Not Yer Mama's Salad

I love recipes. Cookbooks, websites, television shows--any source is welcome, but unlike my husband, I don't like to just "wing it" when it comes to cooking. In baking, of course, following a recipe is crucial, because you are dealing with chemistry. This means that if you add baking powder instead of baking soda, too much salt or not enough oil, you are going to be very disappointed with your final result. Though mixing flavors in dinner dishes is not quite as unforgiving, my husband is much better at it than I. Perhaps because I am a baker at heart, I don't like to experiment with my cooking.

One would think that when it comes to salad, a recipe would be unnecessary. There's no heat element involved, and not much variation of ingredients to work with, so why bother following instructions? Iceberg or romaine lettuce, celery, cucumber and a big ol' tomato. I grew up viewing salad as a peripheral--a boring but necessary add-on to dinner.

But then my kitchen disappeared, and kind friends took pity on us and invited us over for dinner. When they brought a big salad bowl filled with lime-cilantro chicken, provolone cheese and avocado to the table, followed by a colorful, spicy chicken salad topped with crisp tortilla strips, suddenly salad seemed like a great idea. When I raved to my friend about how delicious her salads were, she pulled out a cookbook. OK, maybe "cook"book isn't a completely accurate description. But she told me she swears by it, and as an avid cookbook user with one or two particular books that I refer to again and again, I knew exactly what she meant. As I flipped through the beautiful photos in Raising the Salad Bar, all my memories of iceberg lettuce, cucumbers and hothouse tomatoes flew out of my head. This was definitely not my mom's salad world.

Fresh fruits and vegetables are readily available in my area. Herbs and spices are growing in my garden. I have more flavors of vinegar than you could shake a stick at. Inspired, I decided maybe it was time to start experimenting.

The best part is that, though I love vegetables, I can't see myself as a strict vegetarian just yet. This book of recipes shows me how to incorporate grilled beef, salmon, chicken, shrimp and other proteins into interesting, beautiful and most importantly, delicious salads. No longer an afterthought, salad is about to become a meal staple--if not the meal itself--in my house. Sorry Mom. Not to give your iceberg lessons the cold shoulder, but it looks like my salads are about to grow up.

Flying By the Seat of My Cookie Sheets

They say you never really know what you've got until it's gone. But what they don't talk about is all the residual things you lose along with it. Anyone who has lived through (meaning lived in your house during) a kitchen remodelling project can understand what I mean.

We knew the kitchen would be gone--no stove, no sink, no countertops, no peace from the construction and, of course, no money. But we left out the toaster oven, dug out plastic utensils and paper plates, and filled the fridge with cold cuts. We may not be able to cook, but we still have to feed all the animals.

This all looked good on paper. But when I tried to apply it to day-to-day reality, it lost some of its fine, organized, two-dimensional sheen.

Here's what they don't tell you about a kitchen remodelling job: you have a lot more, er, stuff in your kitchen--however small your kitchen may seem--than you realize. You've just gotten really good at storing/hiding it. When you have to remove and relocate it all, while keeping portions of it somewhat accessible, you're also going to lose a lot of space in your living room, dining room, playroom, family room and mind. Because no matter how well you plan, all that visual clutter in your house can't help but clutter your mind and cause the occasional freak-out. Whether it's kids, dogs, Mom or Dad, someone will very likely be freaking out at any given moment during such a project.

Trying to be smart about it, we decided to do this during summer, when the kids were out of school and camp. What we had figured on was eating out occasionally, grilling on the porch often and eating lots of salads and sandwiches.

The same "they" who say all those smart things also say that life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. In our case, we made our plans but didn't account for a mid-July heat wave and someone staying in our guest room. Did I mention the frequent freak-outs?

A very smart friend said to me that suffering through to a new kitchen is a very high-class problem to have. And she's right. So I'm trying stay positive. Just think of how efficient this is turning out to be! Three adults, two children, two dogs, 100-degree weather and contractors finding hidden surprises at every turn (electrical, plumbing and the like)! How else could we build so much character at one time? May as well kill as many sprits as we can with one stone countertop, right?

Suffice it to say the "before" pictures are looking better and better, as we sit firmly entrenched in the middle of the "during" stage, all eagerly looking forward to the "after."

The Telltale Stomach

Much like raising children, there's nothing in the world like the unconditional love that you get from a pet. All you have to do is feed it, water it, pay for its doctor visits, house it and let it sleep in your bed it will love you forever. How could it not? Because of you, that lucky little guy will never have to figure out how to carry money without pockets or thumbs.

On top of all this, one would think that feeding a dog 'people food' like chicken lo mein, beef ribs and lasagna instead of just basic, dry kibble would secure you a place not just in Heaven but in your dog's heart as well. In fact, he'd likely be ready to go to the ends of the earth for you, bite a smelly, dirty person for you, even lie for you if it came down to that.

Apparently, you'd be wrong.

The life I've described is not a theoretical one, but apparently the very life Flash lived before he came to us. And when the poop came down, Flash didn't lie for his amazing owners who had treated him as if he were one of them.

After being told by the vet that Flash was overweight and had a terrible diet, and that his mom and dad needed to stop feeding him from their table, they agreed they would. The next time he went for a visit, the vet scolded Flash's mom yet again, as the pooch either didn't look good or hadn't lost weight: something told him that Flash was still on a strict people-food diet.

His mom proceeded to look the doctor in the eye and tell him with the straightest face that, "oh no, we don't feed him lasagna any more. We know we're not supposed to."

In the next moment, something happened. Maybe Flash decided it was now or never if he was ever going to get help obtaining the svelte figure he wanted. Or perhaps he felt that lying, especially to a doctor, was just plain wrong. We will never know the impetus, only the resulting action.

While his mom's words were still hanging in the air, Flash puked up a stomach-full of undigested lasagna right there on the vet's floor.

I came by this story honestly, from a neighbor and dear friend of Flash's former mom, and the mom was the one who had told it to the neighbor.

Of course, I had to laugh as I imagined how many shades of red the mom must have turned at that moment. And I also imagine that she said not a word to the vet, nor he to her. What could be said? Flash had ended the conversation.

I love the story, and the lesson that--as with parenting children--we should always be very careful about what we say and do, especially when it comes to little white lies. Honesty will win in the end, and whether it's out of the mouths of babes or the stomachs of dogs, when we lie, the innocents we care for will be the ones to give us away. Even if they can't speak.

