My home office

"Jesus Christ, will you sit down already?"

This is H yelling at me most Sunday mornings as we try to enjoy coffee and catalogues in the family room.  Instead of caffeinating and perusing the ridiculous kitchen gadgets in Williams Sonoma, I keep popping up from the couch like a Jack In the Box.  Btw, an olive stuffer?  You really have too much free time and storage space if you own one of these.  OK, or you live my fantasy life.  Anyway, what am I doing?  What I do every day.   I'm working.

Being a stay at home mother, in addition to no pay or sick days, you get the added benefit of living in your office.  This means while H can sit peacefully at the kitchen table and read recipes, I sit there and notice my pile of papers on top of the microwave - permission slips, coupons, registration forms and bills - is growing massive. Or alternately, I look over H's shoulder and notice the pantry, left open by the kids, is looking particularly like cabinets in his college apartment after a wild Saturday night with cereal boxes and cookie packages on their sides, half-open, ready to spill their contents all over the shelves , and an overflowing recycling bin. I think to myself I should probably put a dent in these tasks while the kids are playing nicely and I have another adult in the house to run interference.

A lot of this, I know, is my own fault.  Now that my work is taking care of the kids and keeping the house, there is always something to do and procrastination has never been part of my personality.  My thinking process is the more I get done now, the further ahead of the game I will be come Monday.  However, as I say to H, imagine if he had to spend the entire weekend in his office and not only refrain from doing any work, but have four other people actively adding to his load as he sits there idle.  He'd be twitching come Sunday morning too.  In the business world, a pause button is pushed, for the most part, over weekends and holidays.  My work world is more like Lucille Ball in the candy factory*.  It just keeps coming and coming, and forty-eight inactive hours results in my shoving the chocolates in my mouth and down my bra Monday morning trying to keep up.

Even I know that all work and no play make Jack a dull boy.  And I am trying.  Look at me now, for instance, ignoring the detritus from the girls' cookie decorating playdates, and writing while they are still occupied with their friends in the basement.  But that's only because the mess is in the dining room. Maybe that's the trick.  To just walk away from the mess.  Out of sight is out of mind.

What do you think H would say to my not entering the kitchen at all Saturday and Sunday?


*I don't know why, but I have always felt H and I have a strong Lucy and Ricky vibe going on.

The Office "Party"

'Tis the season.  Time for holiday cards, gift wrapping, tree trimming and the time-honored awkward social event that is the office holiday party.

Does anyone really enjoy these gatherings?  I don't mean the after-party you and the co-workers you actually like have at the local bar once the official soiree is over.  I mean the actual party itself.  In my experience, the best you can hope for is to not embarrass yourself by doing something stupid caused by nervous alcohol consumption.

Being at the company Christmas party is like having friends over your house while you are still in college.  Sure, you can legally drink, but your dad is going to come down to the basement in his bathrobe at some point and tell you to keep that racket down.  Bosses, typically don't want lawsuits on their hands, post-xmas party, so while there is booze, it's not exactly the night to be doing Jager bombs.  This point is pointedly driven home by the fact 99% of these gatherings happen on Thursdays, forcing you to curtail your consumption in order to make it to work the next day.  Since calling in sick the day after the holiday party essentially tells the boss you are not ready for the varsity team just yet.

Speaking of the boss, of course you have to have five minutes of stilted conversation with him or her.  You try to talk about non-work things, and for some of you, you might actually have a lot in common with this person - lucky you.  For most, the only thing that links them with their head honcho is the signature on their paycheck.  Then there are the coworkers.  There's that strange guy from the mailroom you exchange thirty seconds of pleasantries with on a work day, who corners you by the buffet at the party to talk to you about his eight track player collection.  And there's always some unexpected drunkard.  A guy or gal who seems pretty sane the other 364 days of the year, but winds up leading the whole room in the Electric Slide a few hours in.

The venue is always an interesting aspect of holiday celebrations.  Your coworkers out of their natural habitat can be pretty hilarious.  Seeing the cranky accounts guy at Senor Tacos holding a margherita is like seeing a monkey driving a bus.  In my most recent office party experience (through H), the place is frequently chosen by some twenty-something girls in HR with a name like Brittany.  She thinks  low,white leather couches and purple strobe lights are awesome!  The sixty year-old head of billing does not agree as he throw his back out getting off of said couches to go be disgusted by the sushi bar and stare quizzically at the vodka luge.*

Speaking of going H's holiday parties, attending one of these fetes as the spouse is a particular kind of awkward.  Especially the first year at a company.  For H and I it is even worse, since I am usually the party navigator, and in this particular instance, I am stuck to him like a social remora, relying on him for introductions.  But come the second year, I have usually made a few besties among the office girls (shout out, A), and usually wander off on my own.  A fine line must be walked, however, since no one wants to be known as "the guys with that drunk wife" come the next morning.**  Also, over the last few years, as H has ascended the ranks, there's a bit of "the boss's wife" situation where people are oddly formal talking to me.  I'm beginning to think the boss (or their spouse) is as uncomfortable at the party as everyone else.

Yes, cliches abound along with painful social interaction, office hookups and inappropriate photocopier for example. If (most of us) have learned to avoid some of these behaviors, like making copies of one's ass, why can't we get past the weirdness?  Because we didn't choose to hang out with these people, that's why.  It's like family.  Some of us are lucky enough to have a great time with ours***, but others merely tolerate theirs.  So if we can into these things with that mindset, maybe things would be better.  You wouldn't have a rager with your Aunt Maggie.  Don't expect that of your boss while enjoying your free booze and shrimp.

*One year, H's party was held in this industrial space where a guy dressed in a mirror gimp suit did a suspended acrobatic act like a human disco ball.
**I didn't help the year I stol the life-sized cardboard cutout they had made of H, dragging it into a cab with me.
***Lucky me.

"I don't care, as long as it's healthy!"

So if you're not watching The New Normal, you have to start.  It's great comedy, sprinkled with hilarious parenting advice, such as, "In my day, all you needed to control a child was an icy tone, pursed lips and a squinty eye."

An episode a few weeks back tackled the topic of gender.  Specifically, the gender of our children and how we react to that as parents.  The gay couple expecting their child via surrogate, accidentally finds out the gender of their baby.  One husband is delighted, the other is disappointed.  In his defense, the disappointed hubby posits, no mater how much we pay lip service to the contrary (see title of this post), we all care, deeply, about the sex of our child.

Now go ahead and pretend he's wrong.

All of you out there who wound up with the "wrong" gender kid are going to say, "I was not disappointed at all!"  Of course you'd say that.  How could you possibly admit the person you love more than everything on the planet isn't exactly what you once wanted them to be?

I will be the first to admit, I wanted a girl, BADLY.  H and I had picked the name of our first daughter long before we were even thinking about kids (and, yes, it is the name we gave her), but if you asked me what I would name the child I was carrying should it be male, I responded ala Lucille Bluth, "I don't understand the question and I won't respond to it." I was so invested in having a daughter I couldn't process the idea of it not happening.  You know, because I control the universe and all.
We all have our reasons for desiring a certain gender kid, and usually, it is a child of our own sex.  Unless you are my mother, who only wanted sons.  You know I have a sister, so you see how well that worked out for her.

We all have visions of what parenting will be like.  We look forward to all the meaningful moments we will share with our offspring, and some of those are gender specific.  I looked forward to reading Little House on the Prairie with my daughter, and watching Gilmore Girls while we painted our toenails.  I wanted to watch her play field hockey* and lead her Girl Scout troop.  I wanted to take my twelve year-old shopping at the mall and silently and immediately understand why she thrusts her three-scoop ice cream cone into my hands on the down escalator when the boy she has a crush on approaches on the up escalator like my mother did for me...and then have a talk about food and how if you can't eat in front of a man, he ain't for you and you need some therapy, which my mother didn't do.

