and “OK, but you have to go to the doctor’s to be checked.” To be honest, though, I don’t particularly love to pay a $25 co-pay so that my doctor can say, “Yes, your child has a tummy ache.” My doctor probably doesn’t need to find time on her schedule for a minor inconvenience, either.

My mom had no such qualms. She sent us to school unless we were Really Sick. Maybe that’s why I’m a bit more lenient with my kids. I know how crummy it is to sit through class when your head feels as if it’s filled with rubber cement. I believe that a day of lying low can knock out a cold that might normally last for a week if you try to keep up with your routine. Plus, there’s the whole “don’t infect other kids” thing. I appreciate when other parents keep their kinda sick kids home, and I try to repay the favor.

That’s why our school system’s latest absentee policy has thrown me into a tizzy. If I understand it correctly, the new policy states that after seven unexcused absences, you get a sit down with the school nurse. After 12, you’re meeting with a prosecutor type. Sure, seven sounds like a generous policy. But unless you have a doctor’s note, almost every absence is unexcused. If your child is home for a couple of days with a sore throat that never progresses to strep, she’s unexcused. I don’t know about you, but I don’t typically run to the doctor when my child has a stomach flu or a sore throat with a low-grade fever. I keep her home, give her Gatorade for a day or two and send her back to school. Two more unexcused absences.

I’ll admit it. School nurses frighten me. No one seems to wield more power in the halls of education than the school nurse. Granted, I love the elementary school nurse. She knows our kids, knows which ones need to be sent home as soon as they admit something is wrong and which ones just need a hug. But the middle school nurse doesn’t know my older kid. She doesn’t know me. And she thinks the absentee policy is a great idea. After all, she says, adults don’t stay home from work for every sniffle. (Frankly, I’d appreciate it if more adults did stay home for the sniffles instead of coming in and sniffling on everyone else. But I digress.)

I understand the fine line that school officials must walk. I understand that excessive absenteeism can cut into the school’s efficiency, not to mention the government funds. But I also believe that our educational professionals are capable of discerning between a true truant and a child who’s lost the virus lottery this year. I believe that a child with five absences and slipping grades might be better served by a conference than the child with 12 absences who’s managed to keep on top of her schoolwork.

Mostly, I believe that parental involvement is key to a successful school experience. I believe schools should not undermine the parents’ authority to decide when their kids are sick and when they should go to school. Yes, if a pattern is developing or the child’s grades are slipping, by all means involve the parents. But I hope they also consider respecting the parents. My kids’ education is going to be a lot better if we’re working together, not fighting over whether a sore throat is a legitimate reason to stay home. We’re in this together.

How to eat candy

2009-02-04T07:43:00.000-08:00

Everyone who blogs seems to be an expert at something. They're experts on parenting. Cooking experts. Political experts. Nobody wants to read what I think about politics, and my kids will tell you I'm no parenting expert. But I do have lots of life experience when it comes to eating candy. I've taken risks, like the time I was going through a bag of Hershey's Miniatures and discovered that the wrapper had fallen off the last Krackle in the bag. I've tried new things, like the Reese's Whipped Peanut Butter Cup bar, which doesn't measure up to the original at all. (The Reese's Big Cup, however, is divine.) I've stolen enough candy from my kids' Halloween bags to have an opinion on just about any brand.

So listen to the expert. Here's how you eat candy:

* Make it calorie worthy. Let's be honest. Generic candy, the kind that the kids bring home in their Valentine's Day goodie bags, is not calorie worthy. Leave those to the kids and treat yourself to a Butterfinger.
* When eating M&Ms or jelly beans, have some fun. Line them up on your desk by color until you have an equal number of each color. Eat the excess. You then have the option of eating one color at a time, or alternating colors.
* It is rude to only eat the jelly bean flavors you like. However, it is not rude to develop a steady hand that allows you to pull mostly reds and purples out of the candy dish. Luck of the draw, and all that.
* Everyone has an odd candy taste, one shared by no one else in the household. Capitalize on that. For me, it's dark chocolate. No one here likes dark chocolate. Sometimes I buy a bag of dark chocolate, knowing it's all mine mine MINE.
* Find a good hiding place for your candy, so your husband can't find it and say, "Why have you been hiding this?" (That's really a dumb question. I've been hiding it so I don't have to hear about how candy's not going to help me lose those 10 pounds I'm always complaining about.) Framed family photos on bookshelves are a good option. My Grandma's photo helped hide my M&Ms for years, until the kids discovered my secret stash. My SIL keeps her candy in her car.
* Everyone has at least one candy that they can take or leave. Keep that candy in mind when you're on a diet. You can calm a candy craving with this so-so selection, without devouring the package.
* Don't put candy in a dish on your desk unless you want a stomachache by 10 a.m.
* Plan your life around the candy holidays, which start in late August, when the Halloween candy arrives on the shelves. There used to be a window for Thanksgiving-themed candy, but nowadays we go from Halloween to Chrismtas selections. After Christmas, you have Valentine's Day candy, then Easter candy. Then we get a candy break, where we are all wearing shorts and need to lay off candies. Take advantage of sales. Trust me, a bag of green and red M&Ms taste as good in January as they did in December, and they're often 50 percent off.
* Don't listen to people who say they never eat candy or they prefer fresh fruit to a candy bar. They're misguided.
* If you've read this far, go out and treat yourself to your favorite candy. Do it for me.

Parent games

2009-01-22T12:48:00.000-08:00

I just came back from a long weekend at Disney World with several other families. I like to be around other families with kids. They help me realize that all 'tweens are hormonally pumped and prone to going from excited to miserable to bored to happy to morose to loving within about 2.67 seconds.

It dawned on us that we could make up a pretty good drinking game with our kids - you know, every time someone whines about bedtime you drink a shot, and every time someone tells you you're mean you take another. But we realized we'd all be falling down drunk all of the time, which isn't conducive to decent parenting.

