Truth And Consequences (or) Ode On A Dithering Mom

Keats may have said that beauty is truth, but I take issue with whether truth is beauty. Especially after reading a memoir by my ten-year-old this week. Granted, memoir to a fifth grader is a fuzzy concept. Let's just say he took a lot of artistic license.

This was part of "curriculum hour" in Jacob's classroom, where parents are led around to view the various tools and topics their progeny are engaged with during a typical school day. Let me tell you, there is nothing like a day in the life of your fifth grader to deliver a crushing blow to your previous sense of intellectual superiority. It turns out I'm actually not smarter than a fifth grader, at least when it comes to the latest technology. And science? I may be able to spell buoyancy, but don't ask me to define its principle.

But then Jacob shared his writing folder with me, including his journals, memoirs and fiction pieces. This was what I had been waiting for, and I enjoyed his descriptions of campouts, contests and other experiences he'd had. But the one that he had typed up on fancy paper for me to take home (and frame?) was called Rings on a Pillow. It was his memory of the day he was a ring bearer in my cousin's wedding three and a half years ago.

It began impressively with a building sense of anticipation prior to the ceremony, a great alliteration about the sound of his shoes hitting the floor as he walked down the aisle, and the crowd of hundreds with all eyes on him. I beamed with pride when I read how "the bride was dithering over the groom's tie." What fifth grader uses a word like dithering? Surely, he'll be a writer one day, I smiled to myself.

And then I got to the next paragraph, where he talked about me. I read his description of me wiping my "teary red eyes with a hankie." Red eyes? It sounds devilish, or at least very unattractive, although I conceded to myself that he was going for a visual image. But the next line was like a smack across my head:

"My loud-mouthed, hard-to-please mom smiled."

Now wait just a cotton-pickin' minute. Did he read this to the class? Did he get any feedback from his teacher? What, exactly, ran through her head when she read that line? And how am I supposed to hold my head up at the next parent-teacher conference?

But worst of all, is this how Jacob really sees me? Loud-mouthed? Hard to please? Just because I don't let him play LEGOs from the moment he gets home until bed time, but actually make him do homework, practice piano and eat vegetables? Indeed, if that's the case, there is no beauty in truth. At least not when you're ten.

I'm going to tell myself that he did this for effect, to illustrate that an 'ear-to-ear smile' is not something I flash every day, but that the wedding was a special occasion.

And you can be sure that we'll be having a little talk about his writing, when I'll promise him free editing services on any future works he produces--especially memoirs--from now until I die.

Hopefully he'll accept, thus preventing what would surely be my premature death by mortification.

Keeping It Simple

I want to be in second grade again. This week, Ben's second-grade class filled up their "warm fuzzy jar." This jar is in the classroom, and every time someone in the class does something nice for someone else--helps out, offers sympathy, shares--the teacher puts a cotton ball in the jar. I know. How cool, right?

Wait. It gets better.

The jar was finally filled this week, which earned the children a special treat: a pajama breakfast party. Parents all contributed something: waffles, chocolate chips, strawberries, whipped cream, syrup and milk. The kids were instructed to wear their pajamas to school.

I don't know which had Ben more excited: the waffles and chocolate chips, or being able to wear his pajamas to school. I often call him 'Hughy' for Hugh Hefner, because if I let him, he would never get out of his pjs. He is a homebody through and through, so the idea of combining his favorite breakfast with all his school friends and a day in his pjs gave him good dreams for over a week.

Today was the day. Ben got up, took off his footie pajamas and put on his long underwear and fleece pjs over them. He took his vitamin, drank his orange juice and brushed his teeth, and didn't even ask for breakfast (he was building his appetite). When it was time to go, he grabbed his backpack, gave me a big kiss, and hurried down the stairs gushing, "I'm SO excited!!" I honestly think he was vibrating with anticipation.

And that's what being seven years old is all about, right? Do your best to be kind to others, and get rewarded with food and warmth. Actually, maybe that's what life is all about. Be kind. Help others. And every now and then, reward yourself with the simple things that feed your soul.

Yummy on every level.

The Change of Life

I am an inappropriate crier. I cry at weddings (real and movie), as well as at Hallmark commercials, videos of my kids when they were babies and sappy songs on the radio. But I don't cry after reading books. At least, not lately.

This, apparently, is a problem. I can hide behind "hormones" or "I'm just a big mush" when it comes to the first examples. But when everyone in my book group cries at the end of a book and I don't, eyebrows go up.

"You didn't cry?"

"Really?"

"What do you mean you didn't cry? Did you at least feel like crying?"

"Er, no, not really."

They look at each other and wonder how I got into this club. I can see their minds going, wondering what kind of cold-hearted, unfeeling biotch I am to have not cried at the end of this story. I actually consider lying and saying that I did, in fact, cry.

