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.

Don't forget the lyrics

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

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?

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

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

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?

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?

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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?