Parental truths

Remember when our children were never sick?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heck if I know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life lessons

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

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

Lessons from life – chapter 45:

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

    
     

 

 

 

 

Ed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

How do I love Facebook? Let me count the ways

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long live the social media.

Hey good-looking!

 
 

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

 
 

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

 
 

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

 
 

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

 

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

 

Water woes

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to dance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is she strong enough to be a mom?

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.