But the thing is, I used to cry at the end of books. When I was younger, and romantic stories showed me how love is supposed to be, what wonderful men were out there just waiting to fall in love with me, I cried. Mostly because my parents thought I was too young to date and therefore I had no way to meet these young princes, but still. The point is, I cried.

Until I became a writer.

Maybe this made me colder and more calculating when it came to words. I subconsiously read stories and think, "ooh, good line," or "no, that's not plausible after all we know about this character." Mostly, though, I think, "this could have been done better."

Granted, I'm not saying I could have done it better. OK, sometimes I feel like I could have. The point is, I no longer read stories purely for the emotional reaction they cause in me. I read them to learn how to write better. Or in some cases, how not to write.

So maybe this is not the book group for me. Maybe I belong in a book group made up of all writers, and our goal could be the same: find the formulas, the holes, the things that work so we can use them ourselves.

Or maybe I should just keep an onion near my nightstand when I am finishing a book. At least then I won't have to lie.

FreePhotos.com

Dog Days

Ben: "Mom, there are three reasons Bailey's lucky to be a dog, and three reasons he's unlucky."

Me: "Oh yeah? Why is he lucky?"

Ben: "One, he doesn't have to go to school. Two, he doesn't have to do homework. And three, he gets to stay home with his mom all day."

Me: "Hm, yes, I guess that is pretty nice. But why is he unlucky?"

Ben: "Well, he can't talk so if he's hungry or has to pee, all he can do is whine. Also, he only gets to see his friends if you take him to a playdate. And three, he doesn't have opposable thumbs."

Me: "All true, Ben. So which would you rather be? A dog or a kid?"

He's still thinking about it.

Author, Author!

Ask anyone who reads voraciously what is most exciting to them, and they will likely say, 'discovering a new author to love.' The same goes for me. Finding a poet or novelist who affects, me to the point that I put off everything else to spend time with his or her works, ranks right up there with finding $20 in a coat from last winter and getting an unexpected vacation day.

OK, so it doesn't take much to get me going. But it's also difficult for me to find such writers. I recently discovered Westchester author Jonathan Tropper thanks to an interview I heard on public radio. Tropper was promoting his most recent novel, This Is Where I Leave You, and I found myself laughing out loud at the excerpts being read over the airwaves. I jotted down the title at a red light and later joined the long line of people on a waiting list to borrow it from the library.

It was worth the wait.

The book is a sharp, funny page-turner, but the characters have depth and emotion. Their family's dysfunction is award-level, yet they approach their relationships matter-of-factly, with frankness and humor. Early in the book, Judd, the main character, describes his brother Phillip:

Phillip is our youngest brother, born nine years after me. It's hard to understand my parents' procreational logic. Wendy, Paul, and me, all within four years, and then Phillip, almost a decade later, slapped on like an awkward coda. He is the Paul McCartney of our family: better-looking than the rest of us, always facing a different direction in pictures, and occasionally rumored to be dead.

Their father has just died, and Judd's sister Wendy says of Phillip,

"I've left messages at all his last known numbers. On the off chance he plays them, and he's not in jail, or stoned, or dead in a ditch, there's every reason to believe that there's a small possibility he'll show up."

Besides zipping through the book, I recommended it to several friends, added it to my shopping cart at Amazon.com, and reserved some of Tropper's other books at the library.

The best part about such a discovery is this: these books take me back to the wondrous world of reading I first experienced as a child, when I spent endless hours losing myself in books. Reality would fade away, and I'd wonder, worry, laugh and cry with the characters in my books. We'd find wrinkles in time, discover hidden worlds through wardrobes, unearth secret gardens. Anything was possible, and in my favorite authors' hands, I felt safe.

Such an experience is the epitome of childhood imagination. Finding it again as an adult is, in my mind, nothing short of magic.

To Do Today: Eat

When I was young (I found out much later), my parents were worried that I had an eating disorder. I preferred white food overall (milk, pasta, rice, bread, crackers) and produce passed my lips rarely and often against my will. It's a wonder I reached average height, in my opinion. Of course to me, food was not something I thought about unless I was hungry. There was always a book to be read, a diary to write in, a cousin outside waiting to play. Food was a necessity, but I gave it little more thought than the air I breathed.

So I shouldn't be surprised that the apple...OK, the noodle...doesn't fall far from the tree in my house. Jacob is my parents' revenge on me, doing to me exactly what I unknowingly did to them.

Cereal for breakfast. Bagel for lunch. Pasta for dinner. No juice, milk. Dessert? SURE! Fruit? Veggies? Eh, not so much.

Lately, Jacob has been bringing home just about his entire lunch from school. Apple intact, bagel whole, sans one bite. Milk money and dessert are gone (no surprise), and it pains me. How does he get through the day without eating?? How will he grow if he doesn't eat?