So here's a parental drinking game with a twist - every time your kid does one of the following, you reward yourself. It's a win win situation. The kids are still rotten, but you're too pampered to care:

* Whenever your kid says "I want" or "Can I have" or "You have to buy me," eat an M&M. (Make sure you've bought the extra-large bag. You should go through it in about three days.)
* If you ask your child to do something and she replies along the lines of "just a minute" or "I'll do it later," give yourself a five-minute internet break. (These can be saved up and used together.)
* If your preteen daughter says she hates her hair, put $5 in a jar. You should have your next family vacation paid for in a month.
* Every time you find a piece of outgrown clothing that still has tags on it, donate it to charity and buy yourself something brand new. You deserve it - and you know you'll actually wear it.
* Each time an expensive item gets misplaced (Ipod, Nintendo DS, etc.), book yourself a manicure.
* Give yourself a cookie every time your child says "I need help with my homework!" If it's said in a whining tone, make sure the cookie is chocolate.
* Whenever your child complains about the dinner you prepared, plan on going out to dinner the very next night. Leave the kids at home with a mean babysitter and a box of Kraft mac and cheese.
* Count the stuffed animals. Put aside a dollar for each one you find. You and your spouse should be able to afford a luxury vacation (sans kids) by Wednesday.
* If your child proclaims that you are the meanest mom ever, book a full body massage. You've earned it.
* If you manage to go a week without yelling, run to the nearest emergency room. Something is obviously wrong with your children and they should be checked out immediately.
* If your spouse suggests that the kids would be much better behaved if he were in charge, roll your eyes. Then book yourself a weekend away at an expensive resort, so he gets a taste of time alone with the little darlings and you get a taste of time alone.

Oh say can I see?

2009-01-13T12:50:00.000-08:00

There's a name for women like me. No, not that name. Not that one either.

I'm an emerging presbyope. (And here you thought I was a Methodist.)

Presbyopia, for those of you who aren't of a certain age, is a condition that occurs when the lens of your eye isn't as flexible as it used to be. You can't focus on things like you used to, and ironically it's the close stuff and the little print that drives you nuts.

Back when my mom was an emerging presbyope, she simply opted for bifocals. No biggie. My mom had been wearing glasses for years. What's an extra line in the lens? But I'm different. I wore glasses between the ages and 8 and 16, and I don't care to explore that world again. The world isn't kind to an 8-year-old in dork frames.

My vanity forced me to save my babysitting dollars when I was 16 years old to buy my first pair of contact lenses, and there's been no looking back, at least no looking back through rose colored glasses or wire rimmed frames. I don't do glasses. I look like a dork in glasses, even the dork frames that are supposed to be cool. I absolutely cannot abide the idea of glasses.

My optometrist is a patient guy, and he's all about exploring the options. He sent me home with bifocal contacts that drove me absolutely bat poop crazy. He suggested monovision, where one eye is corrected for distance and the other for close work, letting the brain figure out which eye to use when. Amazingly, this worked for about a year. But time marches on, over my face and eyeballs, and the words on the page aren't as clear as they used to be.

The optometrist suggests going back to glasses. My eyes aren't that bad anyhow - I can read just fine without contacts. He says I can wear glasses to drive and in my daily errands, and just take them off to read. He even suggests (gasp) going with bifocals, because "it's time."

I decided to take another route. I bought a $2.99 pair of readers to help me with the little type. Amazingly, they work wonderfully. But nobody told me how reading glasses come with little invisible legs, because they're never where I want them to be.

I suppose I'm going to have to cave and get glasses. I can't walk around squinting or deal with headaches much longer. Thankfully, today's frame options have come a long way since I was an eyeglass wearer, back in the early '80s when frames were huge and often included a little sticker in the corner. (Yes, a sticker. Mine was a flower.)

My friends and I like to sit around talking about how different our middle-aged selves are from our parents. We're so much more active than we remember our parents being. In our minds, at least, we're much cooler as well. But our bodies haven't gotten the memo. Sometimes in order to see clearly, you have to adjust your expectations.

Besides, all this squinting can cause wrinkles. Maybe glasses aren't such a bad idea after all.

What the cell?

2009-01-08T11:21:00.000-08:00

I caught a segment of CNN this morning promising to tell me how to save money on my phone bill. As someone who likes to spend, um, save money, I listened intently. The tip: Get rid of your land line and use your cell phone only at home.

I must be AT&T's dream come true, because I am going to cling to my land line until the lines shrivel up and turn to dust under the ground. Why do I want to keep a land line? Let me count the ways:

1. Cell phones sound horrible. A typical conversation includes breaks and statics. This is a minor annoyance when you're calling home to ask if you need to pick up toothpaste while you're at Target. But I'm a writer. I'm trying to get a complete quote out of someone who's voice keeps going in and out, depending on whether he's driving under a tree.

2. Speaking of, the whole talking while driving thing drives me nuts. (No pun intended.) My husband has graciously pointed out that I'm not the greatest driver anyhow, so he suggests I stay off the cell phone while driving. Point taken. But, what happens when I'm driving and the phone rings? I look and see my kid's school on the caller ID, so I assume she's been hurt and is en route to the emergency room. I almost crash my car trying to grab the phone, only to hear a recorded message reminding me of tomorrow's PTO meeting.

3. Cell phones have cut into our right to be left alone some time. Back in the Stone Ages, people had a healthy respect for a home phone number. You rarely received a call from work after hours, unless it was an emergency. Nowadays, my husband gets phone calls at 3 a.m. from people who are having a work crisis. I say that 20 years ago, that crisis wouldn't have been a crisis because nobody had cell phones and nobody would dream of calling someone at home at 3 a.m. They just waited five hours and THE WORLD DID NOT END.

4. Sometimes I need to be unreachable. I know, I know, I have the right to not answer the cell phone when I'm out and about. But a ringing phone causes a Pavlovian response, where I panic unless I find out who's calling me and why. For instance, suppose I'm killing time at Target, which qualifies as therapy for most mothers. The phoen rings, and it's someone from "home," so I assume someone had an accident and is en route to the hospital. I answer the phone, only to find out that my daughter needs me to come home right away because she needs a ride to Shelby's house and Dad's busy mowing the yard. Even if I tell her she's going to have to wait, the conversation has added just enough guilt to my Target trip to limit its therapeutic potential.