Random Waffles

Jacob has been gone to sleepaway camp for only two days, and already there's been a change in Benjamin. Perhaps it's because his brother isn't around to criticize him all the time (that sibling rivalry's a biotch), or perhaps Ben just appreciates the reduction of noise (Jacob does have a tendency to talk, sing, yell, hum, fill-in-the-blank-with-any-other-insistent-consistent-noise pretty constantly). Whatever it is, Ben has become much easier to see, and seems to be revelling in his ability to be seen without the smokescreen of the dynamic with his brother. Because, let's face it, when they are in competition for my attention, Ben is always painted as the villain, the hitter, the crybaby or the one who started it. It's tough to be yourself when someone is forever preceding you into the room and announcing, "Ladies and gentlemen, The Bad Guy."

To say that Ben has been a model child this week would not be an understatement. In fact, he's been so great that I could tell immediately when he was tired or hungry--the two triggers that often send him spiralling. We went out to a drive-in movie on Monday night with some friends. The theater is one of the few left in our area, and it was all kinds of fun. Sitting outdoors on a blanket, staying up late, eating junkfood surrounded by girls (Ben was the only boy in the party) and seeing a new flick made for an exciting night. So much so that he didn't even fall asleep on the trip home, keeping his eyes open until I tucked him in at 11:45pm.

I killed the fun the next morning when I woke him up at 7:30 to go to camp. As is typical for Ben when he doesn't want to get up, he went into full turtle mode: drawing his head and feet underneath the covers, he balled himself up in the middle of the bed and groaned. I asked if he wanted me to make him waffles for breakfast (to entice him into getting vertical) and he answered 'yes, please.'

Ten minutes later, waffles on the table, I returned to his room to let him know they would get cold if he didn't get out there soon.

"Mom, I don't WANT waffles!" he said rather loudly.

"Honey, I just asked you if you wanted waffles and you said 'yes, please.' That's why I made them."

"No I didn't! You just made RANDOM WAFFLES! I don't want waffles, I want cereal!" he contested.

This was shaping up to be an argument I couldn't possibly win, so I told him he could have cereal and left the room. I was tired too, and the last thing I could take at that moment was an accusation of being something even worse than a random-waffle-making mother.

What happened next was, for someone else's house, probably perfectly normal. But for my house, it was completely unexpected and perfectly lovely. In short:

David ate the waffles.
Ben ate his cereal.
David went to work.
Ben went to camp.

And that was it. Of course, if you don't live in my house, you can't fully appreciate what a momentous occurrence this was. In short:

There were no tears.
There was no screaming.
There were no ultimatums.
Ben ate breakfast.
Ben got dressed.
We got out the door on time.

Even if the first breakfast had gone to the dog, it would have been a small price to pay for such great strides, in my humble opinion.

Credit the absence of one child or the magic of random waffles. Whatever it was, I'm just praying it won't evaporate at the end of the week. Maybe I should consider expanding to an entire random meal plan....

The Inconsistent Gardener

One of the many things I love about summer is my flower garden. Mind you, I use the word "garden" very loosely. By standard definition, mine barely qualifies. Besides being small, misshapen and hilly, it lacks symmetry, reason and defined edges. The weeds don't seem to mind any of this, as they congregate there en masse quite regularly. And I spent the first year just clearing out old, crowding trees, which my husband replaced with a couple of smaller, flowering bushes moved from elsewhere in the yard.

But since gardens are a lot like children, I like to focus on the strong points, hoping that encouragement and optimism will help mine to thrive. Plus, this helps me to downplay my own weak points.

Being a woman, I exercise my right to change my mind all the time. When it comes to what I put in my closet, that's not such a good thing because it means new clothes are required every season. I also like things a certain way (read: I'm controlling). Happily, gardens have flexible, inexpensive options for people like me. Specifically, annuals. Last year, the first year that I actually planted anything, I was all about orange and yellow. Daffodils, marigolds, snapdragons, lilies, we had lots of variety with very few colors. I didn't mind though--it all went together nicely.

This year, I was feeling more daring, and more purplish-blue. Maybe I craved a wardrobe change that depressed me with thoughts of its prohibitive cost. Or perhaps the long, wet spring built a sunless mood in me that transitioned to my flower choices. Regardless, this year the palette is cool and wide. Purples, blues, pinks and fuscias have all made appearances since spring via hyacinth, irises, azaleas and tulips. Throw in some raspberry bushes, onion grass, wild strawberries and roses, and you can see the chaos in my garden has begun to parallel the chaos inside my house. Maybe I'm just getting older, but neither of these things seems to bother me the way it might have years ago.

In the three years I've worked on this little patch of land, I've learned a few things.

1) Wear gloves.
2) Gardening pants work better than shorts.
3) Clashing colors are allowed.
4) Plan to plant and mulch in spring to prevent weeds; don't wait till they've taken over in June and try to pull them out.
5) The gardener cares more than anyone else.

Today I learned that the hydrangea, my favorite of all my flowers, has a tendency to take over a garden. All summer long, the bush's flowers are a riot of color--white, green, pink, purple, yellow and blue, and the blossoms vary in location and size as much as in color. And it's not an annual. What will this mean if I change my color scheme next year? Thanks to lesson number three, not a thing.

In my 12 years of parenting, I've learned a little bit more than what my garden has taught me. But all those lessons have also been hands-on.

Despite the mix and mess, my ignorance and fumblings, my little corner garden makes me smile. And maybe if I'm lucky, and keep working optimistically, it will grow into something worth sharing. Like my children, it doesn't seem to mind my mistakes. It loves the attention and care, gets on well despite the weeds, tests and teaches me, and makes me smile every day.

"I think the true gardener, the older (s)he grows, should more and more develop a humble, grateful and uncertain spirit." ~Reginald Farrer, In a Yorkshire Garden, 1909

Amen, brother.

How Does Your Dinner Grow?

Ben eats things from our yard. Not bugs. He outgrew that a few years ago. Basil, mint, raspberries, strawberries, tomatoes, onion grass, pretty much anything he finds, smells and thinks might taste interesting is an option. Just need to clear the non-poison factor with mom and dad and he's a happy camper. I think he was a rabbit in a past life.

Of course, nothing makes me happier. In fact, we've expanded our garden to include that of our generous neighbors, whose expansive property houses such a bounty of fresh produce that it could make the local market blush. Lettuce, tomatoes, squash, peppers, beans and herbs aplenty. Optimistic rabbits flood their lawn, plotting in clusters how to get over or under the fence. They look at me jealously when I stroll over to pick what I need and nothing more, wondering what I've got that they haven't, besides dinner.