I ask him and get no answer other than "I ran out of time," or "I wasn't that hungry." So I ask other moms.

"They are so busy chatting that the 25 minutes they get for lunch disappears before they realize it! My kid does the same thing!"

Ah.

So there it is: we're moving into the 'tween years, when socializing takes precedence over eating, and relating and navigating the social order is more of a necessity than food. Like in my youth, food is important when I want it, but otherwise eating is a poor use of time.

I understand it. But oh, how different things look from this new perspective of adulthood.

Chew On This

The second saddest thing in the world is the foodie who can't eat anything with his usual exuberance because he's got his first, hyper-sensitive loose tooth. The saddest thing is that this tooth has arrived right before his birthday, limiting what would be the usual, yummy celebratory nosh options.

And the most frustrated person in the world would be me, trying to figure out what to do for dinner on Ben's birthday tomorrow that won't cause him pain yet will still be fun.

More than that, I'm trying to calm his fears each day. What if I swallow my tooth? Will the tooth fairy use her wand to get it out of my stomach? Will it hurt? Will my tooth bleed when it falls out? What if I lose it? What if it doesn't come out until Christmas? What if it falls out at someone else's house and I can't find it? Will the tooth fairy still give me a Bakugan? (Yes, the tooth fairy gives a small toy if preferred in this house. We just shoot her an email before bed, and Mommy keeps a stash of favorite toys on hand for emergencies).

But I must admit that, when the rest of us are worrying about the recession, job security and terrorism, it's nice to know there are a few fears that we can help alleviate. Especially when all it takes is some chocolate cupcakes and pretty sprinkles.

No Better Praise

OK, I admit it. I'm not a planner. I'm more of a go-with-what-feels-right, see-what-comes-up kinda gal. That's all well and good until it's your kid's birthday and two weeks before, you still haven't figured out a party day, location or guest list.

Thankfully, this year the movie makers helped me out by turning one of Ben's favorite books into a movie, and then releasing it two weeks before his birthday.

Six kids, bottomless popcorn buckets, a family restaurant complete with games and gelato across the street, and a rainy Sunday turned out to the the perfect way to celebrate turning seven.

Hyped up on sugar, snacks and excitement, Ben was a bit beside himself when it was all over, and rather quiet during the car ride home. But after a few minutes of silence (which I realized later was quiet reflection on all the festivities), he said, "Today was a great day."

Whew.

Next year I'll start planning earlier. Definitely.

Sanctuary

Ben, in the bathroom: "Mom! I have something ksalhfgjfk."

Me: "You have what?"

Ben, walking out of bathroom: "I have something to free...Oops. It flew away."

Me: Sigh.

Bugs love our house. My husband is a huge fan of nature shows, and my boys are big fans of, well, bugs. If they do catch a bugger in the house, they take it to the nearest door and sing Born Free while releasing it. We don't even own a fly swatter, and I think word has gotten out in the insect world. "Cold? Head to Ben's house. Hungry? I know a great little place where you can eat without worry of being squished." We are, for nature-sensitive critters, a sanctuary.

The above was just the most recent of many similar exchanges that happen around here. I've given up, and just laugh about them now. And check my drink glasses before sipping from them.

Cherishing The Now

What a difference six years make. When I last had a newborn, I couldn't wait until he was sleeping through the night, because I was certain there was nothing worse than extended, indefinite, severe sleep deprivation. Then he got older and started sleeping (kinda) and I looked forward to his being old enough to play games with his big brother so they could enjoy each other's company and I could get something done around the house. This was at a time when I was sure there was nothing worse than playing with a preschooler while trying to entertain, feed and change a toddler from sun-up to sundown. When he reached that milestone, I was excited for my oldest to start school so I could spend some one-on-one time with my youngest, because I just knew there was nothing worse than shortchanging one child because of the needs of the other. When both boys were in school full time, I counted the days until summer when I could have them both home with me to read, play, go on adventures and enjoy some unstructured time together.

Well. Both boys have been home now for three full weeks. They fight, yell, cry, hit each other and generally can't wait until school starts. I'm trying to make the last days of summer fun, but it's hard. They're bored. And when they do spend time playing, there is one thing that puts me on edge: they are LOUD. Yes, I know, it's a surprise only to me. Did I mention I grew up under a rock? Boys are loud. Really frickin' loud. And they're loud all the time. Whether they're fighting, playing, laughing or just burning energy, they are CONSTANTLY, CONSISTENTLY, RELENTLESSLY, DEAFENINGLY L-O-U-D. For a writer, this is not a good thing. And when school doesn't start for another week, this is not a good thing for any of us. They're sick of each other. They're sick of me. And I'm sick of summer vacation. But mostly, I'm sick of the noise.