I understand that the younger generation doesn't have such hangups, and I begrudgingly acknowledge that someday I'll be calling my adult children on their cell phones. I'll have to endure staticky conversations if I want to talk to them. I get it. But I'm not giving in, not yet. Even if I didn't have the reasons I listed above, I have one reason I will cling to for years: My 11-year-old informed me that boys don't want to call her on the landline, because they feel funny about the risk of talking to one of her parents who might answer the phone first.

Yeah, I'll be paying for that land line for a while.

Mom tunes

2008-12-09T10:30:00.001-08:00

It's the holiday season (the holiday season), and I've decided to listen mostly to instrumental versions of Christmas carols this year. My motivations are twofold - I want to avoid carols by boy bands, Madonna, Mariah Carey or other "stars" who seem more concerned about how their voices sound than the words they are singing. (If you dare, check out Jessica Simpson singing 'O Holy Night' on Youtube. Then you'll understand.)

But I also like the instrumental versions because they allow me to fuss with the lyrics a bit, making carols more meaningful to my life. Because, you know, it's not all about the season, it's all about me.

For instance, I give you:

"The Cell Phone Song," to the tune of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas"

(11-year-old) You have to buy me a cell phone
You have to buy me a cell phone
You must buy me a new cell phone
And buy one this year!

(Parents) We're not buying you a cell phone
We're not buying you a cell phone
We're not buying you a cell phone
We've told you that, dear.

(Child) My world will end,
I won't have a friend.
(Parents) Your world will not end,
If you can't hit send.

(Child)You have to buy me a cell phone!
(Parents) We're not buying you a cell phone!
(Together) This year it's about the cell phone,
(Dad) Someone get me a beer!

Now, lest you think I'm only focusing on the hassles of raising an 11-year-old old, I've come up with one for parents of 9-year-olds, specifically those whose 9-year-olds are involved in sports:

The Soccer Dad's Song (to the tune of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen")

God rest ye, merry soccer dad,
let nothing you dismay,
The ref will call it as he sees
No matter what you say,
So sit right down and close your mouth and let the children play,

You're the dad, she's your child, it's just a game, only a game.
You're the parent, she's your child, it's just a game.

Christmas hits

2008-12-02T10:29:00.001-08:00

Back in the day, before computerized order systems and overnight shipping, items ordered by phone needed six to eight weeks to arrive at your doorstep. Normally, this just meant you had a longer waiting time. But in the case of Christmas album compilations, advertising started in September in order to ensure a timely delivery in December.

As kids, we loved hearing strains of Christmas music during commercial time. Sing it, Tony Bennett. But our mother had a different reaction. "I don't want to hear about Christmas yet!" she'd declare. "I'm nowhere near ready for Christmas."

Way to be a fun sucker, Ma.

But time has a way of getting its revenge, and in the last few years I've discovered that Christmas songs evoke a feeling of pure panic, rather than peace and goodwill toward men. The Christmas list that used to include the parents, one stinky brother and two grandmothers has expanded to include a husband, two kids whose home is already crammed with toys and assorted paraphernalia, the brother's wife, his kids (ditto on the home crammed with kids), various in-laws and nieces and nephews and their toy-populated homes, and neighbors who might just drop over with token gifts as they did last year. Christmas shopping used to mean hunting for something your loved one really wanted; today it's all about finding that one thing your loved one doesn't have.

So forgive me for a bit of "bah humbug." I've earned it.

Still, each year Christmas manages to grab me somewhere in the weeks leading up to it. One year, I found Christmas as I listened to my friend's 4-year-old lisp her one line during the Christmas pageant. Another year I found it while watching my sleepy 1-year-old clap her hands in glee over a ball pit. (This year the same child wants a Coach purse and Ugg boots. How quickly things change.) Another year I found it while standing over a church stove, making hot chocolate by the pot to serve visitors to our outdoor Christmas walk to Bethlehem.

This year, I found it early. My family and I spent Thanksgiving in my hometown, and my old church was doing an Advent program. Honestly, Mrs. Bah Humbug was going to win this battle. I really didn't feel like sitting in church, reminding my kids to keep their mouths shut during the important parts. Heck, I wasn't sure I wanted to sit in church at all on a Saturday night.

As usual, I underestimated the impact of the event. Maybe it was the Christmas carols we sang, old favorites that brought back memories of caroling to the elderly neighbors when I was a kid. (I vividly remember visiting a nursing home, where one resident with short-term memory problems asked us to sing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" three times. We did.) Maybe it was the folks who played a parental role in my childhood and welcomed me home this weekend with, literally, open arms. Maybe it was the church sanctuary, which brought back memories of Christmas Eves past, when my brother and I would fidget in the pew, fantasizing about what was going to be under the tree the next morning and wondering how to make the next 12 hours go by quickly.

Whatever it was, it brought back that feeling of exciting anticipation, that air of giddiness that we're all going to be celebrating in a few weeks. Once again, the spirit of Christmas managed to push its way past the endless lists of chores and trips to the mall, reminding me to hang onto the magic that only happens once a year.

Once again, I found my Christmas.

An orchestra mom

2008-11-19T08:25:00.001-08:00

I was never in the marching band. Frankly, I never felt the desire to wear the uniform and the funky hat that seemed to weigh more than some of the wind section members. Plus, I didn't play a marching band instrument. But when I arrived in college, I discovered that marching band was its own special little fraternity, a family unit at a time when your only family units seemed to be within a Greek system my parents couldn't afford. In retrospect, marching band didn't seem like such a bad thing.

OK, obviously I survived college without being in the marching band. But like many parents, I recycled a few dreams when my kids were born. Maybe one of them would be in marching band. Think of the trouble it would save me. If they were in marching band, I wouldn't have to worry about them becoming, say, cheerleaders, or athlete groupies who hung out at games hoping the star quarterback would look their way. Sure, the hats were a consideration - both my kids have my hair, and hats are not our friend. Still, I hoped at least one of them would pick up a flute, or a saxophone or other band-appropriate instrument.

As the oldest child neared middle school, I tested the waters. Middle school afforded the opportunity to learn an instrument. "Honey," I said, "Why don't you take up a marching band instrument? I think marching band would be fun."

The oldest child hesitated and then said, with childlike honesty, "No offense Mom, but marching band is for dorks."