That brings us to another point. half the reason I was so invested in having a female child was because of my mother.  A lot of us want to recreate what we had with our own same-gender parent.  I know I basically wanted what my mother and I had minus the, you know, dying young part.  Or maybe it's the opposite. and your parent didn't do the hottest job with you and you want to try it your way with your own kid (see ice cream scenario above).  There is healing in that,  but also A LOT of expectations and that can be really dangerous.

Expectations are what pregnancy is all about, but parenting is about managing expectations, otherwise, we set ourselves up for major failure and disappointment.  Even if you wind up with the sex you wanted, your child may not be interested in all the things you dreamed about doing (when #2 told me Little House was boring, a little part of me died).  Giving birth is the ultimate case of "you get what you get and you don't get upset".  You child was born the person they are.  They were not born to meet your pre-conceived notion of what your family should be.  wWhen I mention parents who wound up with the "wrong" gender child, what I should really write is the "surprise" gender child.  You didn't know what you needed and maybe the universe gave it to you.  I never thought I wanted a boy, and was in shock when the ultrasound technician told me I was having one.  I didn't even think I made that flavor.  But now I can't imagine life without my sloppy, affectionate, goofy little sidekick.  If I'd only gotten what I wanted, I'd never know what I was missing.

Maybe we worry we won't be as connected to a child we won't necessarily share the same life experiences with.  Yes, sharing common interests can promote a strong parent-child relationship, but so can learning something new with your kid.  I now know more about construction vehicles than I ever thought possible. God help me if he plays football though.**  I also worry about how little I think I can teach LM about being a man.  Instead, I should focus on teaching him how to be a good person.  I can also teach him how to treat women, which I think will set him up OK in life.  Or at least his wife.  You're welcome for raising a man who lifts the seat, does his own dishes and knows how to call a florist.


Your kids teach you as much as you teach them and we need to be open to the lessons.  That being said, you know if my first three had all been boys, I'd be sitting here pregnant again. ***

*Which, sadly, has been replaced by girls' lacrosse as the "suburban white girl in kilt" sport, where the rules prevent body contact.  What's up with that?

**The World's Most Boring Sport.
***When H and I were deciding about having a third, he assured his desire was not in an effort to have a boy.  After Little Man's birth he laughed and told me this was, in fact, utter bullshit and he'd keep having them as long as I would to have a son.

Just a little off the top...

“What the hell happened to his head???”

This is me, screaming, after H returns with Little Man from, yet another, trip to the Supercuts.  It seems their version of a boy’s haircut involves sticking his head in a pencil sharpener.

“It’s your fault”, H protests, “If you would just take him to the damn barber already, we could stop having this argument every six weeks.”

Every six weeks.  While I have thoroughly enjoyed the daily no-maintenance aspect of male hair care for the under-ten set, the frequency of my son’s trips to a hair professional of some sort rivals my own. Once Little Man was old enough for his first haircut, H insisted the town barber shop was the way to go.  But one walk by, and I knew the seventy year-old Italian who runs the joint was going to have little patience for a squirmy two year-old.  So we were off to my salon where the gals had seen him go from source of nausea, to baby bump, to toddler with a mullet, and they would be as invested in his looking good, and not crying while getting there, as I was.

His first haircut was an ordeal, as expected.  Both of us covered in a drape,  he sat in my lap, crying at the trimmer, wiggling so that, eventually, the rest of the cut had to take place with his facing me and me holding his head between my hands.  Sam, my hairdresser, was so sweet and patient with him, as we chatted about celebrity gossip over the crying. I doubt I would’ve been so comfortable with the barber, Little John, across the street, who probably would’ve been enraged by my soft parenting, eventually screaming at LM, “SHUTUPA YOU FACE!”  After a few haircuts, LM eventually figured out the whole sitting still thing and that after the haircut waits a whole table of baked treats, and pretty women to cluck over how handsome you are, and got with the program.

We would’ve sailed along nicely if H hadn’t stuck his nose in my business.  Indulgent as he is about the amount I spend on my hair, he, and OK, I, could not see adding to that amount with a pre-schooler’s ‘do.  Also, I felt like LM’s personal grooming was something he should be having more of a hand in, since shaving and other things I know nothing about are coming down the pike.  But still, the barber was not working out for us because the place is PACKED on the weekends, the only time H can take him.  And they don’t take appointments!  What is up with that?  Giving men yet another excuse, along with mowing the lawn, for getting out of the house for long periods of time.* All of LM’s sitting-and-being-quite time would be eaten up sitting on those ancient red leather chairs I see in the windows, rifling through old issues of Golf Digest.  Hence, the Supercuts.

Then I made the appointment for the holiday picture.  I could not bear the thought of future ribbing at the Christmas Eve table, as LM’s future wife looks through our old photos and, seeing this year’s, asks me, “How could you have done that to his hair????”.  It was time to make friends with Little John and his band of merry WOPs this Thursday.**

We walked in at ten o’clock this morning.  I figured, by then, the guys trying to get a cut in before work would be gone and all the old guys would all be done, and save for one guy getting his head shaved, the place was empty.  It took a minute for anyone to acknowledge us, since they were all busy reading the New York Post, so I got to really enjoy the faded pages ripped out or hair magazines and taped to the faux-marble formica that covers eighty percent of the walls and counters.  If I were looking for feathered layers for LM I’d have many examples to point to. Where is the receptionist who knows me by name to take our coats?  We were unceremoniously waved over to a chair, thankfully, belonging to the youngest of the staff, since I was still worried about behavior-related confrontations. 

“What we gonna do, bella?”  OK, mild flirting from Italian men is a soft spot of mine, especially if they are old.  I had learned enough back at my salon to know the trimmer level they use on LM, but had to explain that the top gets scissor-cut to deal with his massive cowlick.  This is half the reason LM’s haircuts are so difficult.  True to the meaning of the word, it looks like a cow licked him right up his face.  His hair, left unattended, tends toward a Cameron Diaz in There's Something About Mary sort of look.  So, Nick, our barber, whips out scissors and comb and starts combing in an upward motion and snipping at lightning speed.  I am instantly terrified.  There is no slow and careful snipping.  No checking in with me about how I think the length is, just hair flying everywhere.  Little Man, himself surprised, starts to lean away from the scissors, causing Nick to simply rotate to the other side of his head to force him back the other way.  I can’t look.

So instead, I look around me.  Where the walls aren't covered in aforementioned formica, they are covered in oak paneling.  The barbers have old school, red leather chairs with the adjustable headrests.  Little Man is even sitting on a coordinating red leather booster.  Each barber has his name over his station on faux-wood plaque, with family photos taped up around their mirrors and old copies of Il Messagero on their countertops.  The two men who came in after us chat comfortably with Nick, Joe and Little John about town politics, the lottery and the weather and if they don't want to talk, they flip through the paper.  Joe puts a hot towel on one gentleman's neck before shaving him with a straight razor. There is a clubby relaxed energy, or lack there of here that is distinctly male.  I'm sort of falling in love with this little place.  It is what it is and if you don't like then, vaffanculo!*** 

Then, with a quick swish of that fluffy white brush covered in talcum powder, all the hair bits are whisked off LM’s neck, a quick smack of some pomade, and there was my little boy, looking clean and handsome.  Maybe Nick put a little too much product in his hair and his cowlick stood a little too straight-up giving him a distinct Pauly D vibe, but it was better than him looking like a #2 Ticonderoga.  For the bargain price of fifteen dollars, Little Man had a fresh cut and was even offered a lollipop out of the little basket by the cash register (that had actual buttons) and I had a new appreciation for this male enclave.  

I used to tease H when he came home smiling after his visits to this shop, wondering what all the fuss was about.  Now I know, just like when I go to the salon, I can turn into a female stereotype, chatting about intimate things with women I have nothing in common except we both have tin foil on our heads, while reading Us Weekly, and H gets to go to the barber shop, hang out and be a guy.  There's nothing wrong with my son experiencing that too.  And I love how unpretentious this place is that provides that experience.  All these hip, "old school" barber shops that are opening, offering hot razor shaves and all that jazz?  These guys are all, "What, who's not doing that?", proving not everything in the world needs to be fancy to be good.