What brought this incredible realization into stark relief was spending a day with my cousin and her newborn. I should mention the newborn is a girl. She's very quiet. I realize this isn't only because she's a girl. But even when she cries, she's quiet. And she sleeps. A lot. As newborns tend to do. But of course, she does wake up every two hours or so to eat and change her clothes and diaper (as girls are also apt to do). All day and all night. And as a result, my cousin is constantly, completely, unendingly sleep deprived. The funny thing is, I am SO ENVIOUS of her that it makes me laugh.

I suppose what this whole experience has taught me is to enjoy the moment. Don't wallow in the negative, praying for the current situation to end so that things will get better. They will change, and some things will improve, but other things will go downhill. This is not unfair, nor does it mean we are doing something wrong as parents. This is life. Change is the only thing we can count on, and there will always be a mix of joy and frustration. Until, I suppose, the teen years when it's just a long, slow ride through hell.

I have a pen pal who ends every email with the line, "Cherish the now." I finally understand how right he is. And I'm glad I got it before it was too late.

Title Change

I've decided to change my job title from Mom to Housekeeper/ Childcare provider. It seems Westchester puts more monetary value on the latter title. Case in point, an advertisement I saw the other day:

Housekeeper/childcare provider available: dedicated and very reliable, will keep your house so clean you can eat off the floors, do all of your laundry, will run your errands and take kids for haircuts, doctor’s appointments, the pool, park, etc. Speaks English, has valid international driver’s license (and her own car) and has never called in sick one day in 4 years. Prefers live-in but will consider live-out. $550/week cash.

As soon as I saw the 'has never called in sick one day' I knew this was the job title for me. What mom ever gets a sick day? This describes my job responsibilities almost EXACTLY, though it omits paying the bills and walking the dog. But I'll consider that a trade off for keeping the house so clean you can eat off the floors (unless you are said dog).

I guess what gets me every time I read this type of ad (which is surprisingly often) is the thought that always runs through my mind: why do some women have children if they end up outsourcing every aspect of the job?

Now, working moms, don't get your panties in a twist. I know that working full-time and being a mom full-time are mutually exclusive positions and that no one can do it all. Hey, I'm an at-home/part-time-work-from-home mom and I still have help from my community, other moms, babysitters, etc. I get it. Really.

The thing is, there is so much flexibility in jobs today--thanks to the wonder of technology and the family-friendly nature of most companies--that I wonder if these moms are actually choosing to not take advantage of these options. That they are instead deciding to let someone else do the grunt work of motherhood, and keeping the fun stuff for themselves.

OK, fine, so maybe I am a little jealous. Who of us wouldn't want to outsource the chauffeuring, cleaning, laundry and housekeeping portion of our jobs? As my late sister-in-law once said to me about full-time motherhood, "the drudge factor is off the charts." Yet even with that warning, I really had no idea. In fact, when I think about the time I could spend with my children if I wasn't so busy cleaning, cooking, driving and doing laundry (oh, kind of like when they were newborns?) it makes me realize that I've been going about this job all wrong.

I need to find someone to pay me to raise my kids. You know, like a sponsor. Then I'll be able to do a better job as a mom, and at the same time, outsource all the work that's keeping me from doing said job well. Who knows? I might actually get to do it FULL TIME, as my current title implies.

Hey American Academy of Pediatrics! What do you say? Jacob and Ben would make great cover kids!

Burn, Baby, Burn

Anyone who knows Ben or has read this blog at any length knows that he is forever in motion. Even when he sleeps, he moves around. And when he needs to move and can't, he lashes out at his brother, just to expend some energy.

So, being the thoughtful and sensitive parents we are, we decided to eschew a two-hour flight to our beach vacation this year in favor of a 12-hour drive. That's if you don't hit traffic. Which we did all through New Jersey, and then again in the area surrounding Washington D.C. in northern Virginia.

The first 1/2 of the trip, to Richmond, took nine hours instead of 6.5. For you non-parents, this is, to a six-year-old, an earthly version of hell. For Ben, it was the equivalent of being put into a straight jacket and strapped to a chair. For a year.

By the time we reached the hotel at 7:30pm, Ben was WAY done with the car. We took five minutes to drop our bags before going for dinner. We returned to the parking lot to drive to the restaurant up the road, and when Ben realized we were getting back in the car, he actually started to cry.

Trouper that he is, he agreed to come along, and kept it together long enough to get dinner down. Then, refueled, he was up. He crawled under the table, out into the room and started doing push-ups. People at other tables were laughing and pointing, likely assuming David was some sort of punitive, military dad like the one found in Pat Conroy's The Great Santini. To which David said loudly, "Drop and give me twenty!" Which Ben did, happily.

But 20 push-ups was not enough to burn the pent up energy this kid had after a full day in the car, so when we got back to the hotel, Ben took matters into his own hands. He raced his brother up and down the hallway several times (and won every race). Then, in the room, he devised a game of jumping--no, flying with reckless abandon--from bed to bed. He did this over and over, working up a sweat, and was finally able to fall asleep shortly after 10pm. And David and I laughed and laughed until we were tired enough to fall asleep too.