(Hear that shattering noise? That's the sound of yet another parental dream breaking into itty bitty pieces.)

Get this, though. Older child decided to pursue an instrument, even though she still eschewed marching band. She went to the "try out" day and was placed with (marching band appropriate drum roll, please) the violin.

Now, I'm not up on what's a dork and what isn't - it's hard to see the dork picture when you're in the dork frame - but how does the violin escape the 10-year-old "dork" pronouncement while, say, the saxophone continues to be dorky? Don't get me wrong. I love the sound of a violin when it's in the right hands, preferably someone with a pitch perfect ear and a well-resined bow. But how can a violin be fine while a drum set is dorky?

Maybe she's seen the marching band hats.

Anyhow, we're about five months into the violin experiment now. Those who have never had a beginning violinist at home, consider yourselves lucky. A beginner on the violin makes noises that would have small forest animals running for cover. A woman giving birth to a 13-pounder with a big head can't come up with sounds like this, sounds that make cold shivers go down your spine. Thank goodness she started in the summer and we could all go outside while she practiced.

Yet, somewhere between months 2 and 3, we began to notice something. The cold shivers didn't happen when she practiced. Sure, our ears were probably becoming desensitized, maybe in the way you get used to your own body odor and don't smell it while everyone around you is gagging. But you couldn't argue that my little fiddler was getting better and less likely to be sent to the roof for practice.

For the past few weeks, I've listened to more renditions of Offenbach's "Can-Can" than I care to admit, to the point where I've made up my own lyrics that involve getting a cookie for the dog. (Don't ask.) Oldest child is now trying to play Christmas carols by ear, and she's amazingly adept at it.

Tonight is her first concert. (As an aside, she informed me last night that she will need dress shoes for the concert, because her orchestra teacher nixed her Bjorndahl slides as "not dressy enough." We have a two-hour window to find appropriate shoes for a kid who thinks appropriate is a synonym for dumb.) Tonight we officially add "orchestra parent" to our ever growing list of labels. I wonder if orchestra parents are like soccer parents and like to dissect every performance, whispering remarks about how Casey on the viola didn't quite hit the high C or Ellie in the second chair position really deserves first chair. As much as I'm trying to be funny, I imagine that truly competitive parents are always going to play the comparison game, whether their kid is kicking a ball or taking a bow.

As for me, I'm dusting off an old dream and starting a new one. I wonder what it takes to convince the high school's marching band that they really need a string section?

An uncool parent

2008-11-18T11:04:00.001-08:00

When I was in junior high, I knew a girl named Debbie. While the rest of us wore old jeans and rock group T-shirts, Debbie wore dresses and anklets. Debbie's house was on the path home from school, and we were often witnesses to her mother as she flung open her door, threw out her arms and proclaimed, "Debbie, darling!"

Poor Debbie.

I always said I'd strive to be the cool parent. How hard could it be? I remember being a kid. I remember my parents pulling the stodgy card and saying "no" when other parents were saying "yes." Well, things were going to change when I was the parent. I'd be the cool parent, the one my kids could call with any request, and I'd make my decisions fairly and logically.

Witness a recent conversation with my firstborn, who called me from her friend's house:

11-year-old: Mom, is it OK if Brittany's mom drops us off at Starbucks for, like, an hour?
Me: Drops who off?
11-year-old: Me, Brittany and Courtney.
Me: What about Brittany's mom?
11-year-old: She'll leave and come get us in, like, an hour.
Me: Eh, you know I'm not crazy about that.
11-year-old: Please Mom. Pleeeease. Please be the cool parent. Pleeeease.
Me: Honey, I'm not ready to send you to Starbucks without an adult. What do you think you're going to do at Starbucks?
11-year-old: I don't know. We'll probably walk around and go over to Petland, too. (Because I'm sure the Petland employees are just dying for three unattended tweens to coo over the puppies and kittens.)
Me: What does Courtney's mother say?
11-year-old: She says it's fine with her if it's fine with you. Please be a good parent. (Now the stakes are higher: I'd be a good parent AND a cool one.) Please.

Courtney's mother was, fortunately, not fine with it. No adult, no Starbucks excursion. This meant I had to have an awkward conversation with Brittany's mom, who seemed to have no problem dropping the kids off at Starbucks. I stressed that this is our hang-up, and our daughter is the one who isn't ready for solo trips yet.

The story has a happy ending, at least for the 11-year-old. Courtney's mother decided she needed to do some shopping over by Starbucks, so she took the girls and supervised them from a respectable distance. Crisis over, for now.

But it will come up again. And the 11-year-old will point out that at least one of them will have a cell phone and can call if there's an emergency. I'm not sure she understands that this isn't a case of worrying about bad guys snatching them out of Starbucks. It's not even a case of having pity on the merchants, although this is certainly a factor in our saying no.

What it comes down to is that this is our time to set boundaries. We might not always be right, and we'll probably err on the side of being overprotective. But we want the 11-year-old to be pretty sure that there are things she can and cannot do right now, and we want her to know that there are limits to every good thing, even the emerging freedom that she can taste but not quite indulge in.

She's growing up. But we're growing, too, growing into parenting and trying to figure out how to keep her safe without becoming Debbie's mom. I've given up on being the cool parent - my wardrobe precluded that, anyhow. I'd rather keep her safe, and smart, and happy. I'd rather be uncool.

And I hope when she's old enough to go to Starbuck's alone, I'll recognize it and let her go. Even when it hurts to let go.

Separate but equal?

2008-11-14T05:54:00.001-08:00

When your kids are little, you take great pains to create a fair world. When the second child is born, the first child receives little gifts to reinforce that both are precious and welcome. As they get older, you continue the evening up. When one child gets a new pair of shoes, you go ahead and fit the other child. When only one cookie is left, you cut it precisely so that each child receives 50 percent. (A 50.1 percent cookie and a 49.9 percent cookie will be noticed and subject to a recut.) If an activity cannot accommodate both of them, you take turns and promise to even the score next time.