Our apple trees are a bit crabby, but Ben doesn't mind. The fruit is tart and juicy, and squishes up his face with each bite. But tent caterpillars out of reach are threatening to overtake them now, so I'm researching options for replacing them. Shade, pines, deer and rabbits, coyotes, foxes and other woodsy creatures already threaten our salad buffet of hostas, lilies, berries and apples, and Ben almost resents the competition.

But not really.

He is a lover of nature, all nature, after all. To nurture and care for our dogs and our garden, and revel in the results he can reap--love and affection, fresh munchies--seems to be his strongest trait. Perhaps he was a farmer in a past life, or a chef, or even a dad. Whichever, I love to watch him grow, and grow, eat and thrive.

What parent wouldn't?

Concession (Or) Stand

Life is hard. It doesn't matter where you're from or whether you were born with a silver spoon or a wooden nickel in your mouth, your life is just a different kind of hard from the next guy's. But in the end, it's all relative.

What makes the difference is how we handle the roughest aspects of life. Much of what determines this is personality, but credit (or blame) also has to be given to parents, for the tools we give our children in everyday life. For example.

You're at a little league baseball game with your reluctant 8-year-old. Getting him into his uniform involved a lot of yelling and whining, and not just on his part. Getting him to the practice was, shall we say, a challenge. Getting him out of the car and onto the field caused the two of you to 'have words' and some of those words included, "I hate you, Mom."

Now that you have the backstory, we'll move onto the setting. It's about 87 degrees outside. You're late for the game (see previous paragraph). Your son's uniform includes knee-high tube socks, long polyester pants, a t-shirt and hat, baseball mitt and, er, insurance that I may someday be blessed with grandchildren. Yes, the 8-year-old has to wear a cup. We are sweating before we reach the field. The amazingly patient coach is urging your child into left field, the grassy area that has the most bugs to watch because, really, what the heck else would you do if you were an 8-year-old boy standing in a grassy field? Watch for flies (from home plate)? Yes, well mine looks for ants by his shoes.

So when a bouncing grounder ends up hitting him in the knee and the tears begin to flow, I stand up. the coach heads out there and tries to get my son to shake it off, makes sure there's no blood, he can bend his knee, walk around, etc. All good, no need to call an ambulance. The inning continues.

Once the team heads back to the dugout and I am summoned to see how he's doing, my son asks me, "Mom, can I go home?"

"Oh, Sweetie, the team needs you here with them."

"Then can I have an ice cream after, since I got hurt?"

Ummm...

I have to say right here that if this had been my firstborn, I would very likely have reminded him that a mom's kisses are MUCH better for healing injuries than ice cream, even if it is ice cream at 11:00 in the morning. It's close, but kisses are actually better.

And he would have very likely said, "OK" and taken two or maybe even three of those kisses and been fine. More likely, he would never have asked the question at all.

But this is my second-born, my every-aspect-of-my-life-is-so-very-hard, please-can-we-make-it-a-little-less-hard-with-sugar? boy. And one would think, having had this conversation more than one or two (million) times before, that he would know the answer, because he lives in the same house with the same rules as his older brother.

The problem is that he also knows his mother.

In fact, he knows his mother so well that he would never ask such a question of his father, because his father is not nearly as malleable when it comes to such things. That's a nice way of saying his father's not a pushover.

The day I realized I had in fact become one of those mothers who caves to her child's requests to avoid a fight, a scene, a screaming match that sucks all the life out of her, it was too late. And I knew it was too late because I almost didn't care that this is what had become of me.

But when I sat down to think about which came first, the chicken or the screamer, I realize the answer was probably 'the screamer.' Because I could handle resistence from my older boy: it was half-hearted, short-lived and manageable. And of course, his brother has been the complete opposite, so I was not only ill-prepared for his persistence, I was even less ready for the heights to which he would raise the stakes. A meltdown over a video game? A crying fit because it's not dessert night? Seriously? Handling this did not fall within my job experience.

The good news is that, though I recognize how I have been perpetuating the situation, I also said that I *almost* didn't care that this is what has become of me. And although 'almost' usually only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, it is enough to keep me in the realm of logical thinking. That niggling feeling that continuing this behavior on my part is only going to cause one of us to move out before my son turns 13 just never goes away. It's my reminder that things are only going to get worse, so what better time than now to try to turn the situation around?

"No, Ben," I told him. "No ice cream in the morning. We can always have ice cream after dinner tonight. Now let me take a look at that knee."

This behavior has been going on since Ben was born, so it's pretty ingrained in both of us now. But if standing up a little harder and longer than I ever had to with his brother will help tip things back into balance--where I'm the boss and he has to listen--I'm willing to give it a try, for both our sakes.

After a big "Awwwww!" of protest, Ben actually let the matter drop.

I exhaled, thankful that I could still make a stand, and that Ben was still young enough to accept it without trying to push me over. Maybe there's hope for us yet.

The 17 Day Crankpot

There's a first time for everything. Sometimes, that's a good thing. First crush, first chocolate milkshake, first kiss. But sometimes a first is reached out of necessity, desperation or fear. In my case, it's a combination of these three things that has brought about a first for me this week.

I'm forty-something years old, and am on my very first diet.

I know, I know, poor me. But think about it from my perspective. All my life, I've loved starch and dairy. Lived on it, in fact, even way before college. Seriously, I'd have made a great French woman. Every kind of bread, any kind of cheese, I was all over it, not to mention pasta, noodles, macaroni and anything of that ilk. I drove my mother insane, much as my son does to me now, by eschewing all "food" remotely produce-related, picking apart every meal that contained anything green, and drinking up to a gallon of milk myself each week. I wouldn't be surprised if my parents put me through college with the money they made buying stock in Ronzoni.

Despite my starchoholism, my weight has never been an issue. Good genes, high metabolism and a bit of luck kept me bony-thin till my 20s, with only the occasional spread. These rare shifts came, coincidentally, during stressful points in my life, with the stress leading to greater indulgences in red wine and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. But a couple of months of daily mountain-bike riding and I was back down to my old size. Ah, to be in my 20s again.

In recent months, I found my jeans fitting tighter and tighter, and then, much to my chagrin, not at all. Donning my 'fat jeans' and looser fitting kahkis, I attributed the change to immobility, stomach problems and hormones. But one day I stepped on the scale and found that I had gained 10 pound of hormones. I was smacked out of my denial.

Having no money (or desire) to go out and buy all new clothes, I decided to try the 17-Day Diet, a regimen two friends had recently started. One had lost 20 pounds, the other ten, in a matter of weeks. I had nothing to lose but weight, so I bought the book.

Day one was fueled by lots of salads, green tea and optimism. I followed the book to a 'T' and went to bed a little hungry, but confident.