What did we learn from this little episode? Not much, apparently, because the next day, before driving the remaining five hours, we made sure to sugar Ben up with a bowl of Froot Loops and some toast with jelly. But once the caffeine kicked us into parental mode, we made notes for next time:

-hotel pool would help a LOT
-don't count on anyone napping in the car. They are as excited as we are, and haven't moved in hours.
-for all of my resistance to kids' reliance on technology, a dual screen, portable DVD player is the best 75 bucks I ever spent.
-pack Cheerios

And most importantly, always, ALWAYS carry the camera and spare batteries. Because traveling with Ben is always an adventure, and always funny.

YOU Do The Math

Isn't it funny how differently kids' minds work? I mean, when they're in first grade, they kind of think the same way as other first graders: farts are funny, dark is scary and knock-knock jokes are silly even if you tell them a hundred times in a row. But when it comes to personality, putting two brothers to work on the same project can really shine a light on where the biological similarities end.

"Hey Jacob and Ben, I need you to go out in the yard and collect all the apples that have fallen from the trees. Fill up the bucket, take it over and dump it across the street and do that until the apples are all gone."

Ben: "OK! Where's the bucket?"

Jacob: "Are we going to get paid?"

Granted, they are three years apart, but wait. There's more.

Jacob: "Mom, there's like a million apples. I'd better get ten bucks for this."

Ben: "Mom, how about if I count how many I collect, and then you give me five cents for every apple?"

Now, my kids get their math savvy from their father. Case in point: when I hear 'pay me ten bucks to do this job,' my first instinct is, 'dream on, kid.' But when I hear 'pay me five cents an apple,' I'm thinking, 'five? That's nothing! I'll give you ten cents an apple!'

After all, what's a measly dime for each apple?

I should point out that, after surveying the yard, I realized there were a couple hundred apples blanketing our lawn. Even at Ben's reasonable rates, I was looking at at least ten dollars per kid.

But seeing that entrepreneurial (some might say crafty) spirit in Ben--the one that made me eager to offer him even more than he suggested to do the job--showed me just how differently these guys look at the world. Well, that and the fact that I'd better brush up on my math skills.

Famous Last Words

Like all mothers of more than one child, I learned the hard way (i.e. through a second labor) that your second child is never anything like your first. For example. Riding in the car to camp one day, Jacob and his friend were arguing over the correct name of a particular Pokemon character. As the discussion got louder and louder, the friend finally said, “Wanna bet? I’ll bet you two dollars!” And Jacob replied, “NO! Gambling is illegal in New York State for people under the age of 18!”

Silence.

I peeked in the rear view mirror, and his friend was looking right at me with eyes that said, "are you a ventriloquist?"

And I looked back at him with eyes that said, "Dude, I swear he was born this way."

Seriously, how many nine-year-olds talk like that? And he's been that way for, oh, his whole life.

When he was three and got a new teacher at pre-school, the energetic young man tried to put Jacob at ease with the transition.

"Hey, you know we have something in common. Your name is Jake and I'm Mr. Jake!"

And Jacob responded, I kid you not,

"Actually, my name's Jacob."

ALL RIGHTY then.

Now let's take Ben. Last night, he filled up on vegetables and could only eat half of his cheeseburger for dinner. So this morning, I jokingly suggested he have the rest of it for breakfast.

"I can do that?" he asked.

"Uh, sure! Do you really want it?"

"Yeah!"

And so there I was, packing bologna for lunch and heating up a cheeseburger for breakfast. When he finished and was still hungry, I sent him out to the yard with a little container. He picked as many raspberries as he could find, then brought them in a devoured half of them.

What did Jacob want?

"Rice Krispies. No fruit."

Right. Like night and day.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when I arrived at camp to pick them up at camp one day and a young counselor-in-training came up to me and said, "Albert wants to talk to you about Ben."

Uh oh. What did Mr. Unpredictable do now?

"Hi, Albert. Is everything OK?"

"Well, yes, but I have some bad news about Ben."

What I asked was, "Is he OK? Did he hurt someone?"

And as my mind began to race, what I was thinking, but didn't say was, "Is he going to be expelled from camp? Are broken bones involved? AM I GOING TO NEED TO HIRE A LAWYER??"

Looking around, I still didn't see Ben anywhere. Truly, at that moment, anything was possible.

"He's fine, it's just..."

At this point, right before I really started to worry, Ben marched up to me with a down-turned mouth. On the verge of tears. In his socks.

As he buried his head in my stomach, Albert continued,

"...Ben took off one of his shoes and threw it in the latrine..." (this is scout camp. Translation: Ben threw his sneaker into a dark, smelly, 20-foot-deep hole in the ground where people, well, you know).