So farewell, Supercuts, you have hirsutically assaulted my child for the last time.  I leave him in the capable hands of an Italian sporting a mullet.

*Do I make being home sound like prison?  I don’t mean to, it’s actually an insane asylum.

**I reserve the right to use both Irish and Italian ethnic slurs. Deal.

***"Fuck you!"

Dear Diamond Industry,

You probably don't remember me, since we haven't had much contact since my wedding (more on that later), but I just had to write about your holiday advertising campaign.  Which one you ask?  Every one.  Every single one I have had to endure for the last fifteen years.

We've all seen them a thousand times so we know you are forever, every kiss begins with you, blah, blah, blabbity blah.  And every year there is some new must-have piece of jewelry, many with emotion-inducing names like eternity necklaces and Open Heart necklaces (designed by Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman herself, Jane Seymour).  Then there are new kinds of stones, like diamonds with their own serial numbers engraved inside or chocolate diamonds.  I suppose in instances of theft, the former is useful, the latter, however, just reminds me of the "champagne diamonds" from that movie Beautiful Girls ("It's a new trend in the diamond trade, they're trying to create a new market...Oh, right, right. yeah. They were callin' 'em "piss", but they weren't moving any units.").  Just like the kids trying to get their mitts on a Wii U, women everywhere are dropping not-so-subtle hints to their mates about the new "it" bauble.

Crazy creations aside, it is really the commercials we are bombarded with that drive me mad, or rather the demographic you are marketing to.  I will give you a pass on the ads featuring young couples getting engaged.  The holidays are a popular time to pop the question.  Mean Mommy herself was proposed to at Christmas time at the tender age of 22.  But other than ads for engagement rings, why are you marketing to anyone under the age of fifty?

One particular ad features shots of a woman through courtship, marriage and early parenthood, with the husband voicing over, proclaiming his love for her and how he'd be "nowhere without her".  Well, if you are like most people in your stage of life, buying her that necklace you'll be somewhere -the poor house.  Rather than buying his wife a stone to hang around her neck (and probably have their toddler rip off and flush down the toilet), this guy should be worrying about paying for preschool and saving for a first home.  Tiffany, you try, I grant you, with the Silver Fox* and his wife who actually has crow's feet, but they look forty-five, tops.  The average person of this age also has better places to put their money, like college funds and IRAs.  You can't tell me that many people have every other financial necessity in their lives covered.  

Can't we please have a representation of the people who can actually afford your products?  Is it the fact that older people are "unsexy"?  I know, I know, you want to create a lifetime customer, and, let's face it, old folks ain't got that much time, but I still can't help but say shame on you.  Shame on you for making men think that putting themselves in debt is the only way to show a woman they care.  And shame on us for buying into it.  I, personally, can't justify buying any rocks and then having my kids have to take out Stafford loans.

You know what else is forever?  A bankruptcy on your credit report.  Ok, really seven to ten years, but you get my meaning.

XO - MM

*Pre-mature grey makes you look old?  Um, more like SEXY.  Shout out, H.

Right here, right now

Happy Thanksgiving Eve-eve, dear readers!

Tomorrow I will be on my way into the city with the kids to watch Macy's inflate the Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons.  I hope there aren't any balloon-escape incidents as there were last year, but this year we are stoller-free, so perhaps there will be a Mommy-pulls-out-her-back-carrying-Little-Man-around-the-Upper-West-Side-incident.

I have been giving this year's entry in the Thanksgiving Book some thought.  As I have mentioned before, my entries in the earlier years were pretty easy, since we had major life events to write about, some sad, some happy - miscarriage and unemployment, births, and new homes - but for the last few years, the lives of the Mean Mommy clan have been steadily chugging along with few major events.   Each day is full of school and friends and work and home improvement projects and laughter and tears.  And this year I am not only grateful for that, but for the perspective to enjoy this phase.

Our lives are busy, but with all wonderful things.  Sure, the hectic nature of raising three children can get to me, but I know that I will look back on these times and realize how young and strong and vital H and I were.  How I was the cog that kept the machinery of this family urning on a daily basis. How H busted his ass night and day to provide fuel for our engines. How this well-oiled unit we have created is the center of our children's universe.  How our children were in the nascent stages of becoming who they are and what a miracle it was to take part in that.  Homework, soccer games, giant carts full of groceries, Play-Doh, trips to the playground - these will all , at some point, be just a distant memory. We are in the glorious, messy, vibrant thick of it.

For many of us in this stage of life, our families, both nuclear and extended, are at that delicate tipping point.  Our children are growing up, but not yet grown, we ourselves are still young, and our parents are healthy and active.  We are in a moment of abundance and attention must be paid.  To use some Thanksgiving imagery, I feel like this state of being could be represented by a cornucopia, filled not with things, but with blessings.  It is called the "horn of plenty".  Plenty is defined as "the state or quality of abundance".

Then I have plenty.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Happy Blog-a-versary!

"No one told me it would be like this..."

It's been five years, dear readers, FIVE, since I wrote that sentence in the dark depths of my basement playroom, in my sweatpants, half-deranged with sleep deprivation.  Yes, I said sweatpants.  I hadn't even discovered yoga pants yet, that's how long ago it was.  Mean Mommy, B.Y.P.

If I were being completely honest with myself back then, other mothers did tell me how it would be.  In fact, the minute you announce your first pregnancy every Tom, Dick and Mommy is ready to unload all the nursing/colic/no sleep horror stories in their arsenal.  But being convinced you will be a much better parent than they are and your baby can't possibly turn out like their shitty baby, you ignore everything they say, even if some of it is useful.  And then you find out you're wrong and wonder why nobody warned you.

Five years later, having made it through my baby years, I still feel completely unprepared for what parenthood throws at me.  I find myself saying even more often now, "No one told me it would be like this".  Although we ignore the stories, baby and toddlerhood is pretty similar for all parents.  We all just want our kids to eat, sleep and hit their developmental milestones.  Once our kids reach school age though, those clear mile-markers are gone, and we are left to navigate parenthood's dangerous highway without a map.  Five years ago, I envisioned my life as the mother of school-aged kids as a nirvana of mid-morning exercise, blown-out hair and copious writing time since all three of my children would be in school for at least half the day.  I thought there might even be the possibility of my going back to work, because how much could they really need me once they were no longer babies but bonafide kids?

I wrote the post The Fourteen Month Itch when Little Man was tiny, expressing the reawakening most women experience once their babies reach toddlerhood.  Your baby's need for you, specifically you, has greatly diminished.  Your baby is usually no longer feeding from your body and really any able bodied person could keep them alive for extended periods of time, often times without your child even realizing you are gone.  You begin to look around and wonder if maybe you couldn't do something outside of the house.  The years between the ages of two and four are the years you feel like you could be accomplishing a lot more.  These years are the calm before the storm.   Once your kids hit elementary school, they will need you almost as much as when they were babies.

I hear you laughing at my perceived helicopter parenting, but overly-orchestrated playdates are not what I'm talking about.  I am talking about the millions of little interactions and teachable moments that help shape your child into the person they will become.  School pick-up, for example.  There's a reason I have to drink a large cup of coffee at three o'clock.  That's because at three eighteen I am hit, full-force, with a days' worth of success and despair from three small people, all whom need my full attention equally.  "Lisa didn't sit with me at lunch"..."I lost at Coconut Island in gym, again"..."I won Student of the Month!"  Each of these events needs to be addressed and have their attendant lessons discussed and it begins from the moment I meet my kids at the school doors, continues into the van, as we walk through the front door and right to the kitchen table for snack.  By the time I am doling out the pretzels, we have covered how to deal with it when a friend hurts your feelings, how to be a good sport and how hard work does pay off.

The kids settle in for homework and then it's time for me to harass #1 about her handwriting and check #2's math since she notoriously does not fully explain her answers.  She also needs to find an article for current events and we spend twenty minutes discussing the bear hunt issue in New Jersey once we've found one.  Litte Man needs to work on his fine motor skills so I'm trying to convince him to chop up a Toys R Us catalogue to make his list for Santa.  Now #1 needs a thesaurus because we both agree she has used the word "rocky" too many times in her report on Maine. As this all winds down and it's time to start dinner,  I am dizzy, but I feel so so grateful I am here for all of this madness.