Day two was mostly the same menu, but with a few tweaks to mix things up a bit. Cottage cheese instead of plain yogurt; salmon instead of chicken. Lots of water and green tea. By afternoon, I was lightheaded and tired, so I had more salad.

Day three found my confidence in the diet and myself wavering. I told myself my headache was due to allergies, even as I drooled while watching my kids fill their bowls three times at dinner with pasta and freshly made pesto. I drank another cup of green tea and soldiered on.

By day four, I was cranky, terse and miserable. Ready for french bread pizza and a big glass of wine, with a bag of Hershey Kisses for dessert, I instead headed for the scale. And was shocked to find I had lost four pounds. The number fueled my reserve, most likely because I was getting so little fuel elsewhere.

I made it through the first week and lost five pounds. This was enough to get me back--comfortably--into many of my favorite pants. I also noticed, though, that my stomach had stopped bothering me, my constant heartburn was gone, and I was sleeping better. This led to a better mood, which trickled down to the rest of my family and improved the dynamic between us overall.

Since then, I have switched to the exception section of the book (for those times of the month when you just can't say no to chocolate), and have found it much better for my lifestyle. And the weight has not come back.

The big test came when I tried on a dress from a friend yesterday and fell in love with the way it fit me. Looking ahead to an upcoming wedding in June, I smiled at the way the dress hugged my curves in an elegant, sexy way instead of a muffin-top, too many cookies way. And while I can safely say that I never want to have to 'diet' again, in the way that diet means starve myself and eschew those things that make me happy, I have also learned something. In eating, as in many aspects of life, we get into ruts. It happens slowly, as do the consequences. The shock to the system of cold-turkey shifts sucks. But sometimes, that's what it takes.

If nothing else, it's made me conscious of what I eat, and how often. But more importanly, I've learned how diet impacts the body overall, from mood to energy to size, and how it changes as we age. If one week and five lost pounds can alter all those things, as well as my perspective, then it was definitely the right diet for me.

And once was enough.

The Nature of Spring

After a cold, wet winter and an even wetter spring, the sun came out and the air warmed up and things dried out and bloomed.

And it was bad.

At least, it was bad for us allergy sufferers. Still is, actually, but I'm not complaining this year. That's because after seeing Bailey's allergic reactions to the blooming trees, complaining just didn't seem right.

Allergies tend to be typical in Labs, and we went into this adoption knowing that he had them. That first spring, they turned out to be a bit more serious than I had anticipated (read: worse than mine). I just get a runny nose, sneeze a lot and sometimes my eyes itch. As we quickly learned, though, it's different with dogs.

First, they have zones. Allergy response zones. Around their mouth, nose and eyes gets very red. Their muzzle itches. Their ears itch on the inside. The skin on the inside of their legs and their private parts becomes very sensitive and itchy.

Worse, they have claws. So when these areas start itching, dogs can scratch them. Really scratch them. I was not trying on my British accent when I referred to Bailey this week as "a bloody mess."

See, when the itching got bad (i.e. he would scratch until he was crying), he had to don the cone of shame. the problem is that Bailey is a smart dog, and anytime I left him home, he either figured out a way to get the cone off (doing his drunken sailor routine and walking into furniture and doorways) or enlisted Flash to spring him. So the sooner he got it off after I left, the longer he was, shall we say, on parole.

It was during these short periods that he would scratch his face bloody, and then proceed to rub said face all over the (thankfully covered) couch corner, in between its pillows and along the carpet to try to ease the itch. Not pretty.

Fortunately, Bailey can't read. Because if he could, he'd likely peruse my bookshelves filled with the works of Plath, Hemingway, Woolf and others. He might see himself in their torment, and get the idea in his head that the only way out of his discomfort and misery is suicide.

Fortunately for us, Bailey can't read. And fortunately for Bailey, there are doggie drug cocktails available to help him. Now when he walks into walls, I attribute it to the meds, because he's no longer scratching.

As he gets older, he'll get itchier and it will start earlier and last longer each season. But we're anticipating this, and have ammassed a geriatric canine medicine chest for just such occasions. And we laugh, sympathetically, at how these days, spring gives a whole new meaning to the term 'scratch and sniff.'

Hoarders: TFV*

No, we haven't acquired any more animals. This confession is from Flash, being channelled through me. At least, this is what I hope he would say if he could talk. Because the first step in getting help is admitting you have a problem.

"My name is Flash, and I'm a hoarder. My old owners thought it was cute--they'd give me a dog biscuit, rawhide or other so-called 'treat' and stand there as if they were expecting me to put on a show of eating it. Please. Those things were either cardboard-y, rubbery or scratchy and hard. No matter how you sliced it, so to speak, they were nasty. In my opinion, dog treats created by people are going to be nasty. They claim to be the smartest animals, but hellooooo? If you're smart enough to know about our extraordinary sense of smell, don'tcha think it'd be nice to give us treats with flavors we can appreciate with that sense of smell?

So they'd give me these bone-shaped pieces of stuff and the only way I could get away with not eating it in front of them was to go bury it. The yard, the planters downstairs, heck I even hid one under a corner of the carpeting. I forgot all about it until they pulled up the rug and there it was. I almost laughed out loud! Anyway, they thought it was cute, and I'd get out of having to pretend they were yummy. I mean, come on. Lasagna for breakfast, beef lo mein for dinner and then rawhide?

But now I live with this new family. Sure, I still get to go home to visit my aunt and cousin and stuff when they stop by the old house every now and then, but things are definitely different on the whole. Last time I went to the old house, I dug up an old piece of a bone I had hidden in one of the plants downstairs. It was still hard, even though it was covered with wet dirt. But it was a piece of home, ya know? So I took it with me. I'll never tell what I did with it after, and I don't think my new owners noticed. Their place isn't as clean as my old one was. For one, they have carpet that's a few decades old. And they also have rats--rug rats, I think they call them. Mini-humans. And these minis have toys coming out the wazoo, tables with trains, tables for air hockey, tables for LEGOs, and lots of containers and shelves of even more toys. So there are TONS of places to hide stuff. I think this is where my problem started.

Last week, the head human gave me and Bailey each a GIANT rawhide bone. I practically squeaked with excitement. The thing was so big, it was like the ULTIMATE challenge to hide it! I couldn't wait! I took it right downstairs to where the mini-humans keep all their stuff, and went to work. Well, the head guy saw me in that room, but thankfully didn't come in. All I needed was a few minutes, and then I came trotting out. And pretty soon they were all, "Hey Flash, where's your bone? What did he do with it? I can't find it anywhere!" I'm telling you, it was brilliant.

