Is she strong enough to be a mom?

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

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

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

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

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

Team player

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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?

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)

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.