Digging Deeper

One of Ben's favorite activities when we visit the coast of North Carolina each summer is to capture and observe the little digger clams that proliferate the shore. We dig in the wet sand, scoop up the each smooth, shiny-shelled mollusk and put it into a bucket filled with sand and water. The clam sits on top of the sand and within a minute, sticks out its tiny hatchet foot, tilts itself up on one end and then digs down under the sand in a matter of seconds.

One of my favorite activities is digging for these clams alongside Ben. His curiosity and enthusiasm are so much fun to watch, and if I let him he would dig in the sand for hours. He is a 'nature boy' who loves the natural world around him--whether it be working in the yard, weeding the garden, picking berries or looking for cool insects. He is in every way his father's son.

While I sat meditating on the wonderful situation we found ourselves in--alone and rapt over something together that did not involve a homework assignment or video game--another young beach visitor stopped by. Peering in our bucket, the boy, who was about eleven years old, asked if we'd caught anything. As Ben pulled up some of the clams and showed him how they dig, the boy proceeded to fish around in the sand next to his foot, and with his hands pulled out a clam to add to Ben's collection. His mom called him away just then and, as he left, Ben commented on the boy's actions.

"He was really nice. Clams are nice too. Basically, anything that's harmless is nice," he said nonchalantly.

But the way he'd phrased it, choosing the word 'harmless', made me wonder if something upsetting was going on in his head.

See, Ben is the type of kid who, when put into bed at night, will lie in the dark and come up with questions like, "Mom, what do blind people see? Is it total blackness, or total whiteness or something else?" It's no wonder he has such a hard time getting to sleep when his mind is trying to puzzle out such questions. So even though his comment seemed innocuous, knowing him as I do, I decided to do a little digging of my own, into his brain.

"You're right, Ben, he was nice. What would you consider 'not nice'?" I asked.

Bracing myself for an answer like 'bullies,' 'mean kids,' 'my brother,' or 'scary dogs,' I hoped my tone came off as more curious than prying. I held my breath.

"Laser beams," he replied.

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing at his answer, as he might misconstrue it as laughing at him.

"Ah, yes, being shot by a laser beam doesn't sound very nice."

Soon after, we decided it was time to free the little clams. As we placed them back on the beach one by one, they dug their way back into the shore unscathed. When I noticed one that didn't seem to be moving at all, despite my nudging and re-positioning of it, I tried to decide if I should hide it from Ben or tell him that I thought the clam was dead. He spotted it before I had a chance to choose.

"That guy's not digging."

"I know, Ben, I think he might be dead."

"Or maybe he's just sleeping."

"Hm, maybe," I said cautiously as he continued to stare at the motionless clam.

"Yeah," he went on, getting more sure of himself. "Maybe he's just a hard core sleeper."

"HA!" This time, I couldn't help but laugh out loud at his choice of words. "Oh, I mean yeah, you're probably right. He's hard core. Let's tuck him in so no one eats him while he's sleeping," I suggested.

"Great idea, Mom. You're really nice."

I don't always have the answers to Ben's questions. But knowing he doesn't mind my digging around to get him to share them with me is enough. Maybe even enough for Ben.

Photo credit: Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission

Hilton Retirement Plan

I love watching Ben mature, yet every now and then he will come out with one of those statements that just underscores for me how his still-young brain works. We haven't been to the Berkshires since my father-in-law passed away last year, and decided it was time we took a ride up as a family. My mother-in-law recently moved to a senior living facility, and the kids love it there. Between the ping pong table, the swimming pool and the restaurant-style dining room, they are never bored. Ben, though, is still making the logistical adjustment in his brain from the old house they used to own to this new place. Tonight I threw him a curve. The last time this happened, the conversation was almost as funny.

Me: "Ben, be sure to get some rest. We don't want you to get sick because we're going to Grandma's house in Massachusetts this weekend."

Ben: "Wait, which house?"

Me: "The one with the tennis courts and the lake. Remember?"

Ben: "You mean the hotel with all the old people?"

Me: "No, that's her new apartment."

Ben: "Wait, you mean the one where we SLEEP OVER??"

Me: "That's the one!"

Ben: "Better take cover, Mom. I think my head's going to explode."

Lounge Lizard

When Jacob was born, he weighed six pounds and one ounce. That's about three-quarters of what a gallon of milk weighs. I can still remember when he was just a couple of weeks old, and we went to visit friends who had triplets. The triplets were exactly six months to-the-day older than Jacob. And they were HUGE. I remember looking at them and then looking at Jacob and thinking, I cannot believe my child will ever be that big. Ever. No way. Can't happen.