You'd think after such an achievement (they still haven't found it), I'd be happy. But here's the thing. I had to get my teeth on Bailey's bone next. I mean, it was like I was compelled to hide it! I don't mind telling you, I was a little scared of the feeling, but I went and got the bone anyway.

But the humans, it's like they could read my mind or something. They stopped me. They took the bone and gave it back to Bailey. Then when I was able to grab it again, they actually chased me around the dining room and took it again! I let them have it because I didn't want them to see me struggle, but I felt like I was getting the DTs or something. It was weird. Like, I had to get that bone and hide it, like my life depended on it!

Long-story-not-very-short, I wasn't able to get the other bone. For two days after, I was beside myself. I couldn't eat. Couldn't poop. One night, the big human left a big hunk of fried chicken on the bone sitting out on the low table downstairs and just walked away. I was shocked! Of course, I was overcome and grabbed it, heading right into the playroom to hide that. I got busted though. Man, was he mad. He yelled so loud it scared me, so much so that I peed on the kitchen floor later.

That's when I knew I had a problem.

Anyway, thank you all for listening. It's good to be here. I hope we can all help each other. Peace."

*The Furry Version

Looking A Gift Bunny In The Mouth

My family and I are practicing agnostics. I used to call myself a Unitarian Universalist, but the truth is, I just don't do well with weekly attendance at any kind of service. So while we don't have a spiritual 'community' in the usual sense of the word, we instead engage in various volunteer activities to help build, aid and beautify the community we live in, with hopes that others will pay it forward.

This works fine for adults, but once you have kids, not having structure for spirituality makes it a bit challenging to impart your values. Especially when it comes to holidays. We have a tree and a menorah in December; we have a seder and goody-filled baskets in spring. We atone in September, even though school has just started and the kids can't really figure out what they have done wrong in such a short period of time. So we are constantly talking about what's important, what life and the lives of others mean to us, and the best way to live in the world while keeping those values in mind.

After a week of school vacation that involved outings, movies, down time, playtime and lots of fighting, Easter morning arrived. This year, the Easter Bunny decided to give, in addition to sweets, a video game cartridge to each of my kids. One had been purchased on sale some time ago, and lusted after by my youngest son for much longer. With no birthdays, loose teeth or other opportunities for gift-giving in sight for several months, the basket seemed the perfect place for it. And to avoid trauma and in-fighting, Jacob received a game as well, though his was less expensive and not specifically requested. That, however, seemed to be the rub.

Here I was thinking myself magnanimous for going a little over the top for Easter, giving them actual gifts instead of just candy; enough over the top to earn disapproving looks from Mr. Bunny. Truly, Easter is not a gift-giving holiday--why was I spoiling the children? No, I said, this is OK. Less cavities, and guaranteed fun. Ben, at least, was thrilled.

"Mom, do you think the Easter Bunny kept the receipt?" Jacob asked me.

"I really don't know, Jacob. Why? Don't you like Pokemon?" I asked, a bit miffed that he didn't appreciate the fact that he'd just gotten a gift for no reason.

"I do, but I have another game that's a lot like this one, and it's pretty lame," he answered.

And that moment was when I realized my folly. The more we give our kids, 'just because' (fill in the blank: they want it; it's on sale; it's Easter/Passover/4th of July or any other holiday that has yet to be commercialized), we're only feeding the monster. Like our attention when they were younger, no matter how much you give, it will never be enough. Mr. Bunny was right--I'm sending the wrong message. I'm spoiling them.

When Mr. Bunny announced that there would be no video game playing today, I ducked, prepared for the backlash. After all, they had just gotten new games--how could we forbid them from playing? I dreaded the rest of the day, fueled by chocolate and the knowledge that those games were so close, yet so far. I thought him unreasonably cruel.

But then I realized two things. One, it was my own fault for setting up the situation, and two, I really hate video games. I would love to get rid of all of them, as well as our television set and fill the spaces with books, games and puzzles. But I can't, so instead I give them what they want, despite my better judgment. Maybe a bag of M&Ms would have been the better route, cavities be damned.

As the day has worn on, the kids cleaned their rooms, showered, and played outside with friends for an hour and a half. Next we will switch their winter clothes for summer ones in their closets and dressers, and then make sure the bookbags are packed with all they'll need to go back to school tomorrow. The games have been put away, and will likely be forgotten until next weekend. The lesson, though, will stay with me.

At least through Memorial Day.

This One's For You

Nothing says "I'm unhappy" like poop in the bedroom. Or should I say, nothing feels like your dog thumbing its nose at you like finding a log on your bedroom floor. And dogs don't even HAVE thumbs.

Look, rules suck. Just ask my kids. They have to do homework, bathe, clean up after themselves and go to school. They can't play video games all day, lie around on the couch until all hours or eat ice cream for dinner. But it's a lot harder to explain that these things build character and teach you to live in the real world when you're talking to a dog. A dog, mind you, who is used to sleeping in bed with his owner at night, on the couch during the day, and eating lasagna and chinese food more often than kibble.

I give Flash credit. He lost both his owners in a span of a couple of years. He had to move into a house that already had a pet, one very much loved by the family, and very well trained. He had to learn a new house, family dynamic, schedule and rules, and all while grieving his lost owners, home and lifestyle. And with all that, he's really been doing great. He's quick to learn, likes to please and is obviously trying to go with the flow until he figures it all out.

So I have to assume that, now that he fully grasps that this is his new home, he has decided to put his paw down, and put some things back into place. I've had to chase him off the couch twice this week--once, he got up there without my even noticing and likely had a nice nap before Ben realized where he was and alerted me. And Bailey has been uncommonly clingy. Perhaps his allergies are kicking in and he's feeling uncomfortable and grumpy, but when Flash comes over for a pet while Bailey is next to me, Bailey growls. Today, for the first time, he actually barked at Flash.

I admit I feel sorry for the little guy. For as far as he's come, he still knows he's second dog, he has to sleep on the floor, eat dog food and listen. We don't tolerate begging, rarely give out scraps, and don't take our dogs for car rides very often. Now that he's realized not only that his life has changed, but that it's not going to change back, he's pissed. So to speak. And who better to take it out on than the humans?

Like a typical mom, I want to give him more loving, more attention and make him feel better. But I also know that he knows the rules, and this was a blatant flouting of those rules. I've never been good at tough love, but I suppose now is the time to practice. The kids will be teenagers soon enough, and while a missed curfew isn't as bad as pooping in my room, it will still constitute a tightening of the rules. And while it will likely get the lesson learned, I guarantee the kids and dogs will agree, it still stinks.

