Orientation

by Patti

Today we received in the mail a document that caused S to squeal and jump 6 feet in the air. I wondered if the Lottery Department had written me a letter informing me that, even though I hadn't purchased a ticket, I had somehow magically hit the jackpot of the century and would I please come down to headquarters and pick up my winnings?

I soon found out that equivalent to this in a 13-year girl's mind is her High School Orientation letter. She immediately ran to the refrigerator and slapped the letter under a magnet, singing joyfully to herself. "I can't believe it! DON'T FORGET!" she eyed me sternly.

But oh, how I want to forget.

How is this possible? Certainly the sudden lines that have appeared on my face - lines that no longer disappear by noon - have been trying to tell me about this passage of time, but I've been ignoring them. Because the passage of time is not something I'm handling very gracefully.

Aside from the "aging" part of it, what has gripped me most is the permanence of this passage of time. No. Matter. What. We can never get it back. And the last 13 years with my daughter, since the first earthly cries of my one and only child, are suddenly a dream-like patchwork of moments and memories, the only tangible evidence they ever happened the coltish, beautiful teenager standing in my kitchen, singing about high school.

It's strange, because I'm okay with her growing up. I love the "she" she has become; I love that we are friends and that she tells me most everything; I love that she is a hilarious companion and a quirky sidekick. I love her and all that she is. Yet, I find myself mourning the "she" she will never again be. Not because I don't adore who she is becoming, but because I will never get back who she was.

As I mark my calendar lest I DARE FORGET, I am cautiously looking forward to experiencing the energy I will no doubt absorb from all the other vibrating 13-year olds on High School Orientation Night. I will sense the jittery anticipation of all things new; I will take in the shine of young eyes as they dream about what will be. And I will look at my daughter and do my best to be present because, yes, even THIS moment, the one in which I am lamenting how she has grown up so fast, will one day be part of that dream-like patchwork of moments and memories. And I will never get it back.

Netflix Running Time: 90(0) minutes

by Cathy

Our kids have pretty much grown up.

(I will allow myself this statement only for the purpose of this post.)

One is officially a teenager at 13 and the other just turned eight this past summer. They are pretty self-sufficient, play/hang independently and goof around together for the most part and might even be able to whip up some food for themselves when necessary.

Grasping and leaning on this concept more each year, we've slowly, cautiously ventured to begin to watch television and movies when the rest of the kid-free world watches them (i.e. not in the wee hours while the kiddos sleep while struggling to keep one eye open and not in the matinee senior hours of scorching daylight, but rather in "prime time" on weekends and the occasional weeknight.) At this stage in our kids' lives, we should be in the clear for an uninterrupted two hours of movie watching, right? Riiiight?

Apparently, we had no idea what can go wrong in the two specific hours we nestle in to watch our program or much anticipated new release. Without fail, first and foremost, no matter if all hell is breaking loose in the house with televisions and radios blaring, YouTube videos screaming from the computer, the microwave going off and what else have you, they will know the second the DVR clicks on or the DVD Play button is pressed. They will hear our bare feet prop up on the living room coffee table. They will hear us wrap ourselves up with a blanket and plop onto our bed. They can sense it. They can hear it. They can smell it. I don't know how, but they know. I can time my watch to it; they will burst in no more than three minutes into what we are watching with a slew of happenings or questions such as but not limited to:

- Whatcha watchin'?
- Have you seen my [enter a random possession of theirs here]
- How do you turn on the stove?
- Do we have any more Nutella To Go snacks?
- Oooooh a movie! Can I watch?
- We're out of chocolate milk?!?!
- Can I hang out at Katherine's house tonight?
- Can Katherine come over to hang out here?
- Why isn't this letting me watch this video on YouTube?
- Um, hi. You should be eating some popcorn. Do we have any? Want me to make you some?
- Where are all the phone chargers?
- Do you have the iPad? I can't find it.
- I need new socks and none of my underwear is in my drawer!
- Can you remember to wash Pillow and Cuddles tonight?
- [screaming from the shower] We're out of conditioner!
- [screaming from the bathroom] Can someone bring me a roll of toilet paper?
- [screaming in general] There's a bug!!! [harmonized screaming, now]
- Bella called me a brat!
- Can we rent a movie On Demand?
- We're out of waffles!!!
- Can I sit in here and draw with you? Bella won't play with me.
- I need to you reach a blanket on the top shelf of my closet.
- How long IS this movie??

Yes, that last one is a very good question. Just how long IS this movie, exactly? Turns out that what the rest of the world can watch in 90 minutes, takes us 900 minutes. More than once, we've resorted to giving up either due to relentless, unnecessary, unimportant kid chaos or just sheer frustration.