Well, last week Jacob discovered the Teen Lounge in our town. No, he's not a teenager yet, but on Mondays, the Lounge is open to kids entering 6th grade this fall. Having grown substantially since birth (which seems like, oh, last week), he was eager to check out this new 'tween scene. So I took some deep breaths to silence my heart palpitations, and said "of course I'll drive you there."

When we arrived, there were about 15 kids there already. Several were inside playing various games while others were spilling out the door onto the stairs. Great! I thought. Jacob isn't the only one here! Then he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Mom, I don't see any boys."

Neither did I.

I convinced Jacob to come inside anyway so we could look around and get some information. Outfitted with a bumper pool table, ping pong table, big screen television, couch, foozball and vending machine, the place was deemed 'cool' by Jacob. And the adult supervisor who registered him, checked him in and gave me the low-down and a list of rules for Jacob to study, made me think the same thing.

The question remained: stay or leave?

Jacob decided to stay, and asked if he could remain until closing at 10pm. I said he could, gave him my cell phone in case he changed his mind, then headed out before he had a chance.

On the way home, I tried to recall what it's like to be almost 11 years old, and when I remembered, I cringed at the thought of the social situations I often found myself in. Girls who knew more about the mechanics of girls' bodies than I (or at least sounded like they did), boys whose actions were mysterious, bizarre and contradictory, and me in the middle. Learning to relate to others was a very difficult process for me--the back and forth of relationships was something I would not fully grasp until many years later.

So in a way, I felt that games like ping pong, bumper pool and foozball were perfect vehicles for relating at this age. Children learn through play, after all, and my hope is that Jacob can learn to negotiate the delicate dance of social interaction by being in this environment. Instead of competing about who knows more about sex, or who has tried out which evil deed or web page, they can actually connect over friendly--and harmless--forms of competition. Innocent back-and-forth situations can help facilitate ones that are more complex.

When I picked him up later that night, he was grinning from ear to ear. We had a bit of chat with the supervisors, who praised him for his courage in staying with so many girls. Blushing, Jacob was tongue tied and, I daresay, speechless.

Considering the only time Jacob is speechless is when he's unconscious, I'm going to assume he had fun.

Hooked? Eh, Not So Much

When I was a kid, I would ride my bike down to the sound, bait my hook and fish for whatever would be interested in eating half a worm. It was fun, a great way to hang out with my cousins and pass the time on a summer day, and it's what kids do.

Or did.

This week, I ran into another mom friend at the lake, who was there with her two children, a boy and a girl. Her boy was fishing, and the mom was telling me that they'd just gotten back from Alaska, where her son had been fishing with his grandpa. Ben had been watching the young fisherman, and seemed keenly intrigued. When a fish was caught, he was thrilled to watch the process of reeling it in, unhooking and releasing it back into the lake. The boy asked if Ben would like to try it.

"Sure!" he squeaked. I grabbed half a worm and started to show him how to bait the hook.

"Uh, no Mom, you do it," he said, backing away with a grimace on his face. Jacob was soon beside his brother.

"Jacob, you can try after Ben is done," I suggested, trying to include him in the fun.

"No thanks. I don't believe in killing defenseless worms. I'll just watch," he said, also backing away.

What the heck? Do they not make kids like they used to? It's not like they were girls in crinoline dresses, shrieking at the site of worm guts. They're boys for pity's sake!

Fine.

I cast the line, handed the rod to Ben and we waited for all of 30 seconds. Then, he got a bite.

"Ooh! Reel it in!" I cheered.

Ben was thrilled as he pulled up a little sunny. Until it swung toward him.

"OK," I said, grabbing the line, "now let me show you how to hold him so we can get the hook out."

Needless to say, he wanted nothing to do with that part either.

I decided we would take it slowly, round up Dad in the coming weeks, take our rods, some hot dogs (for bait) and work up to the 'ick' factor as a family. Don't get me wrong: I'd love it if my kids grew to be environmentally conscious and caring about the animal world. But there are some things that kids just have to learn how to do, as rites of passage: ride a bike; swim; bait a hook, and remove a fish from said hook.

OK, I know I was a tomboy as a kid, but still. Am I expecting too much? Being overly nostalgic? Torturing my kids?

Insights welcome.

Swinger

You know how some kids, when they get hungry, get really cranky? Well, when Ben gets really hungry (as in, he's been watching cartoons so intently that he doesn't realize he's starving until I tell him to turn off the t.v. for the ninth time and come eat), he morphs into Satan's spawn. People tell me all the time how cute he is, and I tell them that it saves his life every day. They laugh. I'm not kidding.

Ben is a lover of structure. This is only a problem in summer, when schedules are more lax. We spend a lot of our days at the beach. But since no one ever wants to leave, we tend to get home later, eat later and go to bed later. All this sounds very relaxing, and it is, except for Ben.