Blink.

"...and he was worried you were going to be really mad at him."

Blink blink.

Mad? He thought I was going to be mad? I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. Did Ben then convince some other camper to climb in and retrieve the sneaker for him, leading the kid to get stuck down there? Did he throw someone's backpack in after the sneaker? That can't be the whole story. Can it? I mean, Ben's not a toddler. Throwing his sneaker in the toilet must be just the beginning. FOR GOD'S SAKE, HE'S A-SOON-TO-BE-SECOND-GRADER. Where's the drama? I held my breath.

Perhaps my silence seemed to Albert to be the calm before a storm. "We, uh, didn't try to retrieve it," he added sheepishly. "The other one is in his backpack."

Wow. That really is it. Silent exhale.

"Uh, OK. Thanks."

The archery coach, another counselor, the camp's assistant director, Ben's brother, another counselor from a different den and, well at that point I lost track, all came over to see if Ben was OK and ask if I'd heard the story. Apparently everyone in camp--like 50 people--knew about this. I mean, it was a big stinkin' deal. And the thing is, while this is so completely unlike anything Jacob would ever do, it is so typically Ben.

So there you have it. The only thing I learned about how to parent Ben by having Jacob first was how to change a diaper.

Let this be a message of enlightenment for those of you in love with, and feeling like a parenting pro of, your first-born. If you're saying to each other, "Hey! This is a piece of cake! We should have, like, eight more!" just keep this in mind. You weren't the first to utter those words. And you won't be the last.

Ms. Fix-It

Not long ago, a friend was telling me about her what-turned-out-to-be-disgruntled washer repair man. The short story is that she had a problem with her washer and suspected what was causing it. But the repairman wouldn’t listen to her theory. He misdiagnosed the problem. He changed out the wrong part. The machine still didn't work. My friend had to call and request that the repair man come back again.

Mr. Maytag, his man-pride likely hurt after being emasculated by one who was not only a non-washing machine repair person but also a WOMAN, started giving her a hard time about it over the phone. So she did what any self-respecting customer would do: she hung up and called his boss. AFTER WHICH THE REPAIR PSYCHO CALLED HER BACK AND YELLED AT HER BECAUSE HE HAD TO COME BACK AGAIN TO ACTUALLY FIX THE PROBLEM. I'm sorry, did I offend you by insisting that you do what I'm paying you to do?

Look, I was in customer service for about 20 years, but regardless, I'm thinking most people would see this action as not-very-customer-friendly. And now my friend had to let this guy back into her home? While she was alone with her kids and her husband was at work? What is the world coming to when you feel threatened by the Maytag repair man?

Suffice it to say that the supervisor took care of the “personnel” problem as well as the washing machine problem. But the whole thing got me to thinking. In this day and age, when we tell our kids not to talk to strangers but are willing to let people we don’t know into our homes, there’s something to be said for being able to take care of these things yourself. Especially if you don't have a gun permit. Cost savings aside, the last thing you want to worry about when an appliance is broken is whether your repair man is going to turn out to be Mr. Fix-It or Psycho Killer. I love my journalist friends, but not enough to sacrifice myself for their headlines.

And of course, there’s the bonus feeling of accomplishment when you CAN fix something yourself.

For example, last year when my washing machine started acting up, I did some research to find out what it would cost to get a repairman to come out, diagnose and fix the problem. When it turned out to be roughly twice what we paid for the machine itself, I decided to do even more research. It seems my agitator wasn’t agitating. I’m a mom, so I know from agitation. Thanks to the magic of the Internet, I was able to look up pictures of the agitator’s insides, diagnose which piece wasn’t working, figure out where to buy it and print out step-by-step instructions for replacing it.

Yes, yes, I know. But I figured if it didn’t work, all it would cost me was an hour of my time and six bucks in parts.

The good news is, it worked. My machine was once again as agitating as my children. And the best part about it was not actually telling my husband how much money we’d saved. It was swinging my tool-belt-laden hips in a come-hither way while waving my cordless power drill and telling him I had fixed the washing machine myself. The POWER! The ADRENALINE! I was ready to change the oil in both cars.

And, now that I no longer own a gun, the fact that I didn’t have to let some strange man into my home was also a plus. Of course, once the washer was fixed, I had to go back to doing laundry again… But I’ll take that over fear of bodily harm any day.

The Fourth Dimension

I noticed this weekend, when we took the kids to a movie, that many of the new kids' movies coming out now and in the future (according to the previews) are being made in 3D. This was interesting to me, mainly because of the dichotomy of the whole quaint, retro, 3D-theater experience that our parents enjoyed in the 1950s when they dated as teenagers and the INCREDIBLE AMOUNT OF MONEY IT COSTS TO GO TO SEE A 3D MOVIE TODAY.