On Demand? Netflix? Fuggedaboutit

I guess that our kids aren't as grown up or independent as we'd hoped they'd be by now. And aside from the purpose of this post, in some sick, twisted parental way, we don't want it any other way just yet. After all, we'll have all the time in the world to watch movies once they truly grow up.

Hives and Lows

by Cathy

NOTE: This post was dangerously close to being called The Farts and the Pimps. You have S, Patti's daughter, to thank for the much more refined title above. :-) 
I also thought this to be scary enough to merit a Halloween day post. 

Happy Halloween!!

One of the many Sour Grapes listed on our homepage is "The Collapse of the Universe When a Man Gets Sick". I'd like to clarify: this refers to the collapse of the universe inside said man's head. The actual, entire universe literally collapsing? That is what happens when a woman (the wife, mom, homemaker and CEO of any household) gets sick.

But what happens when both parents get sick? At the same time? That my dear readers, is fodder worthy of a blog post.

A scary situation (and sight)

Several weeks ago, I contracted what was some form of the stomach flu by way of having my seven-year old vomit all over everything in our king-size bed. (This in itself? A post for another time.) I say "some form" because this virus was unlike any other stomach flu virus I've had, which usually lasts 24 hours and done. My kid had a fever after her initial vomit attack and was out for a day or two with occasional diarrhea.

Me? No vomiting, and aggressive nausea and pains in my stomach that led to nowhere except one horrific episode of diarrhea whereby my extremities stiffened and froze up rigor-mortis style, my guess, due to dehydration. As frightening as that was, what came next was even worse and completely unexpected: a rash of tiny red bumps that exploded all over my arms and legs with a spattering on my torso and back, that itched like a mother and lasted four days.

After several frantic Google searches and calls to family, I discovered that apparently it's completely normal for a virus to expel itself from your system via a rash. Since I had no vomiting and very little diarrhea, the rash is what my body went to. And me? I went crazy.

My husband had to step-up and basically take over all of my household tasks. He washed dishes (he wasn't sure how to load the dishwasher), he packed lunches (and included a hand-written note in each bag, and "Moooom...how come you never do that??"), he packed snacks (he plopped an entire peanut-encrusted taffy apple, still in the packaging, into my second grader's snack bag to be brought into a classroom with nut allergies galore), he cooked frozen foods for the kids and did the best he could....considering...that the flu virus was creeping its way into his system.

"I'm fading," he moaned as he came into the bedroom where I was breathing heavy with stomach pains. I was half munching on Saltines and looked like death warmed over. He fell onto the bed in shivers and began trying to psyche himself out. "It's all in your head," he murmured between gasps. "You're fine." But he wasn't, God bless his delusional soul. He was being hit by yet another version of this chameleon-like virus/monster that entered our home. And we both knew it was taking over.
 
For two days, we shuffled around the house burping, expelling gas, sipping Coke or some other carbonated drink. We looked (and felt) like zombies: me, pimply-rashed and hunched over in nausea, shivering from the urge to resist scratching my skin off, and he, holding himself through fits of chills and fever. We bumped mindlessly into one another, taking turns quasi-tackling the necessary everyday tasks, tossing coins for who was going to chauffeur the kids to and fro school or pack lunches (I'm really not sure what the kids ate those couple of days), overextending our very necessary bathroom visits as a form of exhausted escapism and crawling under the bed covers in hopes the other wouldn't notice. It was a nightmare to say the least and brought to mind the dreadful conundrum of parenthood: How do you take care of your kids when you cannot take care of yourself?

Somehow, as all parents do, we literally muddled through it and came out on the other side. No physical scars remain yet the emotional scars we all endured as a family will be with us always - and that is more frightening than All Hallows Eve.

Mwuah ha ha ha ha!!!

Enjoy the Ride

by Cathy

If you read this blog enough (which I hope you do!) you know that my family, we of Greek and Latin descent, are always running late. Part of it is innate due to stereotypical tardy traits within our cultures and the rest is, well, we tend to be a little slow.

Since this tardiness would be expected in our respective countries, it's not very well accepted here by my kids' school, and with very good reason. Despite what is accepted elsewhere, we need to be respectful of peoples' schedules and time in general. It's a horrible habit to fall into and extremely difficult to break once in the cycle - a cycle which I must say I was drawn into by my husband after we got married. No matter how ready and on time you are, if the person you are with is late, you are BOTH late and your efforts are for crap.

That said, I have declared a sense of urgency in our house in the mornings. I gave my kids a specific time to be in the kitchen for breakfast; I explained that they had to work backwards from there to determine how much time they need to lollygag, get dressed, fight over hair accessories, put on earrings, find matching socks, pack their bags, make their beds, and set their alarm accordingly, which, by the way, includes two nine-minutes snooze sessions built in to make it feel as though they "got more sleep".