Remember the movie The Exorcist? That scene where little Linda Blair's head turned completely around? That's Ben if he doesn't eat within an hour of waking up. Or when he has eschewed snacks and is waiting for dinner to be ready. I'll be standing at the stove cooking, and the conversation will go something like this:

Ben: "Mom, give me something to EAT!"

Me: "Excuse me? Ben, if you're hungry, eat a carrot. Dinner will be ready..."

Ben: "MOM, GIVE ME SOMETHING TO EAT NOW!!"

Jacob: "Ben, I'll peel carrots for both..."

Ben: "SHUT UP, JACOB!"

Me: "That's enough, Ben!"

Ben: "MOM, I JUST WANT SOMETHING TO EAT!!"

Yeah, that I get.

Having seen his intense mood swings, I cannot tell you how much I dread his teen years, now that I know how vicious, loud and mean he can be when a number of factors all come together at once. It's like the personification of a perfect storm.

How can you live like that? you might ask. It sounds like insanity! Yes, it is like that, and we yell a lot at each other when things get out of hand.

But then Ben eats, brushes his teeth, reads a story with me and asks me to lay in bed with him a while before he falls asleep. I tell him I need to jump in the shower first--for 15 or 20 minutes--to wash off the sand from the beach. When I'm done, I hear him calling me. I get dressed and go into his room.

Ben: "Mom, what took you so long?"

Me: "I was just drying off."

Ben: "Oh yeah. Sorry I rushed you."

Me: "That's OK."

Then I'll lay down next to him, and as he starts to drift off, he says things, things that are like little, open windows that let me peek into his brain.

"Mom, I never want to get married. I want to live with you forever."

and

"Mom, is this real life or a dream?"

and my favorite,

"I love you Mom. You're the perfect mom. It's like you were made just for me."

Though I joke about the tough moments and the challenges Ben throws at me, it's moments--and comments--like this that actually save my life every day.

Feed Your Head

There is a scene in Pixar's Monsters, Inc. movie when Boo, the little human girl, is returned to her bedroom after her big, scary, unexpected adventures in Monsteropolis. She runs giddily from toy to toy, handing each one to Sully, her monster friend, to share all of her excitement of being back among her own things. It's a great scene, and I saw it play out in real life this weekend when Jacob returned home from sleepaway camp.

Gone for a week into the woods with the Boy Scouts, he hiked, went whitewater rafting, picked blueberries at the top of a mountain, swam in the lake, and did all those outdoorsy, boy things that boys do when they camp in the woods. No phones, computers or video games. No nagging mom or annoying brother. It was a 10-year-old's version of Heaven.

Until he got home. Tired, dirty, happy to be back in 'civilization' (i.e. where the microwave is), he moved from his books to his LEGOs to his piano to his Pokemon card collection to his video gaming magazines as if he'd been gone a year. He read the whole week's stack of newspaper comics that we'd saved for him. He played with the dog. He watched SpongeBob.

I've always been fascinated by Jacob's interest in, well, everything. Since infancy, he's been a sponge, soaking up everything from math to computer animation, from science to singing solos on stage. His interests are wide and varied, and he manages to balance them all. After a week of feeding his physical, outdoor, nature-focused self, he came home to feed his head. Reading, writing, playing piano, building with LEGOs. He did it all, and all before he'd been home for two full days.

He seems more mature than he did when he went away. I wonder how much of it is a new perspective on his place in the family, having been away from us for longer than he's ever been, and how much of it is a new perspective on himself. Perhaps it's a bit of both, having learned how to feed all of his passions, body and mind, and find contentment at home when he was through. Even with a nagging mom and annoying brother around.

Summer Slide

Summer is that carefree time of year when kids dream of doing nothing for days on end, and parents can sit around thinking of ways to make them work. After 10 months of cramming their brains with more information than they'll ever be able to use in one lifetime, my sons are ready to bike ride, play at the lake, swim with friends, play video games and veg out. But I have to be careful, apparently, to avoid the 'summer slide.'

It sounds like a water ride, like something fun. In fact it's just a term crazy, type-A parents developed to describe the actual relaxation of their children's brains over the summer months. Fearing their brilliant offspring will forget everything but their first names once they're out of school, parents send their kids to tutors, summer classes, and have workbooks out for daily summer drilling.

I, on the other hand, prefer to give my kids ways to think outside the classroom that's actually fun. Figuring out what animals the clouds look like. Helping me measure ingredients for making cookies. Stirring the Jello in the hot water and pontificating on what makes it melt. Picking out dinner recipes and then calculating how much of each ingredient we'll need if we are cutting the recipe in half.