Please, please, do not take this as an anti-working rant, because it is decidedly not.  I give so much credit to the women who work all day then come home and do all the things I just described, just much later and, probably, feeling much more tired.  My point is, that while the physical care of my children has greatly decreased, I feel, in some ways, they have never need me more and I am still surprised by it at times.  I can only imagine what I'll be hit with as my kids approach their teen years.  Again, I imagine a life of ease, may be even joining a gym.  But seeing how accurate my last five year prediction was I'm not getting my hopes up.

I suppose, with the title of that first post five years ago, I unknowingly described parenting - everyday brings the unexpected. No one told me it would be like this.

But could they have?

Walk this way...(don't take a friggin' cab)

I was tempted to just jump right back into writing, blatantly ignoring my long absence sure no one would have noticed, but then I received a few concerned comments on the blog, asking if I was OK after Hurricane Sandy, so I felt like I had to at least acknowledge my hiatus.  I barely remembered the password to my Blogger account today.  My writing muscles are weak, so this post is the literary equivalent of doing your first Sweatin' to the Oldies video after you've had a baby.  Be kind to me, dear readers.

So, yes, my nuclear family and I are just fine after the hurricane.  I have major survivor's guilt since we never lost power when most of our town was out for nine days.  While many families I know were going to bed at 7:30, huddled together under blankets to keep warm (shout out Donna), I was drinking a lot of wine with various guests we have had since the storm.  We felt the best way to make up for our good fortune was to feed people and get them drunk so they could pass out comfortably in ur poorly heated attic bedroom. My body is currently protesting the lack of refined sugar and alcohol, since after the 7th night in a row of drinking and binge-eating Halloween candy we never got to give out, I had to get back to real life, otherwise, I was going to wind up attending Weight Watcher's and AA meetings for all of November.

Some very close family and friends did not fare so well, which is a stark reminder that not everyone was watching movies at night and wondering when the kids would be going back to school.  Or, more like, wondering when your husband would go back to work, since he was stalking around the house after a week like a caged animal.  My children have known no wrath from me like that I exhibited when they got upset about Halloween being a bust for the second year in a row.  One, two, maybe even three bouts of disappointment I can understand, but when people you love dearly have no home, you can shut the hell up about not having a pillowcase full of Butterfingers under your bed.  And I would've taken all of those anyway.  A lot of people are still really suffering, so for those of my readers who are not local, and would like to help, please consider donating to the Red Cross relief effort.

I can't blame my lack of writing entirely on Sandy.  Well, I guess I can't blame Sandy at all since we had power.  I'll blame my husband and children for being under foot for almost two weeks.  I will also blame it on preparing for, and recovering from, the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to all of my readers, many of whom I have never met in person, who generously donated to my walk fund.  The walk in New York alone raised 8.3 million dollars.  Yes, I am proud to have helped with that, but I am even prouder of the fact that I actually finished the walk.

I have to confess, when I signed up I thought, "How hard could it be to walk 39 miles over two days?".  I've run 13 miles then gone about my regular day!  My partner and I did a few "training walks", ten miles or so, mostly to break in our new walking shoes.  I got into the car at 4:30 Saturday morning to head into the city sure this would not be a problem.  You know where this is going.

Fast forward to 2:30 in the afternoon at mile 26 and I am on the verge of tears.  My partner and I had been walking the streets of New York for eight consecutive hours, stopping only to pee, get water and grab a sandwich at the lunch station.  I developed a huge blister on the back of my left heel and my left calf was cramping after hours of altering my gait to compensate.  The course had begun at Pier 84 on the west side of Manhattan, and snaked uptown, downtown and across three bridges.  We walked past landmarks I had never seen up close like the Intrepid and  Grant's Tomb.  We walked near the latter and further north during the wee hours of the morning, thanks to the sharp planning of the walk coordinators.  I was glad we had a motorcycle escort at six a.m., since the residents who were awake in those neighborhoods were not at all psyched about thousands of women dressed in pink racing along their sidewalks.

That's right, I said motorcycle escort.  We had quite the tough gang of bikers, many with pink accents hanging off of their bikes, meeting us at various crossings to ensure our safe passage.  The walk people really made sure, not only that we made it out of the 'hood safely, but that the out-of-town rubes didn't get mowed down by a city bus, by having crossing guards as well.  These were less consistent in their type and quality.  There were many lovely volunteers who cheered us on our way appropriately.  Then there was Inappropriate Hugging Guy and the guy shouting "Do it for the boobies!".  And you didn't just run into them once, they ran all over the city to get ahead of the pack.  By our third meeting with IHG, he knew to stay the fuck away from me or get a swift one to the nads.  I would've taken a guard of any type and quality though, at noon on the Brooklyn Bridge.  Between hipster wedding parties taking Instagram photos of the beautiful day and European tourists screwing up the flow of pedestrian traffic, it was like a game of Frogger.

The walkers also varied in their type and quality (more on that).  There were plenty of two and three person teams such as my partner and myself.  There were also families and the survivors they were supporting.  There were corporate groups with professionally embroidered golf shirts such as the Testes for Breasties team.  There were A LOT of breast puns.  There were huge fundraising teams who were doing their 10th walk together, many decked out in costumes.  Pink boas and tutus abounded.  While cute, I could only imagine the chafing and sweatiness they would generate come mile 10.

Now about walker quality.  Don't get all judgy.  I don't mean the survivors, or the elderly.  I mean the able bodied gals, like myself.  After the first few miles, the pack thinned out according to pace, and you generally found yourself walking near the same people on and off again.  This was fine unless you wound up walking five miles next to Loud-mouthed Lucy and her partner Megaphone Marcy.  No, I don't care how your neighbor's house is in foreclosure or about your sister's prolapsed uterus (I do not kid), so pipe it down, sister.

The other walkers I took issue with were The Cheaters.  At mile 13, we happened upon some boa-sporting ladies at a red light who asked us incredulously, "Jeez, are you guys running?".  When we pointed out we all seemed to be keeping the same pace, they guffawed, "We went to breakfast and took a cab here!"  We passed another team on the Upper West Side who was waiting for a flea market to open to do some shopping.  All of this made my blood boil.  I know this walk was not a "race", per se, but, true to my type A personality, I took it on as a physical challenge, and my partner and I wanted to finish in the top 100.  How demoralizing to be numbers 20 and 21 at Rest Stop 3, then 62 and 63 at Rest Stop 4 because pople were cab-hopping all over the place.  In the post-race survey, I recommended some kind of chip for those who wanted to keep track of their progress and no chip for those who wanted to go to brunch.

All in all, the walk was an incredible experience that I highly recommend.  Walking, or hobbling, through the balloon arch at the finish on the second day, I felt like I had really taken part in something wonderful.  I had raised a lot of money ($2100!) and pushed myself through physical pain, for a good cause.  And, once and for all, proved I should never run a marathon.  Walking one almost killed me.  And no, I'm still not putting a queer sticker on my van.

So I am back, dear readers.  Expect more posts next week.  Unless there's an earthquake or swarm of locusts.

Time marches, not runs, on...

1. Tendonitis of the right foot

2. Immobilizing back spasm

3. Labral tear of the left hip

4. Strained iliosacral muscle

5. Plantar fasciitis

No, this isn’t the injury list of the Yankee’s DL, it’s list of the “sports injuries” I have incurred over the last eighteen months (except for #3, wassup A-Rod!).  I even had to go to the orthopedist, and twice weekly physical therapy for the last two instead of exercising through the pain like I usually do.  What the hell happened?

I got old.

I am used to the slow, but insistent, signs of aging that have crept over my body and face during the last decade.  My hair color is no longer recreational, and my anti-aging creams are no longer preventative.  But this?  To have my body slowly begin giving out on me?  Was a shock.