We did well for a few days until yesterday morning. We ALL had to be out of the house at the same time, (which normally doesn't happen) so my husband and I had to get ready while the girls went on with their schedules without being reminded a bajillion times to watch the clock or go eat breakfast and "What time is it, girls??!!" Naturally, we ended up leaving the house later than our newly appointed non-late time deadline so it was a race to get to school before they closed those doors.

Needless to say, I was upset. And grumpy. And annoyed. And just plain frustrated. Therefore, I was short-tempered with everyone in the car while I imagined the tsk-tsk, shaking-my-head looks my kids would be receiving by their teachers. Adding to my mood was the fact that traffic was extraordinarily backed-up and we encountered a garbage truck inching its way in front of us down the side street we took, only to put on its flashers, pop into reverse and BEEP BEEP BEEP its backside into an alley with more three-point turns than an ice skating routine.

Right when I thought I was going to jump out of the car and run my kids to school on piggyback, I heard the laughter of the girls in the back seat as they volleyed a pink balloon that was found in the car. Ari started reciting lines from Despicable Me (one of the girls' favorite movies) in Gru's Russian accent and Bella joined in. They were actually pretty funny and as they went on, the act got funnier as the accents got stronger and more animated.

Suddenly, I found myself laughing. Laughing at how goofy my daughters can be; laughing because of course we have the world's slowest garbage truck driven by a first-timer in front of us on the way to school; laughing that we have blown-up balloons sitting in our car willy-nilly; laughing that said balloon lurched forward into the windshield, floating around in our faces as we screeched up to the school door yet again and the girls scurried out, yelling their goodbyes through the open door; laughing at the funny irony of it all.

I let go of the anger and the frustration and what I could not control in that moment and just went with the flow. It reminded me of that scene in Parenthood (one of MY favorite movies and a must-see for all parents) when Steve Martin allows himself to get whisked away in the thrill of going with life's flow - like being on a roller coaster, after grandma tells him:

"You know, when I was nineteen, Grandpa took me on a roller coaster. Up, down, up, down. Oh, what a ride! I always wanted to go again. You know, it was just so interesting to me that a ride could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled all together! Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it."

Closing your eyes and fighting it isn't as much fun as throwing your hands up in the air and enjoying the ride.

Chips Ahoy!

by Patti

There are many things about motherhood veteran moms try to warn you about before you become a mother for the first time. "Get sleep before the baby comes!" "Sleep when the baby sleeps!" "Prepare to die during childbirth!" I mean, really, the list goes on and on, and it's a wonder any woman ever decides to get pregnant and have a kid at all.

But we do. And we inevitably find out for ourselves what they so desperately tried to tell us - times a million. One of things I was sure I wanted to do once I found out I was pregnant was breastfeed. I had heard the stories about how my boobs would swell into horrifyingly huge, hard, round aliens with minds of their own - tethered to my chest, I heard about the circles of doom that would appear without warning on my shirt by simply thinking about my baby - or even hearing another baby cry. I heard about the cracked, bloody nipples and the searing pain of trying to get a baby to latch on. Oh yes, the veterans made sure I heard it all. Yet, being the stubborn, "let me see for myself" kind of person I am, I still wanted to do it.

And I did. After S was born, I faced many of the things I had been warned about while learning the ropes of nursing a newborn. That coupled with sleep deprivation brought to me courtesy of HELL and the hair that fell out in clumps until I was certain I needed to order a wig STAT and the jello-y mess that had been left of my once taut stomach... well, the mixed bag of torture was not so surprising thanks to the countless warnings - though let me just say that the level of crazy is one that can never be properly explained. Nope. You simply cannot understand it until it happens to you.

One of the things the veterans forgot to mention when it comes to breastfeeding was the "holy crap, where'd that come from?" effect. After a while, the boobs work out a rather intricate, miraculous schedule around demand, and once this schedule is set, you are "booby" trapped into trusting it. Ha. Ha. HA HA HA. Picture this: There you are, in bed with your husband, getting all snuggly and, uh, intimate, which - after the miracle of childbirth - we all know is another miracle to behold, when suddenly? Your morph from MILF to MILK. That's right - you become Bessie in da Bed.

Oops! Did I do that?

Suddenly, there is milk everywhere and it's just so not sexy. Or romantic. Or hot. Unless you count fresh off the farm milk. Because it is surprisingly hot - as in, literally.

Fortunately, though my dignity had flown out the window, my sense of humor remained intact. As did M's. Because as the baby shrieks in the background and milk drips down your chest onto your husband's face, what can you do but laugh?

Not too long after that first dairy debacle, I shuffled into our bedroom one night after putting S down in her crib. M was waiting for me in bed with a big grin on his face. In his hands? A big box of cookies.