This led me to start thinking along other lines, and I came up with what type of food each of my kids would be. Ben, who will throw a tantrum when told he can't have a milkshake with his cupcake, will--if ignored--tell me minutes later how much he loves me while making a ridiculous face in my rear-view mirror. Or he will yell at his brother for taking his magazine in the car, and then when Jacob says "I'm bored," will suggest they fight. Then he'll close his eyes and wave both hands up and down like he's ready to have a slap-battle all by himself, making his brother and me burst out laughing.

So I would say that if he were a food, Ben would be a sweet and sour meatball.

Jacob is a bit tougher. He doesn't wear his emotions on his sleeve the way his brother does. He'll walk around looking pensive, but ask him what's on his mind and he'll say 'nothing.' He's a big fan of bland textures and flavors, but has days when he'll burst into song, or try a new food or task without being asked. There's a lot more to him than meets the eye, and I'm always walking a fine line between over- and under-estimating him. But he's also very even keel, without the illogical outbursts his brother subjects me to on a daily basis.

Yes, I decided, Jacob is a plain donut with strawberry jelly inside. Average looking on the outside, but hiding much more than you'd expect on the inside.

OK, so I guess we're doing more 'thinking outside the ice-box' than really getting creative. My kids' brains may slide this summer, but at least they'll have lots of fun stories to share when they go back to school.

The Hope for Wide Horizons

I've always been proud of the fact that my kids don't have any cavities. Part of it, I know, is because oral hygiene is very important in our house, and the boys do a good job of brushing every day, go to the dentist regularly and don't drink soda. But with Jacob, my starch-a-holic, I figured it was partly because flour doesn't cause cavities, and that's pretty much all he eats, in one form or another.

So I was thrilled when the dentist referred Jacob to an orthodontist. (Bear with me. I'll explain.)

After many x-rays, photos and probing of Jacob's mouth, the orthodontist informed me that he was going to solve all of my problems with my finicky eater: he was going to expand his palate. At least, that's what I chose to hear when he told me Jacob would need a palate expander.

When he saw the look of appreciation on my face, I think he realized he was going to have to elaborate because I was obviously missing something.

"His upper jaw is too narrow, so some of his adult teeth don't have room to come in. This appliance will widen the jaw, allow more space in his mouth for the teeth to move down, and then they'll push out the remaining baby teeth."

Darn.

I still hold out hope that someday, when someone uses the words "appliance" and "mouth" in the same sentence when referring to Jacob, they'll be describing our empty refrigerator, due to Jacob's incredible appetite and eating habits. Though I guess I should be careful what I wish for. When the palate expander comes out, Jacob may very well have new adult teeth, a bigger smile and a sudden craving for a corned beef sandwich. And pickles. And meatloaf. And salad. And cheeseburgers.

From my lips to my butcher's ears.

Mom Magic

Ben is part turtle. Have I mentioned this? If he stays up late, I have to wake him in the morning, and watch as his head retreats from his pillow, disappearing under the mounds of blanket shell on his bed. This is usually just a winter problem, but rainy school days are a close second when it comes to not wanting to get up.

Wednesday morning he was a snapping turtle: when I lovingly whispered, "Ben, honey, time to get up," I was greeted with "Mom, get OUT!" before his vanishing act. He didn't even open his eyes.

I could hear the rain beating on the roof. The thermometer said it was 48 degrees outside. Inside, I was thankful that I didn't have to go anywhere. In fact, I could even go back to bed after the kids left if I wanted to. That is to say, I felt his pain. So I knew that if I was going to get Ben out of bed, it was going to take bribery.

My husband likes to try to tempt Ben with a race: who can get dressed faster? Sometimes he'll ask Ben to feed some scraps to Bailey the dog, something Ben loves to do. But this morning, Ben was unresponsive to any and all attempts to lure him.

It was time to pull out the big guns.

Usually, when it comes to bribing Ben, all you need is something sweet. But it was also rainy and cold, so it would have to be something sweet and warm. Honey Combs weren't going to cut it, and neither was peanut butter on toast. No, it was time for GIANT PANCAKES WITH SYRUP.

Of course, with 30 minutes until the bus and Ben still under the covers, there was no time for even Bisquick. So I pulled out some big, fluffy pancakes I had made on the weekend and froze for just such an occasion. Four minutes in the toaster oven, and breakfast was served.

He chowed, I packed his lunch, he brushed his teeth, I gathered his coat and shoes and he was out the door right on time with a smile on his face and a big hug for me.

Yes, it was a shortcut. But like all moms, I choose my battles and cut corners where necessary. And I learned long ago that, with Ben, when the going gets tough, it helps to have a sweet trick up your sleeve to get the tough going.

Funny thing is, I was never much of a magician until I became a mom. I guess discovering new things about yourself is just one more part of the magic of parenthood.