Granted, both of my kids are old enough now to actually sit through an entire movie together, so we've just started doing this family movie night thing. And I had finally become OK with the $7 per ticket admission fee. But 3D movies automatically tack on another $3 per ticket, and matinee prices no longer apply. Nor do children's prices. And you don't even keep the glasses--in the interest of 'going green' there is a recycling box for the glasses outside the theater. So. Let's recap.

Large, buttered popcorn: $7.50
Tickets for two adults and two children at a matinee: $40
Total: $47.50

I'm no mathematician, but that seems like a boatload o' money for just a two-hour movie. Did I mention it was animated? They didn't even have to pay the actors a bajillion dollars each to make this one.

Not for nothing, but babysitter fees have gone up five-fold since I used to hold that gig, and that's a killer on its own. Today, taking the kids to a movie for two hours is the same price as hiring a babysitter for five. It just adds a whole other dimension to the question of the best way to spend quality time together. I love my kids, and I love being with them. But I also love my husband, and these days can only dream of spending five hours alone with him. It's a tough choice for parents to have to make.

I'm not complaining. I'm just saying.

Mommie Dearest

Ever have one of those days at work, even at a job you love, where you just do everything wrong? You know, you spill coffee on the boss, accidentally delete that important file that was due yesterday, schedule two critical meetings for the same time, lose your cool with an important client and basically wish you'd get fired just so you could be put out of your misery? Yeah, well, that was my day today. When you're a mom wishing you'd get fired, you know you're either really tired, really PMS-ing or worse, really both.

And if that's how YOU feel, think about how you're making your KIDS feel. Right. Well, that's hard to do in the (choose any crappy) moment, which is why now, hours later when my kids are in bed, I'm weeping onto my keyboard as I realize what kind of day THEY must have had with me.

Take a bad night's sleep, mix it with PMS and add a whiny, clingy child who insists on staying home from camp and filling your day with challenges, tantrums, tears and demands. Top it off with some pouring rain and two hours of round-trip driving to drop off and, later, pick up the other camper and you've got a recipe for an eight-hour battle of wills, which no one will win.

Indeed, if motherhood involved employers, I'd have been fired today. And escorted to the door. By security.

The funny thing is, I wouldn't have ended the day wracked with guilt and filled with tears. I'd have headed right to the nearest bar and ordered up a Cosmo over which I could read the want-ads and soothe my bruised ego.

But that doesn't happen in motherhood, because it's not just a job. It's life, and for better or worse, it is always going to be filled with passion. That's why we love it on some days and hate it on others. That's why I keep coming back for more.

So here I am, taking a rain check for that Cosmo. I figure I'll use it to toast whichever son comes out with his best-selling memoir first, right after he toasts me for giving him so much great material.

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night

On a typical camp day, I headed out a little bit early to get to the cub scout camp in the woodsy mountains about 25 minutes from my house. My boys had been there for the day, and in the afternoon, just before I was to leave the house to pick them up, it started to rain.

As I gathered my things and looked for an umbrella, the thunder started. My dog hates thunder. BOOM! (bark! bark! bark!) BA-BOOOM!! (BARK! BARK! BARK!) I imagine that, to him, thunder is some big, invisible truck banging down our street. He always barks at loud trucks, but the fact that he can't see this one pisses him off, so he just keeps barking and barking. I was happy to leave.

I began driving and the rain got heavier, the lightening brighter, the thunder claps louder and closer together. I was beginning to feel like Pavlov's dog owner because (I realized) every time the thunder rolled, I waited for barking to follow.

Further up the mountain, the roads get narrower and the rain was now teeming. Even with my wipers on 'high' I couldn't see 10 feet in front of the car. Higher and higher the car climbed as I downshifted into second gear to maintain traction. Looking up, I saw lightning crack down toward the top of the hill RIGHT WHERE I WAS HEADING.

Before reaching the final dirt road that leads into the camp, I rounded a bend and squinted: is that something in the road? Something large? WAIT. IS THAT A FALLEN TREE ACROSS THE ROAD, BLOCKING ALL ENTRANCE AND EXIT TO THE CAMP ON THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN WHERE MY CHILDREN ARE TRAPPED IN A RAGING THUNDERSTORM??? Yes, the answer turned out to be, and beside it were a couple of downed wires for good measure, just in case I was entertaining the idea of trying out the off-road feature of my Subaru.

I turned around and drove down the road until I found a clearing where I could pull over and make a call. Who should I call? I thought to myself. My husband is in New Jersey. I don't know the number of the camp, or the Boy Scout Council office, where there might be someone who could contact the camp. Hm. Maybe I'll call my den leader. I hope I can hear her with the rain coming down so hard and loud on my car, I worried. I needn't have worried. I had no cell signal.

Beginning to feel as if I was in a Stephen King novel, I took a few deep breaths. "Suddenly, a shot rang out!" No, not really, but wouldn't that fit in perfectly right here?