Can I join the party?

Hey, no use in crying over spilled milk.

Date Night

by Patti


This past couple of weeks has taken me on an unexpected ride of revelations. My baby girl has suddenly morphed into a full-fledged little lady, complete with long legs, a defined waist, and opinions much different than my own. In short: She is growing up. And with that growing up, I have learned rather quickly, comes not only tangle of emotions that only a mother who has to come to terms with the gradual letting go of her babies can truly understand, but also the startling realization that: OH, YEAH. Once these babies leave? You're kinda stuck with that person you chose to be with for the rest of, like, ever.

When your kids start growing up, you realize with a start that they will eventually leave, and that all those what-feels-like-a-million years that you spent nurturing and loving and guiding and doing-for and being-there-for... well, those years have suddenly cumulated into this one moment, and you realize that they have kind of conditioned you to be a mother and think like a mother and love with the laser-like focus and intensity of a mother; and though you truly loved your husband through it all, you may have inadvertently forgotten to kiss him good night a few times. Multiply "a few times" by a million years, and that can equal one big, fat uh-oh.

All of these thoughts swirled in my already jammed-up head this past week, and, during a lunchtime check-in with M at work one day, I brought all of this crazy up to him. "We have to do it," I told him. "As much as I hate even the phrase 'date night', we need to start making them happen." He agreed it would be nice; though, in true M style, his idea of a date night was a week in Italy.
"Let's just start with dinner out once a month, okay? Just you and me."
I felt much better after our little chat. The kid was growing up, and M and I had the time and space between us that virtually every couple experiences after becoming parents, but plans were in place. That alone made me feel hopeful.

And then, like magic, a mere few days after "our talk", I got a text: "Dinner Saturday night, 9 pm. You and yo."  I couldn't believe it. I asked and I received. The night of our dinner, M donned a crisp shirt and cologne. I wore a black dress and heels. And we talked over candlelight (well, yelled, really. The restaurant was obviously a very popular choice and was jam-packed with other 'date night-ers'.) about stuff that didn't have anything to do with being parents, or bills, or groceries, or things that needed to get done right now or else the house might just fall down. It was just... stuff. The stuff we used to talk about when we were getting to know each other. And though our candle kept going out, and we had to keep saying "WHAT?" to one another because we coudn't hear, it was still really fun, and a really good first date night.

And as we, together, see our baby off into womanhood, and experience the bittersweetness of letting her go, there will be many more to come. Just him and yo.

It's Just What Mothers Do

by Cathy

The other morning as we were shuffling around the house trying to make it to school on time, Bella was whispering her items checklist under her breath (softball bag, lunch, snacks) and then shot out an, "Ooooh! I need five dollars." She immediately made a beeline to the piggy bank in her room while Joe and I looked at each other quizzically.

"What do you need five dollars for, sweety?" I called after her while looking at Joe. I walked towards her room. "Are they having a bagel and juice sale at school again?"

"No, I'm gonna buy some jewelry," she stated matter-of-factly, like, duh, that was something she does at school all the time.

"Oh," I said. "Who's selling jewelry?"

"My friend Abbey," she said. "She makes these really cool bracelets and barrettes using bottle caps!"

"Oh, that's nice. Isn't that a little expensive for bottle caps?"

"Yeah, I know," she agreed back, "but they are so cute and cool so I'm gonna buy one."

She kept overturning her piggy bank full of change and tried to fish out her dollars while the clock was ticking closer to tardiness.

"Here I think I have a few dollars," I offered to speed things up. "Just take them." Turns out, I only did have a few dollars. I was two dollars short.

"Can't you just give Abbey the three dollars today and tell her you'll give her the other two tomorrow so I can get some change? The only other bill I have is a 10."

Bella didn't answer. I repeated it four times and clearly, her silence indicated that she didn't want to do that. She didn't feel honest doing that and didn't want to offend her friend in any way.

"I'm sure she'll be okay with it," offered Joe. But Bella wasn't content with that.

"Okay, here," I said, offering up the $10 bill. "But make sure you get change, okay? And if she doesn't have change, ask one of the teachers to break the $10. DON'T lose it!"

Apparently, that last part didn't sit well with Bella. "I'm NOT gonna lose it! Gosh! Why do you always say that when you give me something? You make me sound totally irresponsible!!"

Now I love my Bella, my little Mini Me. And because I know me, I know her. And whether she will admit it or not - heck, it took me forever to admit this for myself - she is a bit of a scatterbrain - JUST LIKE ME.

Did I accidentally mail $50 in an envelope once and made one mailman a really happy dude?
Yes.
Have I left my purse in several restaurants?
Yes.
Did I lose an envelope which contained a copy of my mother's drivers license which she Next Day shipped from Europe via DHL for a kajillion dollars so I can get her international driver's license processed and sent back?
Yes.