And it’s not just me.  When I posted on Facebook, looking for local physical therapist recommendations, I received ten suggestions in as many minutes.  When I went to the therapist in New Town, I expected it to be full of doddering old folks, recovering from hip fractures.  There were a few of those.  Among them, the school crossing guard who had mysteriously disappeared in May.  Thank God, because I was afraid he had died of a sudden heart attack, but was telling the kids maybe he went to go live with his grandchildren in Florida.  The crossing guard version of “we sent the dog to a farm”.  But along with Mr. Stevens, were a huge number of people my age recovering from self-induced recreational injuries. This entire generation, has become obsessed with proving their youth with feats of physical strength and endurance, only to kill ourselves in the process.

Will any of these, Iron Mans, Rugged Maniacs, or Marine Corps Marathons ever stop the march of time? Staying fit will improve your quality of life, and probably prolong it, but it won’t bring back your twenties.  And what’s so wrong with aging, anyway?  Why is younger always better?  Yes, youth is further away from death, but it’s closer to the time when you didn’t know who you were or what the hell you were doing.  We need to accept aging as a natural part of life, with all the changes in appearance* and performance that come along with it.  Wouldn’t it be better to embrace a new age bracket and be the best version of your current self, than pathetically cling to your old demographic?  And that’s not to say you stop working out and, buy elastic waist pants and comfort shoes, but perhaps stop trying so hard.  Like, so hard, you wind up needing hip surgery.**

It’s surprising how aging creeps up on you.  One minute you’re a semi-attractive young, new mom, the next, you’re standing at your youngest child's pre-school pick-up with women young enough to look like your daughter.  Did you really think you'd stay young forever?  You can't and you won't.  Have a drink and accept it.

Even though you can outrun those moms, you can't outrun Father Time.

*See also: Botox and facial fillers

**Which, had physical therapy not worked, would have rendered me unable to even bear weight on the repaired hip for six weeks.  Other than the very real possibility of my being institutionalized not being able to work out some of my manic energy, how would I possibly care for three children?  The smug Physician's Assistant at my, otherwise wonderful, orthopedist's office said, "lean on the good leg while you pack the lunch boxes."  I almost said, "Now I understand why your only a Physician's Assistant."

"Ten more... Stay strong."

I haven't done much writing about Little Man starting kindergarten so far this school year.  Mostly, because it's a cliche - moms  getting all nostalgic when their youngest starts school - but also because with half-day kindergarten, he's actually in school fewer hours than when he was in pre-school.  So I'll save the boo-hoo-ing for when he is gone for more than two and a half hours a day next year.  He and I are getting a lot quality time together, lots of dates at Starbucks, walks in New Town's arboretum, and Hot Wheels races at home, all of which I am seriously loving.

What I am not loving is an unintentional side effect of my intentionally placing him in PM kindergarten.  I thought I was being super smart having him go to school in the afternoon.  The girls could still walk to school together while he and I stayed in our lounging clothes, waving them off each morning.  Many stores are not open before ten o'clock anyway, so I'd kill half my free time waiting if he were gone on the AM hours.  Guess what I forgot about?  My exercise class.

(Sound of record scratching)

I know!  Me, who bitches and moans whenever she has to use a public exercise facility on vacation, has started taking, and loving, an exercise class.

My former opinion of exercises classes, was below that of public gyms if you can believe it.  Using Jazzercise and Zumba as my narrow-minded examples, I assumed these classes were for the lazy, who wanted to pretend dancing was exercise.  They were for people who didn't have the discipline of self-motivation to workout on their own.  Yes, yes, many people love Zumba, with its fun reputation and "anyone can do it" mantra, and it has helped many sedentary people become active.  But I put those people in the same category those who lose weight after they stop drinking a six pack of soda and eating McDonalds three times a day.  Any change was going to result in weight loss.  I was already in decent shape so I thought an hour wiggling my hips to music was a waste of my time.  Then there was the other extreme - spinning and classes like Cross Fit.  I wasn't crazy enough to do one of those.  They have their own language for Christ's sake.  It's one step away from being a cult - and I'm sure I would wind up dead on the floor after either of them.

So when my friend invited me along for a free trial of the class she was currently taking, I was a little skeptical.  She assured me it wasn't too difficult, and she didn't seem like a member of a secret exercise cult, so I agreed.  Maybe I was drunk, but I now see what I was missing always working out alone.

I used to roll my eyes at the ladies chewing the fat outside the doorway of the step aerobics class at my local gym back in the 90s (while I was on my way to power walk on the treadmill, oh, the 90s).  You're here to work out, not make friends.  Get in, get it done, get out.  But I suppose now that exercise is one of the few things I do solely for myself these days, having a pleasant little chat before and after doing so is an added bonus.  In addition, many of the women on class are moms from the school so it's nice to shoot the shit while the kids aren't harassing us.

This class was hugely different from everything I was doing fitness-wise.  I was moving my body in different ways, using muscles I hadn't used in years.  Every class is a different combination of moves so my body never gets bored and neither do I, so I never get dangerously close to passing out from boredom.  From over-exertion?  Occasionally. This constant changing also prevents injury, which, as I enter my later years is becoming an issue*.  It also forces me to stretch since my instructor peppers the routine liberally with what I used to call "the lazy person's excuse to stop".  Now I know it's how you prevent yourself from being crippled.

Working out in a group setting pushes me like my own inner drive never could.  It's not that I'm competitve, I just don't want to look like a fool.  This class uses a ballet barre and your own body weight for lower body exercises.  Now I know why ballet dancers have legs like they do.  It's seriously friggin' hard.  If I were doing a video this difficult at home, I'd be stopping all the time to give my quads a break, pretending to check on the kids.  Not during this class.  When my legs are shaking like Jello, I keep pulsing.  I'll be damned if I'll be the first to stop.

And the absolute best part of this class is the instructor, Jen.  She pushes and encourages me at all the right times, without constantly speaking in all caps and exclamation points (see the title of this post).  Nothing makes my day like a "Beautiful, Mary!", during a sequence.  I realized, nerd that I am, I have been missing having a teacher to suck up to!  If she gave progress reports I'd be psyched.  She also has awesome taste in music, so it's like having someone make a really great workout playlist for you each week.  Pat Benatar and Salt 'N Pepa in the same class, I tell you!

So, dear readers, I am now officially a convert of group exercise.  Yes, I still need my solo time during my runs, but a few times a week I am a "joiner".  I highly recommend you give it a shot.

I'm still not taking Zumba though.

*I have been diagnosed with a labral tear in my left hip.  The same injury as Alex Rodriguez of the Yankees.  If he can have the same "sports injury" as a 38 year-old mother of three, it validates my opinion that baseball is not really a sport.  Go ahead and hate.  If you can have a huge gut and chew gum while doing it, it's not a sport, it's game of skill.  See also: Bowling and Archery.

Time to walk the walk...

"My kids won't watch TV until they are at least six years old."

"My kids won't eat any packaged or processed foods - ever."

"I won't allow my daughter to play with Barbies."

And on, and on, and on.  Oh, the standards we set for ourselves early on in our parenting careers, before we have even a glimmer of a clue.  We are so high and mighty, up in our ivory tower of new parenthood, we are sure we will never make the compromises we see less committed, lazy parents around us making.

Then our baby gets older and and we have more kids, and we realize we had no idea what the hell we were talking about.  We see how strategically-used, limited TV watching makes everyone lives run a little smoother, allowing us to cook dinner and fold laundry in peace.  We realize, once in a while, a packet of Goldfish is all that stands between you and finishing your shopping trip for Girl Scout sashes.  And through no doing of our own, a daughter can pine for a doll she has literally never seen before with such feverish intensity you think she is going to have a seizure in the aisle of Target.

For those of you who stuck to you guns, I applaud you.  I'm sure your children will be accepted at the Ivy League University of their choosing.

Over my ten years of parenting, I have had to radically alter some of my preconceived notions of how I would parent, and some I haven't.  For example, there is now a video game system in my home, however, those Bratz dolls are still considered the work of Satan.  Up until this point, my children happily went along with whatever rules and regulations I put into effect, being either too young to care or too afraid to complain.  But now with #1 entering tween-hood*, she is not always willing to be a loyal subject in this well-oiled monarchy and I am having to deal with some minor unrest.