It's All Relative

I have to take issue with the fact that girls always get a bad rep for keeping boys waiting for dates. Granted, when I am getting ready to go out, I often have to get the kids bathed and fed, give instructions to the babysitter and walk the dogs first. Only then can I begin the increasingly arduous and lengthy process of prettying myself up for a date. So when my husband says, "are you almost ready?" and I answer "five more minutes," I really think that's all it will take. That's all it used to take. But since I'm getting old, these things end up taking longer. At least I have a good excuse.

Whether this is genetic, learned or just a circumstance of age, both my boys seem to have the same trait, but without the excuse. If I tell one of them that it's time for dinner and he needs to stop playing the video game he's playing, I'm told,

"OK, I just have to kill this guy and get to the next level."

While that sounds like something that should take all of three minutes, this is in fact the equivalent (in parenting language) of

"OK, I just have to finish middle school, college, medical school and go do my internship where I'll find the cure for cancer."

In other words, I'll be there soon-ish, with 'ish' being the operative quantifier. So don't hold your breath waiting, or you'll pass out.

As much as it's taken me time to figure this out, to realize that they will not be done as quickly as they make it sound, I also can't really get mad. Because the fact is, I get it. I'm a writer. I know what it's like to be 'in the zone,' totally focussed and absorbed, and then looking up five minutes later to find that I'm an hour behind schedule for starting dinner.

Like any problem (if not necessarily any genetic defect), recognizing the problem is the first step in working toward correcting it. But in a way, it's like the blind leading the blind--I know I need to get the kids off the video games and into books for a while each day, but at the same time, they are being very quiet. So quiet, in fact, that I can actually get some writing done, writing that I didn't think I'd get to do over the break because we'd be too busy running around doing stuff.

So now the question becomes, do I address my problem and be the good mommy, steering my kids back to interactive and educational activities for the rest of the afternoon? Or should I be selfish mommy and let them enjoy themselves a few minutes more? Just fifteen minutes, so I can work a little on my book outline.

Oh, and edit my chapters.

Oh, and finish updating my blog.

Wow, how did it get so late?

Steal My Thunder. Please.

As with any new event that changes the dynamic of a family, there are things that can be anticipated before the change, and things that cannot. Because we adopted Flash in the winter, we anticipated lots of 'indoor time' with both dogs as they got to learn how to live with each other, figured out the new pecking order and were taught the rules. There would be logistics to negotiate, such as feeding and sleeping areas, walking schedules and pet toy storage.

But one thing we didn't consider, because it had not been an issue for almost a year, was weather. Or, more specifically, storms. Not blizzards.

Thunderstorms.

Last night, with a house full of us and family visiting from out of state, we got our first, albeit mild, thunderstorm. Our guest room is in the basement, right next to the playroom, which is where we usually send Bailey during severe thunderstorms that rile and torment him. Downstairs, he can bark, pace, howl and moan at what we assume he perceives to be a fleet of big trucks going by on our road. Endlessly. Thankfully, once the truck...er, thunder stops making noise, so does Bailey. But with actual guests in our guest room, this wasn't really an option (although I did consider it very briefly).

What we discovered during this 30-minute, middle-of-the-night storm, though, was that Flash hates thunder. REALLY hates it. Like, he seems to think dozens of scary people are trying to knock down the walls and get into the house to steal the big, white box in the kitchen that holds all that awesome food. And like any good watch dog, if someone is trying to break in, you sound your alarm.

Well.

Flash's alarm, normally a cute little, high pitched bay, is, shall we say, not quite as cute at 1:30 in the morning as it is in the light of day. And for every ten minutes of alarm that plays without a snooze button option, the cute factor drops exponentially. After 20 minutes, I was praying the thunder would stop. After 30, I wanted to take Flash next door to his old, empty house and let him make all the noise he wanted. After 40, though the thunder had stopped, the alarm played on and I had my head buried under my pillow to no avail.

When he finally decided that the house was secure and the bad guys were gone, Flash finally gave up barking. Thankfully, it didn't take long for me to get back to sleep. Had the thunder continued though (or, dare I say it, had there really been bad guys trying to break in), I am certain that this little guy, with all the energy and passion and sense of duty he possesses, would have continued to warn us of the 'danger'. Like a furry postman, rain, lightning, dark of night and even exhaustion would not have caused him to quit. His sense of purpose is strong, and his loyalty high. At least, that's what I tell myself.

But I also know that, come summer, he will likely be getting to know our basement a lot better too.

Culinary Canine

Ben is my best eater, hands down. He will try anything, even if it's green. He loves vegetables, exotic foods and doesn't shy away from funky textures or combinations. Nor is he restricted by rules about what is acceptable food for certain times of day. This is a kid who eats cheeseburgers and raspberries for breakfast.

So it's no surprise that I consider him something of an expert on how to enjoy food, and I am not surprised when he stops everything to follow his dad downstairs when it's time to feed the dogs. This is especially true when they are getting leftovers, or as we like to call it, 'something from the big, white box' because the dogs go nuts when we pull something out of the refrigerator to heat for them. Then, noses in the air, they file behind dad as if he were the pied piper, drinking in the smell of melting beef fat that wafts behind him. It's music to their noses, and Ben trails behind them revelling in their excitement, feeling a kinship to those whose passion for food rivals his own.

But the excitement doesn't end there. Once kibble, fat and gravy have been divided and dispersed, Ben stays to watch the pooches chomp and slurp at their breakfast until the empty bowls clang against the tile floor.

On a typical dog food-only day, Flash will nibble his kibble and leave half behind. Sort of like Ben with chicken nuggets. It's bland, boring and processed, and therefore not worth the effort or calories. But when there are leftovers, Flash goes to town. Though only half of Bailey's size and weight, Flash often empties his dish first, putting on a show of grunts and snorts as he goes, as if he can't eat it fast enough. This has always amused Ben, but today something shifted in his thinking, and he commented on it.

"Mom, Flash always finishes his food first, but he just chomps it down. He doesn't saaavor it. He doesn't breeeathe."

He sounded disheartened, as if Flash had let him down, exposed himself as a gourmand rather than a gourmet. Clearly, if Flash eats so fast that he can't even breathe, he is not tasting the food. He therefore must not be enjoying it, and Ben seemed to pity the dog for what he is unknowingly missing out on.

If that's the case, so be it. I chalk it up to Ben's first in what will surely be many character studies. Surely it won't be the only time he sees someone for what they truly are, when reality will shatter illusion and someone will suddenly become a disappointment to him.

I try not to think about the day when Ben will realize his mom and dad are just people, not superheroes, and that we make mistakes like every other human, even when raising our kids.