And by the way, I get this flightiness from my mother, who has left her keys in fitting rooms, forgotten bills and other important paperwork on top of her car as she's driven away and has lost countless pairs of gloves getting out of her car as they tumble out of her lap and onto the street.

Bella was lucky enough to have inherited this flighty flaw from my side of the family, so do I trust her 100% with not losing things? Heck to the no. But I did try to ease her anxiety about me being on her case about losing things. I didn't tell her that I say these things because she has the propensity to lose things like me. Instead, I told her it's because, "It's just what mothers do."

It's their job to say these things to their kids - not because they think they will lose stuff (ahem) but because this is the way they discipline their kids into becoming responsible adults, and even though she'll be MY age one day, I'll still say these things to her.  I also told her that my mother, still to this day, tells me the same thing when she hands me something.

Bella seemed more content when she heard that and I noticeably felt her relief as the burden shifted from her tiny shoulders. Because she knows, my mother knows and I know.
It's just what mothers do.

Non-Weekend

by Patti

week·end/ˈwēkˌend/

Noun:

The period from Friday evening through Sunday evening, esp. regarded as a time for leisure

Long ago, at some point in this life, I had weekends. They consisted of leisurely strolls through book stores, and coffee, and shopping, and sometimes, sometimes? JUST NAPPING AND THAT IS ALL,WHY? IS THERE SOMEPLACE I NEED TO BE? "What are you doing this weekend?" would be the big question at work. "Oh, going to a couple of parties, brunch on Sunday, you know... stuff."

Along the way and somewhere deep into motherhood, my weekends vanished. As the work week comes to  a close now, I know I won't be sleeping in the next day just because it's Saturday. And that is because Saturday will consist of ballet class, harried errands that can't get done during the week because we're too busy with work and school, probably a birthday party or two, and some serious shuffling in-between. Sundays will most definitely include laundry and cleaning and weekend homework and groceries, and maybe, possibly if we're lucky, dinner with friends AND THEIR KIDS. And then, suddenly and just like that, it's Monday again and the whole Groundhog Day of Life begins again. Again. Again. Again. Again.

It's funny - if I find myself driving through the city on a Saturday afternoon, I see the joggers, I see the girls in jeans and oversize sunglasses with shopping bags in one hand and Starbucks in the other, I see the people walking their dogs in a way that I can tell they aren't really going anywhere; they're just walking. And then I remember that I just came from a dance studio stuffed with ten other moms that were also experiencing the same non-weekend I was - the one that found them hurriedly shuttling their kids from activity to activity to activity, the minutes of the weekend ticking away toward Monday.

I wonder how many weekends my parents gave away to us, and then I remember that our weekends were spent climbing trees, playing football in open fields with friends, riding bikes that were thrown carelessly onto each other's lawns as we ran from house to house... We didn't have "lessons", "playdates", "activities"... we just burned daylight from Saturday through Sunday, and my parents were allowed to do the same. We didn't need entertaining and we didn't expect to be entertained. We just... were.

Now, every. single. day is scheduled to within an inch of its life, and those long-ago weekends that often provided such reprieve and separation are now just an extension of every single day. To be fair, it seems that even kids - the very ones we have given our weekends to - are wishing for weekends that they never knew. Just the other day S said, to me, "Mom, I don't feel like doing anything at all. Can we not have any plans?" Without even knowing, she expressed the very thing I was feeling -- can we not have any plans. Can we?

This weekend just passed, and, it being Easter weekend and most things being cancelled or closed, and us being kind of heathen-like in our non-attendance of Easter-related things, did just that -- we had no plans. It will be quite some time before that happens again, before a Saturday calls for sleeping in and coffee in a coffee shop, and a Sunday calls for pancakes, pajamas, naps and a movie -- as all of the upcoming weekends are kind of jam-packed with "stuff".  Because of that, I have decided to stop waiting for the weekend to have a weekend. Instead, I will snatch pieces of time whenever I can and turn moments into that "time for leisure".  It's Tuesday, but it feels like Saturday! Let's rent a movie! Pancakes? Are not just for Sundays! It's Wednesday night - time for breakfast!

Hey! It's Monday. What are you doing tonight?

Not My Problem

by Cathy

Patti and I have a dear, beautiful friend who has two kids: a girl the same age as our daughters, and a three-year old boy. That boy, C, has got a twinkle in his smiling eyes, dimples that could melt the sun and a grin that will undoubtedly break many hearts.