The biggest difference between my parenting decisions then and now is that they are no longer made in a vacuum.  Now a sinister force beyond my control has entered the equation.  The powerful energy of What Everyone Else is Doing.  When my eldest was tiny, if I wanted to feed her nothing but organic. sprouted grains and have her wear hemp clothing, she didn't know the difference.  Now she is old enough to notice the ways her peers are parented and voice her observations to me.  Now when faced with a difficult parenting decision, I not only have to worry about what is best for her, but also walk the tricky tightrope of her "fitting in".  Just like in her early years, I am finding walking the walk to be a lot harder than expected.  I already got my feet wet with the Great Uggs Debate, and I relented this fall and got her the trendy school bag of her choice, but now more serious decisions are needing to be made.

Take, for instance, the constant spectre of the cell phone.  #1 knows this is not even a possibility until next year when she begins middle school, and then that's only because she will be walking alone to meet me at the elementary school after dismissal.  A few of her friends have phones because both parents work, a situation I find totally understandable having been a latch-key child myself, but then a few not in that situation have some sort of application on their iTouches** that allows them to text.  So now I am hearing stories of how "So-and-so texted So-and-so about The Voice last night..."  To her credit, my eldest does not complain one iota, but it is me feeling the pressure.  Is she missing out?  Am I making her life awkward socially?

Remember all my grand-standing about not over-scheduling my kids?  #1 is intent on trying to erode my resolve club by club and class by class.  Last year she had her one dance class and, seasonally, maybe a sports practice, during the week.  After informing me that her posse each take four dance classes, I relented and allowed her to take two.  Then there was the yoga class they were all going to take, which would only be for six weeks, so I figured, why not?  Then her soccer coach threw in a weekday practice that is on the same day as the yoga class.  "Too much", I thought, ready to pull her out of yoga, until I was faced with a child tearful at the thought of missing the fun with her pals.  I agreed to keep her in the class, but the moment her school work suffered, it was done.

Who is this mad-woman allowing all of this activity?  And that's not all.  #1 also signed up to be on the Safety Patrol before and after school every day, helping little ones in and out of their cars at drop-off and pick-up.  How could I say no to her voluntarily taking on such a position of responsibility?  Then there's Early Morning Chorus.  How bad could that be?  It's before school once a week.  Next came the school clubs - Math Club, Environmental Club and Art Club**.  They're only twenty minute meetings, once a month, after school and "all my friends are doing it".  Shortly after that, a plan developed for the group to walk across the street after school to the library to do homework before four-thirty dance class twice a week and that sounded productive enough.  I turned around and my eldest is only home for about three hours a day before she goes to bed.


Well, all of this didn't happen overnight.  I labored over each and every one of these decisions.  Calculating how much time would she be spending out of the house, how much time she would have for schoolwork, how much time to spend with her siblings, what was the benefit of all of these activities, and of course... What Everyone Else is Doing.  Again, I didn't want her to miss out, as friendships are built through shared experiences, like singing "High Hopes" at seven forty-five in the morning and getting shushed by the librarian.


In those moments, when my resolve is wearing thin and I wonder if it wouldn't just be easier to give her the phone and let her do all these fun things she wants to do.  It would probably boost her social standing.  But is that what I'm trying to teach her?  Is the whole point to produce a fun, popular kid?  I say no to the phone and to some of the activities because there has to be some time each day for her to be alone and to be with us.  What I am trying to teach her is to be herself, and home is where you and your family nurture and care for that budding self.  Friends are great, but family is first.

It is so difficult trying to do what I know is right for my family when faced with a world that has different priorities.***  One could argue to ignore what the rest of the world thinks entirely,  a valid point, yet your child has to live and, hopefully, thrive, in this world.  Raising them as if they live in a vacuum is not reality.  It's like constantly trying to swim upstream.  Harder than limiting their TV time or trying to make them eat fruit for snack at school when everyone else has Doritos.  But I wil fight for what I know is right for my kids, even when the world makes me think I'm nuts.

Dear readers, I long for the days when my biggest parenting dilemma involved high fructose corn syrup.

*Defined as the period of preadolescence from ages 10-12, also known as When the World Tries to Turn Your Little Girl into a Skank.
**I told her the only thing she's getting with an "i" in front of it is an eye patch if she keeps asking me.
***"No kidding", says every strictly religious, vegan parent ever. 

Religion and Politics

What are the two things you never discuss at a dinner party?  Religion and politics. 

Well, I suppose that used to be the case. I was watching an episode of NBC’s The New Normal* recently, the gay main character's were hosting a dinner party, and the out of control, racist, homophobe grandmother goes on an anti-Obama rant after the other Democratic dinner guests harangue her about health care, gay marriage and a woman’s right to choose.  This was not a civilized debate, nor was this reality, but it made me ask myself, when did political proselytizing become acceptable?

I am all for a lively discussion where parties of differing opinions can share their views and maybe learn something from each other, but it seems in all political discourse these days there is an undertone of “you are an moron for having the views you have and I must change you” coming from each side.   I find it juvenile and offensive that many (most?) people can not respect views that differ from their own.  Isn’t that kind of the point of a democracy?  Going back to the adage about politics and religion, would you malign a Muslim, Jew or Christian for having beliefs different from yours?  Would you tell a Muslim he’s a dope for think Mohammed was actually God's messenger, a Jew she’s a really gone off the deep end for not eating pork, or a Christian that he’s deluding himself for thinking Jesus was anything other than a regular guy?  Never in a million years.  You might think it, but you’d never say it.  Sure, religious beliefs hold a more sacred place in most people’s lives, but politics are a close second in determining how we conduct ourselves, so why the judgement?

And as with religion, you can't tell what someone's beliefs are simply by looking at them.  Or by what records or movies they like.  I'm look at you Facebook Friend from the Gym.**  We may be "friends" and enjoy some of the same things, like using the treadmill in front fo the fan, but we don't actually know all that much about each other. So how can you assume I'm going to love the anti-Obama article you linked to from The Weekly Standard?  When it comes to politics, are we too comfortable making bold, public statements.

With the debate coming up on Wednesday, I'm sure Facebook, Twitter and every other outlet for thoughtless proclamation will be en fuego with rants and opines.  But let's try to use our best judgment and keep a cool head.  Yes, choosing the leader of our country is huge decision, one to be passionate about, but please, don't interrupt my enjoying the video of my friend's baby pooping on the potty, or looking at photos of animals with ironic captions.  That's what social media is really for.

*A series surrounding a gay couple and the woman they hire as a surrogate.  Truly hilarious and friggin' Nene from The Real Housewives of Atlanta is actually good.  Well, she plays herself, even I could do that.
** No, I haven't joined a gym yet.  I'm still just fantasizing about the day when my workout can take place during daylight hours

Play nice...

The school year is back in full swing.  Well, almost full swing, with the Jewish holidays, which are such a nice break during this early time when three consecutive days of packing lunches and reminding people to pack their backpacks seems like an eternity. With the return of the school year comes sports and activities and time with friends.  It is also a return to the constant inquiry, "Mom, can I have a playdate?"

For those of you not well-versed in modern parental parlance, a "playdate" is what we used to call "having a friend over".  Now, instead of kids arranging a time to hang out and play, then confirming it's OK with a caregiver, the caregivers are now responsible for contacting each other, setting a date, at least 24 hours in advance, and arranging transportation.  In my day, we went "to call" for our friends, knocking on doors (alone!), asking if "So-and-so can come out and play".  I tell my children this and their eyes bulge in amazement.  To be fair, my oldest now considers it babyish if I call her social appointments playdates, but once upon a time, she and I entered the strange world of modern childhood interaction just as Little Man has started to do.  And as I encounter the parents of his friends, many of whom are making plans for this, the oldest child in the family, I see their bewilderment at this complicated social dance.

So I came up with a some rules.