But one day you realize that life has other plans. One kid kicks a soccer ball like a pro, the other runs like Twinkletoes. One child sits down at the piano and masters each piece, the other struggles to play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

Even worse, the world isn't evening the score. One child is a social butterfly, with invitations for playdates and sleepovers clogging the phone lines. The other child gets an occasional invitation to a birthday party. One child draws attention wherever she goes. The other is more likely to be overlooked by her teachers, her classmates, the general public. As much as you try to cover up for the inequities, they notice. They're perceptive little souls.

As a parent, you tell your kids that you love them equally. But as the kids grow, you realize that just as the world can't treat them the same way, neither can you. They go through phases where one of them is more challenging, and they take turns wearing that particular label. And you find that even though you love them equally, you love them differently. You even admit that yeah, sometimes one of them is easier to love.

So you strive to find the common ground with the one who is testing your mother love, because that's what mothers do. You never give up on the love, even when you're hearing that you're the worst mother ever. You strive to keep things equal with them while teaching them that no, life isn't ever going to be as easy as splitting a cookie two ways. You tell them that you love them both, but you show them that there are different ways to love, and you care enough to find the way that works for you.

Trick or treating gets political

2008-11-02T10:14:00.000-08:00

I took the 9-year-olds trick or treating this year. We were on the next street when one of my neighbors said, "Girls, I'm going to teach you some politics. I'm going to give you candy. Now, I'm going to take some of the candy out of your bags so I can give it to people who aren't trick or treating."

I was standing on the sidewalk, so I yelled up to him: "We've been teaching them that since they were babies: You share with others and give to those who are less fortunate."

We both laughed, and neither of us tried to hit the other with a political sign. That's probably a good thing.

Maybe he sees "sharing the wealth" as giving his hard-earned money to some deadbeat, some lowlife scum who's too lazy to get a job. I tend to think of the people who hit tough times, the ones with medical issues or even those not blessed to be born in a family where education is encouraged and supported. The reality is perhaps between those extremes, although most of us tend to think it's closer to our extreme than to the other side's.

Who's ready for Wednesday?

Dusting off the blog

2008-10-30T11:31:00.000-07:00

Why not? I sit around talking to myself all day. I might as well put things in writing.

The 11-year-old is mad at me. Why? Because I let the 9-year-old shave her legs this week. Now, before you start fanning your hankies and asking why a 9-year-old needs to shave her legs, let me introduce you to her parents: one mother who descended from hairy Eastern European stock, and a father with Brillo pad arms and legs. The kid didn't stand a chance.

Anyhow, the older one started lobbying for leg shaving in the fifth grade. I resisted, thinking she was much too young to take such a step. Plus, I remembered those horrible cuts from my own early shaving career, the ones that bled for hours and left stains around the tub. But enough people reminded me that it's not easy being a hairy girl, and this wasn't the proverbial hill to die on, so I gave in that spring. She actually took to the razor naturally and was quite pleased with her silky skin. Granted, there was that one morning when the bus was 15 minutes from arriving and she was still leisurely shaving her legs in the tub, but that was the exception.

Still, the younger one is a full year and grade younger than the older one when I let her start shaving. Granted, she's the hairiest one of our bunch, but even I admit I would have never considered letting the older one shave this early.

There's a lesson here, and I fear it will be repeated many times during the next six to eight years: The older child does things first. The younger does things earlier. No, it's not fair. Guess what? Life isn't fair. That's another line that will be repeated for years.

Guess what else? After the older one threw her fit over the unfairness of it all, she went to her own tub to shave her own legs. But somehow, her common sense button turned off and she wound up sitting on the razor, causing it to slide a couple of nice cuts into her precious baby skin. She bled for hours and left stains around the tub - stains that I need to clean. In the end, life isn't going to be fair, and in the end, Mom's the one cleaning around the tub.

What about us?

2007-04-19T07:53:00.000-07:00

There's a missing piece in the discussion about the Virginia Tech massacre. The psychiatrists are showing up on the talk shows, discussing what may have gone wrong in this young man's brain to make him react so violently, so differently than how we rational folks act. The blame game is in full force - gun laws are the culprit, removing God is the culprit; what were the parents doing, why didn't the administration try harder to intervene with this kid? If there were a simple answer, we'd have it and not have to worry about next time.

But what about us? What are we doing to bring down the chances that this is going to happen again?

As I understand it, mass murderers share certain traits. Oftentimes, they are marginalized by society. They're not the athletes or the beautiful people that command power simply because they were blessed with good genes. They're not the comedians or the jovial folks who draw people to them because of their warmth and openness. They're the strange ones, the kids who don't seem to fit in with any group, the ones who don't have a lot of friends and are often the target of foolish pranks and hurtful comments.

I remember those kids. Heck, at one time, I was one of those kids. At another time, I was one of the hecklers. There was this one kid in school who was a constant target. He was a goofy looking kid, with the proverbial Coke bottle glasses and inability to walk and chew gum. He neglected his personal hygiene and had a propensity to get into your space. People were ruthless. I admit, I joined in. Twenty years later, I read that he's in jail for soliticing sex with underage girls. The cycle of hurt continues.

Yes, there are plenty of people out there who were bully targets, and they grew up to live good and productive lives that didn't include grabbing a gun and shooting their classmates. I'm happy for them. And I'm not about to suggest that being nice to the weird kids is going to solve our problems and lead us to a worldwide singing of Kum Bah Ya. But we can't ignore the fact that a lot of us still haven't figured out how to treat each other with common decency, and we haven't passed it onto our kids. We continue to worship money, charisma and good looks, and we ignore those who make us feel uncomfortable.

I had my first reporting internship when I was a college junior. One night, I was sent to cover a speech by a guy named Bob Keeshan, better known as our Captain Kangaroo. This was in the '80s, when the catch phrase of the day was "Just say no." But Mr. Keeshan told folks that saying no wasn't enough. He said (and I paraphrase) we need to be teaching our children about the richness of life and the importance of treating each other as we would ourselves. If we do that, then saying no would come naturally.