His cuteness aside, he's a pretty snazzy dresser to boot. (Well, maybe mom and dad had a small role here.) He rocks his newsboy caps and his fedoras, his vintagey shirts, plaid button-downs and his cool boots. He's a showstopper, in every sense of the word. And in case your eye doesn't catch him, he'll let you know he's there. This rambunctious, free-spirited, face-grabber (Look at this! Look!) will definitely demand your attention if you don't freely give it. He's always got something to say, somewhere to run, and in true toddler phase, something to demand.

His mama (and good friend, Miche), is wonderful with C. Although she may at times playfully refer to him as "the little monster" she pushes him to do better, disciplines him when needed, teaches him patience and etiquette where he lacks it and maintains her cool throughout it all. 

Last Saturday, after ballet class, Miche, Patti and I went out to lunch with all of our kids in tow. The moms grabbed a comfy booth and we set up the kids at conjoined tables right near us for supervisory and other obvious reasons. But they decided that near the window is where they wanted to sit, therefore thwarting our convenient plan. En masse, our girls migrated over, staked their claim and waited restlessly for their food. Miche tried to keep C separate from the table of older girls, so she plopped him down into the booth with me while she went up to check on her order.

C sat there but he wasn't happy about it. Immediately he starts whining. "I don't wanna sit here!"
Frantic to keep him distracted for fearing some type of hunger-induced meltdown, I began interacting with him. And not just any old boring adult-to-kid conversation. I tapped into my acting chops and pulled out the mental props. I chopped and propped him as follows:

"C! I looooove your fedora hat! Can I try it on?"
"No!"
"Awww, I'm gonna be sooooo sad because it's so beautiful and I really want you to share it with me."

He uncrinkled his frown long enough to look at me, probably wondering, 'Is she for real?' It must've worked because he handed over his hat.

Immediately setting it upon my head, I asked "How do I look?"

That didn't cut it for little C. He began squirming and whining half-assedly to get his mother's attention, distorting his face into cry mode once more.

"Ooooooh, I can't wait to eat my hot dog!" I blurted out. "What are you gonna eat?"
"I don't wanna eat!" he screamed red-faced.
"B..B..But, how are you gonna grow if you don't eat?" I asked in my most genuinely worried voice. "Do you just wanna stay little forever and not get big and strong like Spiderman? That won't be good, will it?"
(Whatever...that's the first thing that popped into my head that I thought he could relate to, okaaay?)

Once again, he stopped mid-fit and sat there thinking about what I said, avoiding eye contact with me.
I was making progress and I was so proud of myself! I wanted to keep challenging myself with "the little monster" because now it was fun!
Just then, Miche walked over, and knowing he could get away with his behavior, defaulted back to whine mode.

As Miche got him settled down and situated him with his food, Patti walked over with a 'What's going on?' look on her face.

I, still reveling in psychologically battling and winning over an annoyed three-year old boy, was amazed at my composure. After explaining to Patti what just happened, I said, "Why can't I be this way with my own kids? I would've just gotten upset and said, 'You HAVE to eat!' or 'Stop whining and calm down or else we're going home!' Why am I so quick to be patient with other people's kids and not my own?

Patti looked me dead in the eyes and had a response at the ready.
"Because they're not your kids. They're not your problem. You know that you only have to deal with them temporarily and then they go back to their parents."

And there it was in a nutshell. I have the patience because it's not my problem. I couldn't help but think how quick we are to be patient and hand over solutions for other people and their problems but can't apply that same psychology to our own kids and our own problems.

So all I have to do is pretend that my kids aren't really my problem and the patience will follow, because maintaining patience with our kids, is every parents' problem.

Perfect Timing

by Cathy

Don't you sometimes marvel at the timing your kids have?

I could be washing dishes or folding laundry or making dinner, and they are contently occupied drawing, playing on the computer, watching TV or doing homework. Or they could be in their room, making goofy videos of themselves on my iPhone singing their version of Beyonce's "I'm a single lady, I'm a single lady. I'm a single lady, I'm a single lady..." while jiggling around like Shakira. Either way, they're occupied, which when realized, sets off a DING! in my head that I should take advantage of this time and get in some R&R.

So I grab a snack, settle into the big, cozy leather sectional in our living room, throw my feet up on the table, set my water glass down and pick up the remote. As the television is powering up, I situate my blanket, pillows and snack accordingly. On the remote, I scroll down the list of DVR'd programs, finding my shows nestled among the series of iCarly, Wizards of Waverly Place and Shake It Up episodes clogging my List feature. Then...jackpot. "Oooooh, Parenthood!" I say excitedly. Click and......

"Mooooom?"
Hard sigh.
"Yes?" I say, naturally annoyed, hitting pause.