Mean Mommy's Guide to the World of Playdates

Congratulations.  You are ready to step outside of toddlerhood' bubble and host or take your child to their first drop-off playdate!  So get ready to enjoy some freedom while they are gone, or have your child leave you alone as he or she plays with someone other than you in your home.

But first, some ground rules...

Rule 1:  Transfer pertinent information.  If your kid is mortally terrified of large dogs, please make sure you inquire about canines in the home prior to arrival.  This allows the host, who owns a one hundred pound yellow lab, to put him in her bedroom, rather than let him smell and lick every inch of your child upon your arrival.  Conversely, if you have forty-seven cats, birds who fly freely around your home* or some other unusual situation, you might want to give a sister a heads up.

Are there any allergies?  Maybe the host has planned a snack of peanut butter sandwiches and strawberry smoothies.  Maybe you will be making sculptures made entirely of gluten and shrimp shells. OK, probably not, but in any case, she needs to know.

Also feel free to ask about firearms in the home.  It might result in some WTF? face occasionally, but most parents will respect you for the inquiry - after wondering what makes you think they have an arsenal in the basement.

Rule 2:  Show up on time.  Never early.  This interrupts the host mother from shoveling dishes into the dishwasher and forging a path through the detritus in her toy room to create a space for the kids to play in.  Alternately, if you are going to be more than ten minutes late, call.  No kid wants to feel like he's getting stood up for prom, waiting at the door, Hot Wheels in hand.

Rule 3:  Leave. I know you are slightly terrified at the idea of leaving your child in a non-licensed adult's care, but this person is also a parent, and has managed to keep their child alive, so ninety minutes with your s shouldn't be a problem.  The host probably has some laundry to fold, or phone calls to make, which she can now do in semi-peace since your child will be occupying her child.  Please don't waste your time or hers by sticking around and making small talk.

Rule 4:  Provide refreshments   You already know this, kids need constant feeding.  If you are hosting a date that will be going on around 10 a.m. or 3 p.m., you need to provide a snack.  I have picked my kids up from playdates, where they immediately start moaning in the car, "I'm hungry....", because the host never fed them anything.  Seriously?  

As a host, the worst is the kid who treats your house like a 24 diner, walking into the kitchen announcing, "I'm hungry!" several times during their stay.**  Much like Mammy in Gone with the Wind, making Scarlett eat that gigantic breakfast before the Wilkes's barbecue, I always top my kids off before dropping them somewhere.  A snack is an appropriate expectation.  A four course meal is not.  And while we're on the topic of food, be reasonable about what you feed your guests.  Don't try to be the "fun mom" letting the kids have Skittles and Ding Dongs at ten in the morning.  Throw some Goldfish at the problem and be done with it.

Rule 5: Be on time for pick up.  Perhaps you think your child is an angel and anyone would be lucky to get a few extra minutes with him or her.  In reality, your child is a hellion, who just spent 90 minutes wrecking my playroom.  OK, not all the time, but the host mom has probably done some pre-school mediating over which Hot Wheels track to set up, met requests for juice and pretzels, and put a stop to some questionable weapon creation.  So come get your kid within five minutes of the arranged time.

Unlike, drop off, pick up should be a longer process because you are required to come in, assess the carnage and make the token offer to help clean up.  For the children's benefit, a few items should be put away so they learn to clean up after themselves. However, at some reasonable point, the host should stop the guests parent and tell them the rest can be left.  If you are picking up a child at my house, however, it's really because I don't want you throwing any more Legos in with the Tinker Toys (I have a clear system.  I don't know why people just pick up a bin and start tossing handfuls in, willy-nilly).

Rule 6: This rule is not actually followed the day of the playdate.  At some point in the next week, or two the guest parent should reciprocate and host a second playdate at their home.  Unless your child was tortured to the point of tears by the host child, not returning the favor is rude.

I hate it when I've had a kid over twice, and the third time I call to set something up, because my kid is badgering me and I give in, the clueless newbie on the other end of the line doesn't know enough to say, "You've hosted twice already!  Let me take him!"  It's not that I mind having kids at my house, but my kid is tired of letting your kid touch his stuff.  Now it's your turn.  In all fairness, these are usually the kids who are the oldest in their family and the mother is dealing with younger children as well.  But at some point, you have to embrace the madness and invite other children into your home.

So good luck and Godspeed! May no one lose and eye or go into anaphylactic shock on your watch.

*No joke, this happened to #2. it was like an Alfred Hitchcock movie in there.
**I detest when children proclaim their needs expecting them to be met.  You lose that right after the age of three.  If you're hungry, the appropriate communication is "Can I please have something to eat?".

"Good day, neighbor."

"There's only one person in the whole world like you, and I like you so much."

Oh, dear readers, is there anything better for a young child to hear?  These are the words of the kind, gentle soul, Mister Fred Rogers.  I know, I'm having a lot of TV nostalgia lately.  I'm not sure why.  Today's was brought on after seeing PBS's new series Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood.  My immediate reaction was to send PBS an angry email shaming them for sullying the memory of children's television's Dali Lama with an animated tiger singing some of his songs.  Take bag your damn tote bag!!!  Get this disgrace off the air!!!!

A violent reaction perhaps, but so was my love for Mister Rogers as a child.

Mister Rogers was a calm respite in the crazy world of childhood.  Sure, Sesame Street was also great, but on those days when Ernie's zaniness was too much for your frazzled five year-old nerves, and you you felt slightly nauseous from the psychedelic pinball machine animation during the counting segment ("one, two, three, FOUR, FIVE, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, TWEEEELVE!"), Mister Rogers breezed in his front door, changed into his red cardigan and blue Keds, and was ready to calm you down with his soft voice and gentle smile.

Mister Rogers had a way of making everything seem fascinating, from feeding his fish, to mailing a letter.  Just the way he described it and how slowly and carefully he did everything, you never knew you wanted to watch sand being poured through a funnel, but then you couldn't tear your eyes away from the screen.  My mother said it was like I was in a trance for thirty minutes.  I'm sure she put every minute of it to good use.  Knowing her, it was to wash the side of the refrigerator that faces the wall or polish the light bulbs.

The Land of Make Believe in Mister Roger's Neighborhood, was, perhaps, not may favorite.  This was a land ruled by a clueless, yet know-it-all king, his Jackie Kennedy-esque queen and their effeminate son.  It was full of over-emoting adult actors who played along with a crew of beat up-looking puppets who look like they had done a tour in the toddler room of a daycare center - including a family of tigers, a family of platypuses, a cat and an owl.   Then there was the terrifying Lady Elaine.  Big misstep, Fred.  I would like to know how this face is not nightmare-inducing:

She kind of reminded me of the puppet, Madame, who, incidentally, I also found terrifying:

As soon as Trolley left the "station" that was Mister Roger's window seat, I went to pee and see what my mother was doing behind the fridge.

Fred Rogers was a groundbreaker because his was one of the first shows that addressed children's fears by speaking directly about them to the child viewer.  When he said things like, "sometimes it can be scary to be alone in the dark", you nodded your little head so vigorously in agreement, your chubby little cheeks shook.  Death, divorce, fear of the dark, he covered them all.  Mister Rogers made us feel understood, and that is a feeling every child wants.  He influences the way I parent so much, I wish he were still alive to send him a letter of thanks.

 The best part of the show had to be the ending.  Fred would change out of his cardigan and sneakers seamlessly  while singing his farewell song, jauntily tossing a sneaker on the air and catching it with the other hand. And, Jesus, these lyrics:

It's such a good feeling
To know you're alive.
It's such a happy feeling:
You're growing inside.
And when you wake up ready to say,
"I think I'll make a snappy new day."

It's such a good feeling,
A very good feeling,

The feeling you know that 

This was, and is, my favorite part...(tempo slows)

I'll be back, when the day is new.

And I'll have more ideas for you.

And you'll have things you'll want to talk about.

I...will...too.

I like you, just for being you.

I'm not sure why that gets me the way it does.  Maybe because Mister Rogers seemed so earnest, telling us he'd be back tomorrow.  Like your mom when she dropped you off at kindergarten, you could really count on him to come back.  