Dessert Police

When I was a kid, cookies were always kept in the house. Sunshine Hydrox, my dad's favorite, never ran out, and much to the delight of my brother and me, were kept in an easy-access cupboard. Maybe my mom thought this would promote our self-restraint. After all, we knew the rules: dessert AFTER dinner. Only TWO cookies apiece. Got it.

But once I became a teenager and life got harder, nabbing four (or five or six) Hydrox cookies after school or after dinner (or both) seemed to help my mood. Not that it helped my teeth--they were filled with cavities before I went to college. The lesson I learned was that you can't keep sweets in my house and expect me to have any restraint.

Today, I try to impart to my children the lesson I *should* have learned. That is, we have a limit of two cookies because more than that is unhealthy for your teeth and your body. This is why we don't get dessert every night, and when we do, it's usually a small treat. Some might say I'm pretty strict about desserts today. (OK, maybe just my kids would say that.) But I'm starting to think they have good reason.

One recent evening at a scout meeting, snack time rolled around. One of the dads was in charge this week, and he put a package of individual cookie packs on the table that was surrounded by eight or nine kids. The package had Nutter Butters, Oreos and Chips Ahoy cookie packs in it, and I think it was expected that each boy would take one package. Notice, I say "expected" and not instructed.

I watched as my son took a package of Oreos (six cookies to a pack), each of the other boys also took a package, and then some also grabbed a second. One actually was stuffing the first pack in his mouth and had two more packages in front of him. His mom was chatting with the other moms, and I wouldn't be surprised if his goal was to eat as many cookies as he could before being discovered and stopped. He is seven, after all.

Once I got Ben to give up his Oreo pack after we negotiated that he could have three cookies, I went around the table and told all the other boys "one package per scout." When they protested, I turned to the room of moms and said, in a voice that I thought was rhetorical, "Hey Moms, would any of you object to your boys eating 10 to 12 cookies tonight?"

They kind of hemmed and hawed, but no one really answered.

Maybe they didn't get my joke. Maybe their not as fanatic about dessert rules as I am. But I was surprised to get barely a reaction to my question, and so I told the boys "one package each unless your mom tells you differently," and left it at that.

Don't get me wrong. I'm sure Ben would have eaten as many packages of cookies as he could have if I hadn't been standing there, and would later have complained of a stomach ache. But That's OK. I'll take the 'bad mommy' rap now, if it means that my kids will learn self-restraint, and that I can be there to point out when they exhibit it. Maybe I'm depriving them of cookies, but I hope I'm giving them some useful tools in their stead.

If nothing else, it means less vomit for me to clean up while they're young.

It's A Grill Thing

I've come to believe that kids are born knowing things instinctively, and adults later prove them correct through research studies and testing that requires a lot of money. Take grilled meat, for instance. My kids--carnivores both--have an aversion to any meat cooked this way. They love hot dogs, cheeseburgers, steak and sausage. Unless it's cooked on the grill. Then, they're asking for leftover pasta instead.

At first I thought maybe it was the smoky flavor they objected to, making the food taste, well, different from what it usually tasted like. But on further interrogation, it turns out they don't like the grill marks. This is not a visual thing; they don't like the charred flavor that grilled meat takes on, and any sign of grill marks will send them running for a knife and some ketchup. Jacob sometimes refuses outright to eat grilled food.

"Great," I thought, "another day in the life of irrationally picky eaters." But as it turns out, apparently they know something I didn't: that eating a lot of grilled meat actually increases our risk of getting cancer.

I'm not saying my kids are brilliant, or even that this isn't coincidence. But Ben has eschewed processed food since he was born, and would rather eat a bowl of steamed spinach than a plate of onion rings or chicken nuggets. Like most busy moms, having ready-made foods that don't take long to cook is something I've come to rely on. When you're rushing from piano lessons to boy scouts, and picking up kids at tennis and wiffle ball, the one thing you always run out of is time. Unfortunately, for most families that lost time is taken from time spent on meal preparation. So we cut corners on the very fuel our kids need to do their best in all of these activities.

What it means to me is that I need to budget my time better. That way, I can do all the things I need to do during the day, including smart, healthy meal planning.

Parents complain about their kids' eating habits, but maybe our kids are really trying to tell us something important. What makes my picky eaters easier to live with is this: the foods they are turning up their noses at are actually the foods that aren't really that good for them anyway.

Well, except for dessert. Hey, they are kids, after all.

Teething Pain

When I was a kid, I never really gave my teeth any thought unless they were loose, missing or had something stuck in them. But these days, it seems my life is all about teeth: loose ones, missing ones, prizes to exchange for missing ones, crooked ones that need orthodontia, impacted ones that will hopefully correct themselves after the orthodontia, etc. etc.

Thankfully, none of them are mine.

Anyone who has read this blog in the past knows the suffering I endured at the hands (or rather, mouth) of Ben when he had his first loose tooth. My chowhound couldn't chow, and life was a tragedy for at least two weeks. I was this close to pulling it myself, just to put me out of Ben's misery.