The following response could be one of:

"Bella hit me"
"I need help with my homework"
"Where's the flashlight?"
"Ari won't leave me alone"
"The shower curtain rod fell down!"
"Where's papi?"
"Do we have anymore toilet paper?"
"I need help on the computer"
"Ari dropped your iPhone"
"I can't find my book/eyemask/iPod/other slipper/homework"

Once the crisis has been addressed, it doesn't stop there. Ari is now aware that I have settled into the living room couch, is bored with her sister and wants to keep me company. So while I'm trying to watch my show, now with the volume turned up to 68, she skips in and out, hums, asks me to color with her, brings in Chutes and Ladders or puzzles, flips/climbs/jumps/hurdles/straddles/leaps onto the sectional every which way and repeatedly enough so that she looks like a wind-up toy on turbo.

This doesn't only happen when I want some downtime. Like clockwork - I am not even kidding you here - my kids have a sixth sense for when Joe and I want some alone time. As soon as we starting hugging or kissing, even touching, the sound of little running feet pattering down the hallway is heard and BAM! there's Ari standing/pounding at our door. The same goes for when we settle in on the computer, ready to tackle a long overdue project, answer some work emails, or yes, even write these blog posts.

"Can I play [insert computer game here]?"
"Can I check my email?"
"I have a school project to do on the computer"
"Can  you make me some waffles for a snack?"
"Ooooh, can I see??"
"Can you call next door and see if G can have a playdate?"

To be fair, it's not only my kids, but outsiders as well, that know the exact time I have settled into my downtime/bathtime/computer time/TV time. How is it that the phone rings right at the exact second I sit down? How? I've even become paranoid that there is a little Annoyance Camera set up somewhere within our house that everyone but me is monitoring, ready to pounce on me the minute they see me get comfortable.

I'm not sure what I can do to avoid this 'perfect timing' of things, but in the meantime, I will keep trying to take a break when I get a break. And even when I don't.

Oh look! I finished this post! I only worked through eighteen interruptions, so I hope it makes sense.

Family Secrets

by Patti

When S was in preschool, she began spilling family secrets.

During the first parent-teacher conference I learned that S, who had suffered from a bad case of separation anxiety when she first started preschool, was finally becoming adjusted to the whole being-away-from-home deal, but that she still needed to play with the kids her own age. According to the teacher, Monday mornings would find S hanging out in teachers’ lounge, asking them how their weekends went.

As she grew more and more comfortable, our parent-teacher conferences grew more and more UNcomfortable. “So, I heard you were moving,” the teacher would tell us. We were? They seemed to know things before we even did. “So you know, your daughter offered us the chance to buy your house for $10 – she told us you were desperate to sell it.”

The teachers also heard about how S’s papi “found all of our furniture in the garbage”. Yes, M is a master at finding gems in the alleys of Chicago, and refurbishing them into beautiful pieces of furniture, but to hear it from S’s precocious little mouth, one would think we were sleeping on flea-riddled mattresses and watching a television with a foil-wrapped antenna from couches with cigarette holes burned into them.

I began to dread facing the teachers. What else was S sharing with them that we didn’t know about? Did she tell them about the argument M and I had had the night before? Did she tell them about how her papi walks around in 15-year old boxers with holes in them, did she mention how I say the "F" word far more than any mother should? I was terrified of what they might know; I began to feel that S was a tiny traitor to our family; an enemy giving away top secret information; one who simply could not be trusted.

One day, I couldn't take it anymore, and I plainly asked the teacher to tell me what kinds of things S had been telling her. I don't know why I was so worried; after all, it's not as if we had dead bodies in our closets or headless cats hung over the fireplace mantel. Our lives were pretty clean and open. Yet, the idea that S might have taken something totally innocent and somehow twisted it into M and I being swingers who bathed with the neighbors freaked me out. The teacher, seeing my concern, chuckled and patted me on the arm. "Oh, if you only knew the things I hear being a preschool teacher. Trust me: I have learned to take it all in with a grain of salt."

Although I was now certain that the teacher knew far more than I wanted her to know, in a way, it was liberating. This meant we could pretty much dance naked with dressed-up pigs in our living room, and if S told her teacher we danced naked with dressed-up pigs in our living room, the teacher would just laugh and take it "all in with a grain of salt". Oh, the possibilities! We were free!

These days, S has gotten a little more selective about what she shares with her teachers, but I do wonder about the sheer volume of twisted scenarios these teachers must carry in their heads. I imagine their minds are an endless Fellini film, replete with hapless mothers and fathers hurtling through the space of their brains, weaving and tumbling through their memories, doing some crazy-assed things. And thanks to S, her papi and I without a doubt have leading roles in some of those films.