Unfortunately, Mister Roger's Neighborhood is no longer on the air.  #1 has only the vaguest memories of seeing it.  It's so sad because in this go-go, over-stimulating world, I think he would be an even more welcome refuge for small children.  "Won't you be my neighbor?" is used mostly as a joke in popular culture, but it really is a great idea.  If we all lived like we were all part of the one, big neighborhood, maybe we'd be a little kinder, a little more considerate.

And everybody needs to be told , "I like you, just for being you."

Hello, old friend...

The days are getting shorter, there's a chill in the air.  You all know what season it is...

YOGA PANTS SEASON!

Today was the first day I was able to pull out my beloved wardrobe staple, and pulling on their comfy stretchiness, thought to myself, "These pants are incredible!!!"*

I know, I know, I mention these pants almost as much as I mention my kids, but it is usually in a derisive manner, when I am complaining about my life.  Yes, I made a pact last year to stop wearing athletic clothes when not exercising or preparing to, and, for the most part,  I stuck to it. But there are days when nothing but the ol' YP's will do.  I realized today, these pants are life-altering, and instead of despising them, I should be thanking them.  So...

Dear Yoga Pants,

How can I ever thank you for your years of kind service?  Although you have been much maligned in my blog, as a symbol of my low position on the totem pole of my own priorities, I realize now you have gotten me, and continue to get me, through some tough times.

For example, before I found you, what did I ever wear during my postpartum days?  How did I ever clothe my slack belly and wider caboose in those first foggy months after childbirth?  I wore...overalls.  Let's allow that to sink in.  Like a five foot, nine inch-tall toddler, I wore overalls.  I'm still sort of in denial about it.  Shame on you, Old Navy for selling them, and shame on me for dressing like Kiki Dee.  But even hers were nicer.

Even though I have been wearing you less and less, I still have those days when I barely have time to rinse the sweat off my body, never mind throw an outfit together, before dragging the brood out the door.  It is then you allow me to give off an air of brisk athleticism, not disheveled desperation, as I run around town.  And let's be honest, there is no other pair of pants I want the first Monday after the holiday season.  Wearing you, I look like a woman ready to kick some ass at yoga or Pilates** this new year, not a woman who can't face the result of her holiday excesses and struggle into pants with a button.

Yes, you are spending more and more time in the closet, but know you are loved.  You are the pinch hitter of my wardrobe, always there when things get rough - should it be lack of time, or my inability to stop eating peanut butter.  And without you, I fear I might really hit rock bottom.

Two words: Pajama Jeans.

Love you,
MM

*I am continuing my one woman campaign to end the ubiquitous usage of "amazing".  It is second only to "awesome" in its meaninglessness.
**Two activities these pants are appropriate for,  neither of which, I have any interest in.

What you talkin' 'bout, Simon?

It all started with American Idol.  Now the list includes:

The X Factor
America's Got Talent
The Voice
The Sing Off
So You Think You Can Dance
Dancing with the Stars

Between all of these shows, I am so, so tired of watching people croon, sashay and juggle their way across my TV screen.  "Why not stop watching them?", one might ask.  Because I have school-aged children who stay up past 7 p.m. now, that's why.

I look back, with fond memories, on the days when as the clock was hitting seven, my ass was hitting the couch, remote and peanut butter jar in my hands.  Those days are gone, my friend.  While Little Man is in bed early, #2 is still yammering about marine mammals until eight o'clock, and #1 is glued to my side until close to nine.  So unless I want to watch, yet another, episode of Good Luck Charlie*, these shows are practically my only choice.  And on those nights when I have watched Cloris Leachman do a disturbingly sexual samba, I want to cry out loud,

"WHY DID YOU LEAVE US, BILL COSBY????"

Where have the family-oriented sitcoms of our childhood gone?  Sure, there are family shoes on now, take Modern Family, for instance.  While I love it dearly, as it is a reflection of my family (father married to a fiery-tempered South American, one child, a control freak with three kids, married to a lovable dufus, and, the other, a hilarious homosexual), it is not exactly kid-friendly.  Take the episode where the kids walk in on Phil and Claire having more-than-missionary-position sex.  What, exactly, would I have told my kids about that?  All the sitcoms I love, Parks and Red, 30 Rock, and the new, and wet your pants funny Mindy Project and The New Normal, all have so much sexual innuendo, and so many adult plot lines, they are pretty much unwatchable with anyone under the age of fourteen.

Do you remember, back in the 80s, all the great shows that actually centered around the lives of kids?  The kids were not just the butts of jokes, or creators of zany situations that they would then disappear from, they were the main characters.  Webster, Punky Brewster, Gimme A Break, Charles in Charge, Who's the Boss?, Diff'rent Strokes, Benson, The Facts of Life, Growing Pains, Silver Spoons, ALF.  Let's not even discuss that debacle, Small Wonder.  Scientist creates and annoying girl robot and adopts it as part of his family? I guess that was before the time of IVF and international adoption, but damn, that kid was so annoying I would taken her batteries out and shoved her in a closet, like I did with the Zhu Zhu Pets after six months.

Yes, yes, many of these shows did delve into serious topics, but at least your parents had some notice when that night's installment was billed a "very special episode".  The Facts of Life and Diff'rent Strokes, in particular, had some pretty heavy shit going on: drugs, eating disorders, and sex (TFOL), drugs, eating disorders, kidnapping and child molestation (DS).  I still remember these episodes to this day.  Kimberly from TFOL passing out from not eating, Dudley's father's intensely repeating his son's name after he discovers he's almost fallen prey to the pedophile "bike guy", all burned in my brain.  But alongside all this lesson-teaching was some regular old fun that my parents didn't mind watching with us.  Tony Danza was pretty funny in Who's the Boss, and I gotta say, I'd watch a few episodes of Benson tonight with the kids.  Ugh, but not that snooty Mr. Belvedere, get over yourself, guy.

And then there is the Godfather of the 80s family sitcom, The Cosby Show.  Bill Cosby was, of course, genius, but along with him, you got the full spectrum of family appeal, from youngest to oldest.  Rudy brought the cute factor, provided later by the far inferior character, Olivia.  Why the hell was that the SOS call for every 80s show?  "Bring in a cute kid, preferably with a speech impediment, and the ratings'll go through the roof!"  Most of them were just annoying anyway. I'm looking at you, Sam from DF.  Older kids also had Vanessa, Theo, Denise to relate to.  Something for everybody! And Claire.  Oh, Claire.  She was the beautiful, and smart, and sexy, and a strict-as-hell mother with a warm side.  She and Cliff were madly in love with each other, and dealt with things like their children not studying for tests and staying out past curfew, with love and a no-bullshit policy.  We weren't assaulted with "very special episodes", but we were subtly given lesson about right and wrong, then treated to the whole family lip-syncing hilariously to Ray Charles.

And now I'm supposed to spend my evenings staring at Simon Cowell's sour mug?  What are today's kids learning?  To never pick a John Mayer** song for your audition? Sigh.

Just as talk shows and courtroom shows have taken daytime away from soap operas and game shows (wanna see every B-level actor of your childhood?  Switch over to game show network and watch a few episodes of $25,000 Pyramid), reality is king in prime time.  Sitcoms seem to be making a comeback in the adult comedy arena, can I hope that some family-friendly shows might be in the works for next fall?

Despite my bitching, I have found one show that has potential, ABC's The Middle.  Seems pretty appropriate, although we did see one French-kissing-with-braces scene.  It has the mom from Everybody Loves Raymond and the janitor from Scrubs as the parents, who are both great.  However, the youngest son, Brick does this demonic whispering thing that's supposed to be an entertaining, obsessive tic.  #2 finds it "creepy".

So it's back to ballroom and ballads for now.

*Which, in the world of Disney sitcoms, is pretty amusing.  The mother is the best character - a hilarious, straight-talking bulldog of a woman, convinced of her own fabulousness.  Where have I seen that before...
**John Mayer is a scumbag in real life.  I just know it.