Now, six months later, the saga continues. Both of Ben's top, front teeth have been loosening simultaneously for some time. He wiggles them with his hands and his tongue, but does all his biting and chewing on the side of his mouth. The tension mounted more every day with fear of the swallowing, hurting or bleeding of said teeth. That is, until Friday.

Friday evening, just before his dad and I were to go out, Ben pulled me aside to tell me "something private" and held out one of the teeth. Hooray! We're halfway done. I gave him a hug, helped him wrap it up and told him to put it under his pillow for the tooth fairy. Then I went to a party. Ben was very happy with his new dollar bill the next day.

Later Saturday, we went to my brother's house for another party, kids in tow. After playing outside for a while, Ben came inside and pulled me aside yet again. But he had no tooth in his hand this time.

"It fell out in the grass and I can't find it," he said with obvious worry over his potentially lost reward from you-know-who. Did I reassure him that it would be fine, that the tooth fairy understands about these things happening? Yes. Did I then go back to chatting with my family? Er, not exactly.

Instead, my husband, my mother, Ben, his cousins and I went out to the back yard, located the general vicinity in which he had been playing when the tooth came out ("I was in the grass"--great), and spent a good 15 minutes looking for an itty bitty baby tooth. You'd be amazed how many tiny, white pebbles-that-look-like-itty-bitty-baby-teeth are in my brother's back yard. I certainly was. And I had to laugh at how ironic I found the whole situation, considering that this is the kid who kept biting me during his breastfeeding days. It felt like CSI: Motherhood.

In the end, we didn't find the tooth, but Ben got his reward anyway. Some might say I went way overboard and that I should have let Ben deal with this small disappointment, a natural part of life. But I like to think that, by putting in a real effort in response to his distress--regardless of how hopeless we knew the search was--we taught him that his family is here for him in times of trouble. Hopefully he learned that we will take his pain seriously, and even if we can't fix it we will do what we can to make him feel better.

Disappointment--like teeth--will come and go, but family is forever. Hopefully, that knowledge will always help ease the stings in his life.

Celebrating Heritage

They say there are two kinds of people in the world: Irish, and those who wish they were Irish. On St. Patrick's Day every year, when I was growing up, I would listen to my uncles tell the story of the night I was born. It was during the blizzard of '67, and in Yonkers--which is full of hills--there was no way to get the cars to the hospital. Everything got stuck in the snow, so my mom's brothers all walked to the hospital. Being of Irish descent, they were all eager to greet the St. Patrick's Day baby who was on the way. They ate terribly stale sandwiches from the vending machines, calmed my soon-to-be dad, and whiled away the hours in anticipation.

I showed up at 2a.m. on the 18th.

To this day, I refuse to be late for anything, and assure my family that I planned my birthday as such because I have never liked corned beef and cabbage. As a result, I always got to eat spaghetti and meatballs on St. Patrick's Day, while the rest of my family happily shared the traditional meal. And there was nothing my uncles could do about it but tell me the disappointing story of my birth, again and again, throughout my entire childhood.

Now that I've grown, I forgive them for torturing me. Mainly because it's such a good story.

For some interesting history on the rest of the Irish, check out USARiseUp.com.

Cheers!

Ah. NOW I Get It

DanseDance from Julien Vallée on Vimeo.

This is a great visual example of what writer's block can feel like. It's also a great way to explain to others what ADD feels like.

Security Breach

We got Bailey, our Golden Lab/Retriever mix, two years ago this month. Since then, he has become like our third child. So I decided it was time to start being a bad mother to him as well. After all, I didn't want him to feel left out, comparing himself to his brothers Ben and Jacob all the time.

To do this, I accepted a volunteer position at my local library for two mornings a week. To keep things fair (after all, the children came first), I sent the children back to school yesterday, after a 10-day vacation, but I didn't make Bailey suffer until today. After a brisk walk with my neighbor and his Beagle, with whom Bailey is good buddies, I brought Bailey inside, changed into work clothes and left for three hours.

He may have taken this as a personal insult, as I usually spend my days with him in the house. If I'm up and down the stairs doing laundry, he shadows me. If I am working on the computer, he sleeps curled up against the heater right behind my chair. Heaven help him when I go to the bathroom, because he seems convinced that there is another exit from the house in there; he cries and whines relentlessly from the time I close the door until he can see me again.

But my dog doesn't handle insults the way some do. Other dogs might pee on the furniture, lay on my bed or rip up my tablecloth while I was gone. Not Bailey. Bailey instead becomes very insecure. (Clearly there is no cat DNA in him.) First, he took the doggie pillow he sleeps on and twisted it up by swinging it around with his mouth. Then he humped it across the room. (Don't ask me how I know this. You'll just have to trust me.) After that he dragged his wool blanket downstairs to the front door. And finally, when I got back home, he ran and brought two different toys to me before I had even taken off my coat.