If I'm lucky, his experience with the dogs will help him retain his faith in us--even after this jarring realization--and his love will continue unwavering.

But I'll be happy if he just deigns to share a good meal with us every once in a while.

Good Humor Men

It's hard to be little. You have to look up at everyone, you can't see the tops of counters, and you have to do what you're told. Things are confusing sometimes, and you want to be independent but you have no choice but to rely on others because you can't get a job. Sometimes you get yelled at, and you don't know what you did or why it was bad.

Just ask my beagle.

Perhaps this is why Ben has been so sympathetic with Flash lately: because he can relate. Before our dog days, Ben was the puppy in the pack. Everyone was bigger, smarter, older and better at stuff than he was (notice I didn't say 'louder'). Of course, being the smallest and youngest has its challenges, not the least of which is carving out your own niche, finding your place in the pack.

Not only were you not the first one here, but now you're competing for attention while trying to make up for lost time. Plus, everyone seems to know the rules, and their place, but you. So you go through your options:

Boy? Taken.
First born? Taken.
Smart? Taken.
Eager? Taken.
Obedient? Taken.
Creative? OPEN
Funny? OPEN

And there you go. Through the process of elimination, Flash and Ben have both been able to find their places in the pack. They are feisty, emotional, controversial, demanding and ultimately will do what they want regardless of what they're told.

But they are also the cuddliest, goofiest and funniest of the bunch. They love fearlessly and without reserve, and are creative in getting what they want. Ben will debate and finagle, tell you jokes and make ridiculous suggestions to get what he is after. Flash will roll around on the carpet like a wind-up toy, dig through the recycling bag to pull out and play with an empty peanut butter jar and use the couch to get up to the bay windowsill to bark at passersby. You're so busy laughing at their creativity that you forget to be angry at them. Henry Ward Beecher once said, "Men will let you abuse them if only you will make them laugh."

To Flash and Ben, rules are meant to be bent, looked upon as 'suggestions' rather than restrictions. In this family, at least, being the littlest means grabbing hold of what power you can and using it to your best advantage.

And if everyone is laughing at you, you've definitely got power. And a better chance of getting what you're really after.

If You Give A Kid A Pancake

One of the most dangerous aspects of the adolescent brain is its inability to consider potential consequences before acting or making decisions. It's dangerous because adolescents are often presented with situations in which lack of forethought can have life-long effects. Sex, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, driving too fast, missing the deadline for scholarship applications, etc. have caused many a sleepless night for loving parents.

This is why many school programs focus on pre-teens' and teens' planning abilities. But I discovered today that this problem of lack of forethought isn't restricted to teens. My eight-year-old suffers from it as well. And while he's not in potentially life-threatening situations on a regular basis, today was an exception.

When Ben gets hungry, if he doesn't eat something and instead lets the hunger get out of control, he becomes (as my family used to call it) EVIL. That means, in essence, that he is cranky, angry, loud and obnoxious toward everyone. He cannot be reasoned with, talked down or placated, making him pretty much miserable for anyone to be around. This happens primarily on the weekends, when he gets too absorbed in a video game or cartoon and doesn't heed his grumbling stomach until it's too late.

This morning, I figured we'd be able to avoid the problem by attending the Lion's Club pancake breakfast at the high school. We'd eat all the pancakes, sausage and bagels we wanted, pick up Ben's baseball uniform and be a happy bunch of campers. Plus, I wouldn't have to cook or clean up. It was a win-win plan. Unfortunately, I failed to execute it before Ben had crossed over into "the evil zone."

By the time I had gotten him dressed and dragged him to the high school, he was yelling, lashing out and dangerously close to being left in the parking lot. (I'd have strangled him, but there were too many other families around as witnesses). Instead, I stayed calm, we made our way to the mercifully fast-moving line, and got our trays of yummies. Ben was off like a shot to find a seat, and was already unwrapping his plasticware by the time I found him and got my coat off. I offered him some antibacterial cleaner for his hands before he dug in, and he put out his palm to accept it. But he pulled away too fast, and a blob of it went into his orange juice. Acting quickly to avert a crisis, I handed him my orange juice and took the ruined cup away. Whew.

Then he reached for the red bottle on the table labeled "Syrup" and gave a squirt over his plate. At that moment, someone's belated April Fool's joke culminated in a big pile of ketchup landing on Ben's pancake. And just like that, the tears began to flow.

I know it was partly my fault for not getting up earlier and making sure he at least ate a banana to hold him, or reminded him what happens when he gets too hungry. But I had also hoped that, now that he's eight, he'd be getting the hang of that thought process on his own.

Sadly, that is not the case. And considering this type of problem continues into children's early- to mid-twenties--until their brains are fully developed--all my nagging probably isn't going to be able to change it. The best I can do is leave cereal bowls and boxes on the table at night, and a note on his door for the morning that suggests he start with breakfast before anything else.

Because after I pulled away the ketchup-laden pancake and gave Ben one of my own, he chowed down two of them along with sausage and orange juice without even pausing to wipe his tears. And just like that, he was transformed back into the boy I love. Such a simple solution, such a miserable reminder.

What I learned today is, If You Give A Kid A Pancake, And You Do It Soon Enough, You'll Save Yourself And Your Family A Lot of Unnecessary Aggravation.*

Oh, and always, always, use the pre-packaged syrup containers.

*With apologies to Laura Joffe Numeroff.

Sex Ed

Anyone I ever spoke to who grew up on a farm was very matter-of-fact about sex. I attributed this to the fact that they grew up surrounded by animals annually courting, mating and giving birth and--let's face it--the farm is no place for modesty.

Contrarily, I grew up in a strict, Christian household that believed in Heaven, Hell, God and the stork. Needless to say, in my house, sex was the "s" word, and was therefore never discussed. As far as I knew, babies came from married people through osmosis and fervent prayer.

Now our home is not quite so conservative, but neither is it a farm. Yet along with our new pooch, I think my kids are getting a bit of an education about sex lately too.

The sexual tension in the house is high since we got a second dog. True, both dogs are male, but this actually seems to be adding to the problem. Luckily for us, Bailey is bigger than Flash, because the reality of, er, size has naturally settled the issue of who is the top dog. While Flash would love to step in and take over, run our house the way he ran his old house, Bailey is having no part of it. Apparently, male dogs try to dominate other dogs by mounting them. When Flash first moved in, he tried to mount Bailey. This happened exactly once. At least Flash is a fast learner.

Before Flash came along, Bailey had also worked out his own little system for what to do when he feels like sowing some oats, so to speak. He grabs his bed by the scruff of it's neck and dominates *it*. Flash, though, having learned Bailey is not a willing partner, just walks around the living room humping the air.