A simple answer? Probably. But you know, Bob Keeshan was talking to a mental health group in Roanoke, Va., which is about 40 miles from Virginia Tech. Maybe that's why his words keep coming back to me now. Maybe that's why my 9-year-old and I had a long talk the other night about the weird kids and how, even if you don't become their best friends, you don't need to join in when the other kids make fun of them. "But I'm afraid to tell them to stop, Mom." Yeah, I know, honey. I know. How do I equp her with the strength to defend the powerless? I'm still working on that one. In the meantime, I'm stepping back and taking a long, hard look at how I treat the strange folks in society. Because my kids are watching me. And their future is worth it.

2006-11-20T09:39:00.000-08:00

Have you ever found a perfect pair of jeans? They don't gap at the waist or drag at the ankles. They hug your butt without being tight enough to bring back memories of your Calvin Kleins from the '80s. They're even reasonably priced. There's only one problem. They're a size bigger than your regular size, and you swore you'd never wear that size.

What do you do? Do you really want to admit that you wear this size? Yet, the jeans fit just right. So you buy the jeans, cut out the size tag and wear them happily. Denial is a powerful thing.

I turned 40 this year. I feel great. I'm at a great place in my life. My body could look better, but it could look a lot worse. I don't look 25, but I don't look 50 either. Occasionally my joints will hurt, but I can still exercise, play volleyball and beat my children in a race. I just don't like to acknowledge that I'm 40.

I'm sure there are a lot of reasons for feeling this way. Most women in my generation tend to equate 40 with their 40-year-old mothers, who wore polyester pants and Grandma hairstyles. We do the math and realize that yes, 40 is about halfway between our expected life span, and the dreaded term "middle age" applies to us. How did this happen? When did I get to be 40?

So I've decided to tear off the 40 tag, so to speak. I'm now 37. If someone asks me my age, I'll be honest and tell them I'm 40. But in my mind, I'm 37. In a strange way, it works.

Denial is a powerful thing.

What was that?

2006-09-28T07:23:00.000-07:00

Back when I was an innocent youth, I worked with a guy who was hard of hearing. If you asked him a question, he'd often respond with a harsh "Huh?" and an angry look that had you quickly retreating. I couldn't understand why he was mad at me for asking a question.

Life has a way of coming back to bite us in the proverbial butt. As I reach my 40s, I discover that I'm not hearing things like I used to. I had my hearing tested and discovered that I'm still at the low end of normal, and I tend to hear lower sounds better than higher. As the mother of two elementary school daughters, this can be a blessing or a curse.

"Mom, xlkejflk jflkwej lkejsl!" This comes from another room while the speaker's head and voice are directed to the TV set.

"What was that?"

"Wlkjrlk klsjdflk werk!"

"Come over here and talk to me. Oh, and while you're here, empty the dishwasher."

Too bad it didn't start when the kids were babies. I could have had an excuse for missing those middle-of-the-night cries.

Anyhow, I've tried to be accommodating. TV is the worst. Why is it that dramas like to insert so much background music? I watch "House" with one hand cupped around my ear, like a little old lady. It drives my husband nuts. See, I told you it's a blessing and a curse.

I blame my car radio. All those times I cranked Aerosmith's "Tell Me What it Takes to Let You Go" have slowly killed off all those little hairs in my ear that are so conducive to moving sound to my brain. I also blame my genes. Dinner at my parents' house is a lot of fun, as we all punctuate our sentences with, "Huh?" "What'd you say?" "Say it again."

On a serious note, I hope I never lose the ability to hear my kids play the piano or tell their latest story. But at least I'm able to filter out some of the whines and demands that come from the other end of the house. Maybe it's a byproduct of motherhood.

Huh?

Back to work?

2006-08-16T08:24:00.000-07:00

School's back in session. Don't get me started on the whole August start date issue. Yes, I know kids are no longer needed in the fields for harvest season. And I know many schools have air conditioning. But I hate giving up those lazy summer evenings, when the kids can play until dark and the parents can hang out in our lawn chairs, gabbing and swatting mosquitoes. Now we're all hustling to finish homework and showers each evening. Summer is over.

This school year marks nine years that I have been a stay-at-home mom. While I've been lucky enough to supplement our income with freelance writing work, I'm not raking in the big bucks by any stretch of the imagination. No, I'm making just about what I'd make if I were working a part-time job at Kohl's or another retail outlet. So the question isn't whether I need to go back part-time or full-time; it's whether our family can handle the transition from Mom being at home to Mom doing the full-time working act again.

We've been incredibly lucky. The husband doesn't have to worry about sharing morning kid duties or juggling dinner menus. If a kid turns up sick, there's no argument over whose job is more important that day. The kids get to see me at school on my volunteer days. I'm there when they get home to go over homework and tell them to quit eating so many cookies.

But even I have to admit that I don't do a whole lot of anything at home. I'm not Mrs. Fix-It or even Mrs. Paint the Walls. (Our house's outdated wallpaper seems to be superglued to the walls, making me even more reluctant to fire up the steamer and Dif.) A healthy paycheck would be a nice addition to our bank account. But what about the things we have to give up? What about the afternoon piano lessons? What about (gasp) soccer practice? What about lazy summer days at the pool and late mornings for my sleep-loving 9-year-old? The husband's job doesn't have set hours, and he's never sure whether he's going to be home on time. How do I find something flexible?

I'm optimistically believing that the answer will be clear in due time. In the meantime, I'm printing out the substitute teacher packet for our school system and contemplating a retail stint during the holiday season. My hat's off to working families. I don't know how you do it, but I think I'll be finding out soon.

2006-07-10T10:06:00.000-07:00

"Ashley, you're probably going to lose your first game, and it's all because your mother doesn't know where to turn!"

Poor Ashley. Poor Ashley's mother. A man I presumed to be her father was on his cell phone, demanding to know where Ashley was. Behind him, our local 3v3 soccer tournament was beginning, with handpicked teams ready to square off and show their soccer prowess.

What makes a parent one of those parents? How do you slide from the parent whose role is primarily driving to practice and making sure the kids have their water bottles to one whose life is dictated by their child's win/loss record?

There's a siren's song that calls to parents when their children show potential. While the sane part of you is saying, "Let's be realistic," there's another voice saying, "She might be the next Mia Hamm!" You get a charge out of watching your child play well and hearing other parents say, "Whose daughter is that? Wow, she's really good." You share your child's joy when she wins, and you wipe her tears when she doesn't.