What is the answer? Quit the job? Doggie Prozac? I say nay to both. Call me selfish, but for the first time in over a decade, I'm going to relish the feeling of being fully appreciated, sorely missed and warmly welcomed when I come home. I'll reassure him by playing catch with him and taking him for a walk, and I'll give him lots of attention.

And then I'll throw throw his doggie bed in the wash.

Color Me Happy

Ben: "Mom, if oranges are called 'oranges,' why aren't lemons called 'yellows' and limes called 'greens'?"

Me: "That is an excellent question, Ben. What should we call bananas, strawberries and apples then?"

Ben: (silence) "Hm. I'm going to have to think on that one a bit."

I Heart You

Call me old-fashioned. Because that may be the reason I just don't get all of this "it's so hard to find true love" talk that swirls at this time of year. Books, articles, Valentine's Day haters, bitter singles--it seems everyone spends today pontificating on the elusive, indefinable, different-for-everyone state of true and lasting love. The divorce rate is off the charts.

What's the answer? Are there just no more perfect mates out there anymore? Are all the good ones truly taken?

I say no. In fact, if everyone would read and follow this blog entry, there'd be a lot more perfect mates out there. That's because I've got the fix for everyone. Call it the Atkins Diet for love. Three simple rules.

Ready?

1) Always be respectful of your partner. Treating someone with respect, even when you're mad at them or disagree with them or are frustrated with them, is not easy. OK, it actually stinks. Because you're forcing yourself to argue without being petty, mean, spiteful or cruel. But here's the thing. By working hard to do it anyway, you are being a better person. This argument will soon end, but your relationship will continue. Your partner will probably forget all about the argument down the road, but will remember how you treated them. Make that a good memory.

2) Give more than half. Keeping score of whose turn it is to scrub the toilets, who needs to apologize and who washed the dishes last time is a crumy way to live. Maybe if you're living with a slacker college roommate, it needs to be addressed. If that's the case, use a job chart. As for love, think of it this way: if you were alone you'd have to do these things all the time by yourself. So if you had to wash the dishes four times this week and your partner only did it three times, that's still three times less for you. Be appreciative. If you disagreed during an argument, chances are you both have room for improvement. Apologize. Maybe you did more laundry this week, but your mate took out the trash and cleaned up the dog vomit. Say thank you. And then let it go.

3) Don't hold grudges. Holding grudges is like going to bed without brushing your teeth. The yuck seeps down inside and starts doing damage. The longer it's in there, the more unhealthy you become. Did you know that tooth decay can kill you? In the same slow, painful way, grudges and resentment can kill a relationship. Take the high road. When the issue is resolved, leave the past in the past. You'll both be better for it.

That's it. Three rules. What could be easier? But, like love, by following these rules, you give a little but reap so much more. Kindness begets kindness. Being respectful inspires respect.

Life is hard. That's why it's so great to have a partner to help you through it. If you can let the little, petty things go, all that's left are the big things that keep us together.

And, as that Little Rascal Alfalfa once said oh-so-poignantly, that's what love is all about.

On The Fence

As Jacob moves closer to adolescence, his behavior has become something I liken to climbing a fence.

Some days, he's still on this side. He wants me with him constantly: when he's brushing his teeth, he wants me in the bathroom with him. When he's done in the shower, he wants me to towel and blow dry his hair for him (he likes the warmth). At bedtime, he wants me to tuck him in and sit with him a while to talk about his day's trials and tribulations.

But other days, as he tries out the other side of the fence, I am an embarrassment, an albatross, an annoyance. Lately, for example, if I am singing along to a catchy tune on the radio while making dinner, rather than sing along with me as he used to, or even smirking at me, he will throw me a "get over yourself, Mom" look. It's a visual version of giving snaps, as if he wonders why I bother, for my voice could never trump his. A look that says I should know better than to show such displays in my kithen (forget about outside the house!), that I should just stick to cooking and leave the singing to him.

Unless he does something that is outright rude, in these situations I usually laugh at him or sing even louder. But this week, perhaps fueled by his performance at the school Variety Show (and the accolades that followed from friends and strangers), he envisions himself as the next Michael Buble, and actually had the nerve to tell me to stop singing.

'Tween or not, hormones or no hormones, I gave it right back to him.

"Dude, who do you think *gave* you that set of pipes, that rhythm, that musical ability you love so much? Toys 'R' Us? Noooo. Your dad? Noooo. He couldn't carry a tune if you put it in a backpack. It was ME, boy, singing to you even before you were born, using ASL to sign the words of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to you as a baby, paying for your piano lessons and showing you how to place your hands on the keyboard. All RIGHT then!" Now it was my turn to give snaps.