Ben has watched this quietly before. The other day, though, he called to me when he caught Flash doing it again.

"Mom, come look! Flash is doing his Victory Dance!" I didn't correct him.

Then this morning on the way to the school bus, Ben asked his dad, "Dad, what's that pink thing sticking out under Flash?"

"That's his penis, Ben," was all Dad said. Silence ensued as Ben studied the dog from a distance until the bus arrived.

I laugh at how the kids glimpse different actions by watching the dogs, get questions answered by us and then try to put it all together with what they know about their own bodies. But I also know that it will make understanding more complex concepts a lot easier down the road. The biology of it all is being given to them piece by piece as they grow, thanks in part to the dogs. The emotional and social aspects of love and responsibility will come later. It's just nice to know that "the talk" in our house is already going on, one long conversation that will evolve and grow as the boys do.

Of course, we are all learning since our pack has grown, and not just about sex. Bailey has learned how to beg and hover by watching Flash. Flash has learned to ignore me when he's called by watching Ben, and how to play with his squeaky toys by watching Bailey. Both dogs have learned how to touch each other's stuff by watching the boys, and David and I have learned how to break up fights and discipline the dogs by watching the children.

Lumped into all this behavior are the natural instincts of males, acted out by the dogs and learned by the boys. It's silly, funny and strange, but opens up the lines of communication between us all so that even I have to admit to this unforeseen benefit of pet ownership. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

Parallel Universe

OK, maybe you can't see it in these pictures, but there is a calm, consistent evenness in the two with light eyes, and a devilish, resistant streak in the two little dark-eyed cuties. I have come to refer to the boys and the dogs as siblings, but only lately have I really seen the parallel of their relationships with each other.

When the boys come home, the first thing I do is get them a snack and sit them down to do homework. The first thing Ben does is complain. He avoids, distracts, wanders off and generally resists what he is supposed to be doing. If I tell him to clean his room, he heads down the hall, only to be discovered a half hour later playing with some toy I haven't seen in months. He remains surrounded by clean and dirty clothes, LEGOs and books on the floor and beams up at me from his unmade bed. It's as if my every request is a chance for him to do the opposite of what I want.

At first, I thought I was just being too sensitive, taking his actions too personally. But the next time I walked the dogs, I found Bailey responding to my every request, and Flash "digging in" and pulling in the direction opposite of the one we were trying to go. The more I pulled, the more he resisted. But when I let the leash go slack, and stood to watch him, he stared back at me with those dark-chocolate eyes, and then proceeded to join Bailey and me in our original direction, bouncing along happily as if he'd made his point and would now let it drop.

Call me crazy, but I really think this is universal behavior for second children. Or in the case of the dogs, the pooch who has been relegated (demoted?) to second-dog status. Someone was here before you, someone smart, sweet, cooperative, potty trained and easy to be around. He's a tough act to follow, so you'd better carve out your own little niche, showing everyone in every way that you are nothing like that guy who was here first.

Flash is a jumper, a barker, a hoverer. He does not like to be told what to do, and will give 110% to accomplish whatever you told him not to do. He follows Bailey around when he wants to wrestle or play with him, nudging and throwing himself under Bailey's nose to get noticed. If Bailey isn't in the mood and tries to wander away, Flash follows hot on his tail, barking relentlessly, as if to say, "Play with me! Play with me! Play with me!" You would think that Bailey would finally give in, just to get the little bugger off his back. I mean, it's not like he can go into his own room and close the door.

Finally, though we have taken pains to make sure both dogs receive all things equally--food, treats, beds, toys, walks and lovin'--Flash still wants what's not his. He curls up in Bailey's bed. He chews on Bailey's rawhide. He drinks from Bailey's water dish. And the look on poor Bailey's face seems to say, "My life was perfect! Why did you have to give me a little brother!?"

Alas, such things are always a good idea on paper, especially since we never consult with those who will feel the change most keenly. But I also know that, if either of my second "children" were suddenly the only one in the house (if Jacob were to go off to college, say, or Bailey got drafted), the younger one would be lost. They both define themselves by who they are in relation to their older "brothers." And as much as they all seem to annoy each other, the truth is they all love each other very much.

Though they'd never admit it, in this or any other universe.

Tell Me What You REALLY Think

If there's one thing you have to appreciate about Ben, it's his honesty. I should be more specific: his honesty when giving his opinion. If you ask him how the almost new body wash bottle got down to empty in the space of four days, he'll swear he has no idea. The toothpaste all over the faucet? Shoulder shrug. His brother's hairbrush in the garbage? Must have been the dog. But ask his opinion, and he doesn't hold back.

Sure, sometimes his opinions come unsolicited. And while his honesty can feel pretty brutal (Mom, you have a double chin; Dad, there's a booger in your nose), it's almost always funny when directed at someone else. In tonight's case, the unwitting recipient was the restaurant/dining hall where we ate dinner while visiting my mother-in-law's residence.

"Mom, what's that card?" Ben asked, pointing to the comment card on the table.

"Oh, it looks like a survey card, so you can tell the restaurant how they did. Let's see. Question 1) I received the correct food order. Question 2) My food was delivered timely. Do you know what 'timely' means?"

"Nope."

"That means it came in a reasonable amount of time after you ordered it. Question 3) My food temperature was acceptable...."

I read the rest of the questions with him, and showed him how it worked.

"See, after the meal, you read each question, and then select from Excellent, Very Good, Good, Fair or Poor and check the box next to the answer that fits your opinion."

"Oh, cool," Ben said, and placed the card and tiny pencil next to his plate before starting a game of "In My Backpack."

After about two go-rounds of the game, our food had yet to arrive, but I figured that since we were playing, the boys were distracted from this fact. I was wrong. When it was Ben's turn again, he leaned over to me and said in a stage whisper, "Well, timely is now at 'Good'".

Whether the staff heard him or not, I can't say. But about a minute after reciting, "In my backpack, I put: nine chocolate chip cookies, eight bowls of chicken noodle soup, seven lawn clippings, six basketballs, five salads, four biscuits, three buckets of blue cheese dressing, two Golden Retrievers and one glass of wine," the food showed up. Ben immediately picked up his pencil and checked 'Good' next to question two.

When the meal was through, he filled out the rest of the card, and in the space for his apartment number, he wrote, in very neat script, "non-resadint." I didn't correct him, in the hopes that the staff would get a chuckle over his feedback, and recognize that it was written by a child. And that maybe they won't hold his brutal honesty against us next time we visit.