But how do you keep from making her dreams your dreams? Or, how do you ensure that you're not forcing your dreams to become her dreams?

I wish I had the answer. Certainly, for every Ashley's father there's another parent who keeps his cool and tells his daughter that she'll get there when she gets there, and there will be other tournaments in the future. For every parent who continually lectures his daughter on improving her game, there's one who says, "OK" when his daughter says "I don't think I want to play this fall."

As for my 7-year-old, her team looked fantastic in its first three games. They made it to the championship, where they lost in sudden death overtime. One of our players accidentally kicked the opponent's ball while standing within the goal circle, giving the opponent an automatic goal. There were lots of tears afterwards.

Except for my kid. She said, "It's OK. I had a lot of fun. Remember, it's only a game."

That's my girl.

2006-06-23T11:11:00.000-07:00

I'm going to perform an experiment on my dog.

Before you start calling the animal rights people, hear me out. When I was a kid, we had a beagle mix named Patches. Patches was a grumpy old dog, but that's beside the point. Twice a day, Patches would get a half of a Gainesburger in her bowl. Gainesburgers were these frighteningly red, crumbly food stuff that was packaged in a hamburger shape. You'd open the wrapping, crumble half a Gainesburger into the bowl and Patches went to town.

My grandmother's dogs preferred Chuckwagon. Chuckwagon's marketing point was that it made its own gravy. Each day, at 7:30 a.m. and 4:30 p.m., Grandma put a scoop of Chuckwagon into each dog's bowl, added warm water and stirred the concoction until it formed its own gravy. Scampy and Brandy went to town on their Chuckwagon.

Patches, Scampy and Brandy all lived long, healthy lives, expiring at about age 15 or so. Same with the other neighborhood dogs who received similarly packaged grocery store foods. Interesting.

When we bought our first puppy 10 years ago, our vet wrinkled her nose at grocery store dog food. Sure, she said, give your dog the equivalent of Twinkies and Ring Dings. She recommended premium dog foods. They might cost a little more, but your dog will appreciate its healthy coat and digestive system. Nothing but the best for our dog. Kadi lived on premium dog food. When she developed seizures at age 6, we kept her on the premium dog food. When her legs started to bother her a few years later, we switched to a food that promised to enhance her joint health. As the epilepsy medications made her fuzzy, I tried a food that promised to help her mental state. When she died at 9, she was well fed and loved and prematurely gone.

Our neighbors have similar stories. The lab on the left had to be euthanized at age 8 when his hips gave out. The dog behind us lost his life to cancer at age 9. The one next door died at age 10 due to heart failure. All nice dogs. All premium dog food dogs. Not a speck of Gainesburger in sight.

So now we have this new dog, Ginger. Great dog. Healthy dog. No seizures yet. Strong hips and knees so far. Yesterday I bought her a bag of grocery store dog food. Granted, it's the top of the line grocery store dog food. I can't bring myself to do the generic stuff yet, and I can't find any Gainesburger. But I'm going to see how Ginger does on grocery store dog food. At least I'm going to try this 20-pound bag. Then I'll probably feel guilty for feeding my dog Twinkie dog food, and I'll go back to the premium stuff.

I'd make a lousy researcher.

2006-06-01T04:52:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago, my husband and I stood in front of our family and friends and pledged our solemn vows. I suppose I should be saying something like, "I can remember it as if it were yesterday," but honestly, it seems like a lifetime ago. I look at our wedding pictures and think, "Who are those young people, and did they have any idea what they were promising on that day?"

The wedding may seem like a lifetime ago, but it seems like just yesterday I was waking him up at 2 a.m. with an infant, begging him to take her for a couple of hours so I could get some precious sleep. Take her he did, even though he had to work in the morning. Later, when I thanked him, he said not to worry. "She's my baby, too," he said.

It seems like just yesterday we were moving into this neighborhood, complete with its cul de sacs and safe streets. We bought bikes for us and a bike trailer for the girls. The weather was kind. Life was good. So good, that we looked at each other and said, "No matter what else happens, we're going to remember this time and say it was good."

It seems like only yesterday he was taking time off work so we could go as a family to my mom's bedside when she was diagnosed with cancer. Only yesterday he told me not to worry about the girls while I went home again to be with my mom and my dad as they recovered from heart attacks. Only yesterday we took a trip to Chicago, away from the girls for the first time in almost nine years, enjoying a weekend without bed time routines and menu negotiations. Only yesterday we fought so hard, only to reaffirm that we both want and need to honor those vows we took when there were stars in our eyes and naive love in our hearts.

Did we know 10 years ago how much that love would have to grow and mature to meet our changing lives? Did we realize that the words "for better or for worse" didn't pertain to lottery winnings and catastrophic events, but rather to balmy summer nights and little irritations that we'd have to let go of in the name of a promise we made 10 years ago? Did we have any idea how much more we'd love each other 10 years out, and how that love is what we hold onto no matter what else goes wrong in our lives? Did we realize that we were signing up for hard times as well as good times, and that "as long as we both shall live" was more than a trite, familiar phrase?

Happy anniversary, honey. There's no one else I'd rather call my husband, no one else I'd rather take this journey with. You're the first one I want to share my good news with, and the one I need when the news is bad. I love you more than I did 10 years ago, and I'm in it for the long haul. Let's work through the bad times and hang onto the good ones, "as long as we both shall live" and maybe an eternity more.

2006-05-24T06:50:00.000-07:00

Today I'm going to join 80 percent of my fellow Americans (and a few nice Canadians) and weigh in on American Idol's finale. Thanks to the miracle of DVR - the best $10 a month we spend - I watched the finale this morning and was able to fast forward through the boring parts.

Here's the deal. For the last four or five weeks, I've been wondering what's going on behind the scenes to propel Katharine to the forefront. I mean, she's like the little girl with the little curl right in the middle of her forehead -- when she's good she's very good, but when she's bad she's horrid.