OK, so when I step back, I understand this is just the beginnings of Jacob's budding independence, his need to feel separate yet capable, confident and talented. And as a kid, it's all about putting himself above others to prove to himself he really does have worth.

I concede that maybe sometimes I respond more like a kid than necessary. Perhaps it makes me sad to think of my little boy growing up. But I find that, as he climbs that fence between childhood and adolescence, turning occasionally to throw rocks at me down on the ground, that this is the best way to get my point across to him. And if I can make both of us laugh in the process, hopefully I can slow his journey just a little bit, and the climb won't be any harder than it has to be, for either of us.

I'm With Cupid

There's something about the mystery of children that I love. Now I know some of you are saying, "mystery? What are you talking about? Kids are as transparent as puppies!" And maybe that's it. They are undying in their devotion, can't get enough of their mother's love and attention, and no matter how many times she yells at them, they remain unfazed and attached.

This, of course, only adds to the gobs of guilt that moms get to carry home, along with their baby, when they leave the hospital. One would think that, as we become more proficient in our roles as parents, the guilt would begin to dissipate. One would be wrong.

This guilt grows as our children grow, magnifying our imperfections like the flourescent lights in a women's changing room. Sometimes it's brought on when they cry over something we've said to them, like, "no." Conversely, it's also brought on when they accept what we say blindly, demonstrating their faith and trust in us, thus leaving us to our late-night brooding sessions (to replace the sleepless nights we had when they were babies), the ones in which we wonder endlessly whether we are damaging our children for life, and how much.

Even when we are acting with love, we blow it. Take today for instance. I wanted to blog about my kids' unending well of love, and the wonderful Valentine's Day card Ben made for me. I decided to take a picture of it to post with this entry. He heard the camera clicking and came in to the room asking, "Mom, what are you doing?"

"I'm taking a picture," I said, realizing at that moment that I may be doing something that wouldn't be well-received.

"Of WHAT?" he asked as he got closer. There was no hiding now.

"Of the beautiful Valentine's Day card that you made for me!" I said cheerily.

The tears started flowing and he cried out about what a terrible thing I had done. I had read it before Valentine's Day, and now it was 'ruined' and Ben would have to make a whole new one. And this one had taken him "like, FIFTY minutes to make!"

I tried to soothe him with, "It's OK, Honey, it's for my blog!" but he was completely uninterested in my motives.

Sigh. I swallowed my guilt, apologized and offered him some pink construction paper, glue and glitter in the hopes of inspiring some creativity (and yes, distracting him from his dismay).

It worked, he seems unscathed, and a new Valentine has been created, even before dinner is ready. Perhaps it's just youthful innocence, short attention span or a love of art. But I prefer to think of it as more evidence of that undying love which, guilt aside, will always remain a mystery to me.

Snob? I Wouldn't Say That

OK, I'm a writer, right? So friends send me things they've written and ask me to look them over, edit, proof and maybe spruce them up. It's something I'm proud of, as I do this in daily life (though I try not to do it when it's unsolicited), so to be asked makes me feel a little less like I'm being a word snob and more like my editing skills are valued. After all, everyone needs to read and write. Like any endeavor, don't we want to do so to the best of our abilities?

Apparently not.

I'm not talking about fifth graders here, or even adults with limited educational opportunities. I'm talking about professional adults in finance companies, college students who edit literary magazines and graduate students in writing programs in charge of the quarterly newsletters.

"Mr. X spoke with your wife whom stated..."

"It donned on me that if we want to encourage..., than it would be good to..."

"In this vain, we felt a strong..."

Commas where there should be periods. Capitalized words that should be lower case. Misspelled contributors' names in the table of contents. And these are just a few examples.

Am I being too nitpicky?

I suppose I'm really lamenting the decline of the publishing industry, with so many good writers and editors being let go in the name of saving money. Books aren't being published, not because they have no literary merit, but because they won't be blockbuster sellers with movie options. Newspapers are thinner, their articles more likely to contain errors (I've seen many as I am still a daily subscriber).

Perhaps this is a testament to the disorder of our priorities as a society. "It's only worthwhile if it makes money." "Quantity, not quality, is what matters most." It really seems that literacy is going the way of the payphone. With email, texts and tweets being the most common ways news is passed from person to person, is it any wonder we don't care about spelling or grammar anymore? Too many characters to worry about! Just get the jist of your message across!

Don't get me wrong. I love the new technologies that enable us to access and send information from anywhere in the world. It is now possible for even the laymen, in addition to paid writers and journalists, to share their words and messages with thousands of people at once. But to me, that's just one more reason why the message should be legible and accurate.