After driving back down the mountain to get a cell signal (thumbs down for T-Mobile), I called my den leader. Through some unfortunate twist of fate, she was in the pediatrician's office at that very moment with her son. She had picked him up from said camp some time earlier because he had fractured his wrist. Because the camp had called her cell phone, she had the number with her.

I assured the camp leaders I was on my way. I told them about the tree. I got alternate directions. And I finally arrived to find one of the large canopy tents had blown down--posts and all--onto the pavilion at the camp, the pavilion under which all the campers were sitting and watching reptile man introduce a snake.

Two and a quarter hours after leaving my house that afternoon, we arrived home safe and mostly dry. By then, my biggest concern was making sure the boys washed the snake germs off their hands while they told me the wild stories about their thunderstorm adventures.

And thank goodness. Because when you're a kid, isn't adventure what summer should be about?

Dynamic Do-Over

Parents like to think that we run things in the house, that we orchestrate how things will go based on how rested, fed and healthy our kids are. This may be true when they are infants, but there comes a point when it's actually the firstborn child who holds the key to a happy household. Especially when there are siblings involved.

After school ended and before summer camp started, my kids spent two weeks at home together with no set schedule. We took day trips here and there, but the rest of the time, they were at each other's throats. And the noise! I couldn't hear myself think. I had had it up to here one day with the poking, teasing and tattling, and when I heard, "Mom! He's breathing my AIR!" I knew that someone was not going to survive the summer.

Fortunately, it wasn't long before day camp began for both boys. Jacob had been to this camp before, but Ben had not. I could tell Ben was anxious when I dropped them off: he didn't know anyone in his group, but Jacob knew at least three kids.

"Jacob," I said, pulling him aside, "if Ben gets upset or anxious today, can he come to you? I think it would help him to know that he could."

"Yeah," he answered grudgingly.

Such heartwarming enthusiasm was sure to ease Ben's mind (read: Jacob answered in the affirmative), so I went over to tell him before I left. No sooner did I reach him than Jacob was beside me saying, "Ben, I know you're nervous, but I had a great time at this camp last year. It's lots of fun and you'll make a lot of friends. I'm here if you need me."

That was a turning point in the day for all of us. Jacob stepped up and acted like the big brother that Ben was always longing to look up to. He made me proud to know that he could show such genuine kindness and understanding to his brother. And it continued even after they got home. Jacob set the table, helped his brother with various games, offered to help me cook and cleaned up afterward. He even checked in on his brother after Ben had gone to bed but was calling for me with a question.

I pointed out to Jacob that, when he acts as he did that day, it changes the dynamic of the entire family. Being nice to his brother makes Ben happy and kinder. That leads to no fighting, which makes me happier and means less yelling. That makes dad happy when he gets home to find a harmonious family waiting for him.

And Jacob holds the key to it all.

"So, I'm like the first domino," he said. "If I fall, we all fall, but if I stay standing, we all stay up."

Exactly.

There comes a point when our children begin making conscious choices that impact the rest of the family. Teaching them how they can support the 'team' by being their best and helping out gives them the power to control the level of happiness in the house. But it also makes them feel like a valuable member of the family, and ultimately society.

Ooh, and did you hear that? I'm pretty sure I just heard a pin drop.

Conditioning

I know many moms who lament that, back in their days before children, they were beautiful. Thin, sexy, smokin' ladies. A couple of kids and too many chicken nuggets later, we're all buying treadmills and trying to get back to our younger, more fit selves.

Part of it, of course, is for us--we want to feel good, and looking good makes us feel good. And part of it is that we don't want to give our husbands any reason to let their eyes wander elsewhere. We also hate swimsuit season, and recognize that all those ladies' nights of two-for-one martinis are catching up to us. Why is it that the older we get, the faster time flies and the slower fat burns? I'll bet a man made that rule.

Thanks to my dog, though, I'm still a hot mama. Well, for this week anyway. No, not because I walk with him briskly several times a day. And not because I take him to the park and run around with him, the kids and a ball. I'm hot because every time someone lights a firecracker outside, my dog starts barking loudly enough to wake the dead (or, in this case, the sleeping child down the hall). So I have to run around and close all the windows, and then quickly run downstairs and call him so I can close him up in the basement. I am such a hot mama. Seriously, I'm sweating.

I suppose I should be happy that he doesn't puke or pee all over the house or, as my cousin's dog used to do, curl up behind the toilet bowl in the basement until it ends. That's because she was rescued as a stray from the streets of New York City by some friendly policemen when she wandered into their precinct and my uncle decided to keep her. I'm sure she thought fireworks were gunshots.

All dogs are different I suppose, depending on their history. Some call it conditioning. Personally, I could go for a little conditioning myself right now. Air, that is.