They gave us the answer last night. Thanks to the miracle of DVR, I can confirm it and share it with you. After Kat's second or third song, they scanned the audience and had the words "Katharine's Family and Friends." And who did they show? Tori Spelling WhateverHerNewLastNameIs. That's it! If anyone in Hollywood knows how to pull the strings and pass by people who have gobs and gobs more talent, it's Tori Spelling. Forget the Scientology rumor. Katharine has a Spelling connection, and that's why Simon apologized and Chris was sacrificed and Elliot was edged out. BLAME TORI!

That said, I can only guess that TPTB want this to be a truly forgettable season, and therefore have assigned truly awful songs as the initial releases. What sort of drivel was that?

And finally, I'm going to say something I thought I'd never say. Was that Kellie Pickler in the audience sporting a smart new hairdo? Goodness gracious folks, she looked downright respectable.

My vote goes to Taylor, who makes me smile. I get the feeling he'd be perfectly happy to spend his career singing in bars. I respect people who can do what they love and make a living out of it, and I hope he enjoys a long, fun life of music.

2006-05-16T12:45:00.000-07:00

My husband thinks we shouldn't have ice cream in the house. He's come to this conclusion after talking to his brother-in-law, who is very biased against anything he considers to be junk food.

Here are brother-in-law's arguments:

Ice cream has little redeeming value nutritionally. Sure, you can make the dairy argument, but the kids would be better off drinking milk or eating cheese.

If ice cream is in the house, the kids will eat it. Consequently, mothers will eat it, too. Everyone knows that too much ice cream is not good for mothers, as it tends to force its way directly into the fat cells of our rear ends.

If you really want ice cream, you can always go out and enjoy a scoop at your nearest ice cream parlor. This way, the kids will know that ice cream is not one of the four food groups (good heavens, I just dated myself) and will consider it a treat, something you do sporadically.

I have to say, his argument makes sense. Then I considered other items in our house that fit the above description - items that, when taken in excess, can cause health woes and even (gasp) extra fat around the midsection. I considered those items that are readily available at the corner restaurant or grocery store for an occasional treat. I considered how much better we might all be if those items were limited to special occasions and not an everyday indulgence. After all, wouldn't we be better off if we stuck to healthier alternatives?

So I'm throwing away the beer.

OK, I'm not throwing away the beer. But I'm not throwing away the ice cream until brother-in-law throws away his beer.

Anyone want some ice cream?

2006-05-01T04:49:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, we sat in the rain watching 7- and 8-year-olds play soccer. They were having fun, even if moms and dads were huddled under umbrellas dreaming of hot tubs.

But then there was the little girl on the opposing team who never smiled. She was good -- better than almost every other child out there. She ran like a gazelle and figured out the fancy footwork. It wasn't good enough, though. For some reason, Sunday wasn't her game day. It happens to everyone, and you have to shrug it off, right?

Not according to this child's dad. He was on the sidelines, shouting instructions, criticizing her technique, telling her how she needed to try harder and work harder to score those goals. All this for an 8-year-old. He must have given up, as he went to his car during the fourth quarter and waited while his daughter trudged off the field, getting out only to shout at the child some more.

What's going to happen to this sweet kid? Does the dad really think she'll put up with 10 more years of shouting so she can live her dad's dream? What ever happened to letting kids play?

A reluctant soccer mom

2006-04-24T09:35:00.000-07:00

Originally, I considered calling this blog "A reluctant soccer mom speaks." I never expected to spend my weekends shivering in a lawn chair and contemplating just how long it was going to take to get all of that mud out of my 7-year-old's white uniform. I grew up playing pickup sports, choosing the sport by virtue of what type of equipment was on hand and unbroken. I mistakenly believed that kids would do fine with those unstructured play times, goofing off with whichever neighborhood kids weren't grounded that week.

Nope. In this suburb, kids sports are an industry. Participation is mandatory. Those who choose not to enroll their children are accused of making their children fat and potentially dashing any hopes of a college scholarship and professional career. (In this suburb, I'm not sure which is worse - a fat child or one that shuns college.) I've considered being the Anti-Soccer Mom, but I've managed to give birth to a child who inherited her father's athletic abilities. More importantly, she's grinning from ear to ear on the soccer field. What's a (soccer) mom to do, except suck it up and try to land a few more freelance gigs to pay for soccer camp?

I'd say something about soccer mom fashions, but that's another blog entry. Suffice to say, while I may meet the definition of a soccer mom, I often fail to dress the part. Stay tuned for those observations.

2006-04-22T07:37:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting outside with my new neighbor, who happens to work for a PR/ad agency. He knows I'm always loooking for freelance writing work, and he recommends a blog. (He also recommends that I get with the 21st century on electronically storing my clips, but that involves crawling under my desk and staring at several inches of dust. Scary.)

I'm not yet sold on the whole blog concept. I mean, who really cares what I think? But then I realize there's a whole audience of people out there who don't know me in real life and are therefore missing out on the boundless wisdom I can offer, if not actually use in my daily life. There are people out there who don't know the joy of eating a Poptart and drinking a Diet Coke for breakfast, or want to live vicariously through me as I try to keep my mouth shut around the in-laws.

With that in mind, I'm going to share a little tidbit I learned for dealing with - how shall I say this - challenging folks. You know the type. They prefer to preach rather than discuss things, and they assume you're hopelessly misguided because you didn't vote for the right presidential candidate. After 40 years of trying to have reasonable, rational discussions with these folks, I've stumbled upon an approach that helps me keep my mouth shut while offering abundant entertainment. It's called the Dian Fossey approach.

Remember Dian Fossey, the lady who studied the gorillas? She'd often provide a voiceover to the viewers, imparting her interpretations of the behavior on the screen. Guess what? This works in almost any situation where you need to keep your mouth shut. Just sit back and let a running commentary take over. You're now an observer, taking a purely clinical approach to the whole dysfunctional mess.

For instance, suppose you have a relative who likes to argue. Instead of rising to the bait, pretend you're Dian Fossey:

"The neurotic female relative begins to flail her arms as she speaks. When the younger female refuses to respond, the older one becomes more agitated and resorts to screaming. This has no effect on the younger female, who simply turns and walks away, leaving the older female a flailing, screaming mess."

It works. Trust me. :)

2006-02-21T11:36:00.000-08:00

I just set this up. Let's see if it works.