Cuban MisLED Crisis

by Patti and Cathy

There is an equation that parents are all too aware of: Kids+Restaurant = Flying Food, Yanked Table Cloths, Toppled Wine Glasses, Punctured Conversation, Cold Dinner. Yet, we keep trying to change the outcome of this equation because we simply cannot let go of the idea that we once had so! much! fun! at restaurants. We can't let go of the memory of that lingered-over wine; that savored dinner; that gaze over the bread basket. Until one of those rolls from that bread basket clobbers your forehead and you sadly snap out of it. Then we remember that, oh yeah, we have kids.

We had a big reality check on the whole restaurant situation a few years ago. Our families were looking forward to trying out a new BYOB Cuban restaurant, and decided to plan a "double date" of sorts. Amazed that the stars of our respective schedules lined up, we foolishly thought it might be fun to bring our kids, too.....

Patti

I was so excited about our night out. We don't get to hang out very often with our families all together, and I was looking forward to trying out a new restaurant, cracking open a bottle of wine, and enjoying some spirited conversation. The restaurant was tiny but cozy, and they gave us a nice, long table by the window. We set up the girls at their own table, and they were thrilled to be all "grown-uppy", browsing the menu and enjoying their own conversation. Things seemed to be starting out perfectly. Almost too perfectly. 

The food arrived, steaming, smelling like Havana, and we all began to dig in, family-style. That is when Ari, Cathy's youngest and 2-years old at the time, decided she simply had to be with her papi. Joe took her into his arms, and tried to juggle his fork, his wine, and his little firecracker of a daughter all at once. Ari got more and more wiggly, apparently annoyed that her papi would dare pay so much attention to the rice and beans over her. Joe tried to pass her off to the older girls, telling her how much fun it would be to be at her own table, but Ari wasn't buying it. She knew the real fun? Was being had at our table. So she refused to budge. I could see little beads of sweat beginning to form on Joe's forehead. Joe has always been a "cool customer"; the kind of guy who "never lets 'em see you sweat". But tonight, he was being driven to the brink.

Knowing that Ari had always been fascinated by my Blackberry, I lured her over to my lap with the sparkling promise of YouTube clips from The Bee Movie. Joe, relieved to be free of that adorable albatross, gladly released her, and Ari scurried over to me. I hoisted her up onto my lap, and thus began the reprieve. We were back! We drank wine! We ate! We talked! Sure, I had to pause every 2 minutes to replay those damned clips, but it was a small price to pay for that freedom. But a mere 10 minutes later, mid-plunge into my Cuban fish, Ari got bored. No amount of replays worked. The little assassin sensed fun was being had, and she set out to kill it. She climbed back into Joe's lap, and began to methodically take us all down, one by one.

She started off by insisting she had to go the bathroom. Cathy got up to take her, but NO. It had to be Joe. Joe wearily got up and accompanied her to the one, small bathroom in the restaurant. Of course, the minute they went in, others lined up outside to wait their turn. They were in there forever, and when they finally came out, Ari was pantsless.
"Where are her pants?" Cathy asked confused.
"She didn't want to put them back on," sighed Joe.

Ari was walking behind him, her hair sticking up, her onesie unsnapped, her bare butt hanging out. That's when I noticed: she was not only pantsless, she was also BAREFOOT.

"Joe! She's not wearing shoes!" Cathy hurriedly looked around the restaurant, wondering if her toddler was violating some health code.
"I'm not going to argue with her!" Joe threw his hands up. He sat down to swig some wine, and Ari climbed back into his lap."No mamita, please get off."
Ari screamed. "NO! Papi chulo!" She clung to him, a little leech sucking the life right out of him.

Joe's face reddened, the "cool customer" facade cracking. "Cathy, TAKE HER, PLEASE." He unclenched Ari's grip from his chest, but her little hands boomeranged right back to his shirt, and she leeched onto him even more tightly.
"NOOOOOOOOO!"

Joe unpeeled her from his body, planted her on the floor, pantsless and barefoot, and stomped out of the restaurant. Ari, the ever-efficient assassin, set out after him to finish the job. I could see him in the vestibule, pacing in that tiny space like a caged lion, Ari now wrapped tightly around his neck, choking him. M got up to play mediator, and I could see them all in there, hands flying animatedly, Joe's mouth moving in anger and frustration while M tried to talk him down from the ledge. Ari remained coiled around Joe the entire time. I turned to Cathy, the beautiful spread of untouched food before us. "Girl, you have GOT to get a portable DVD player. 'Cuz this? Ain't working."

Cathy

No parent wants to be the one that all the other restaurant customers glare at sideways with that awful look of disdain on their smug faces. We know all too well what that feels like, and also know, that no matter what, we would never do the same to other parents in a bad situation because we know what it's like.

We've been to restaurants where spaghetti was being flung to other tables, tantrums were being thrown in high chairs and most of the food and drink ended up on the floor. But this night? Was out of control.

Ari had (and still has at times) moments where she just would NOT let Joe put her down. He was eating? She was on his lap. He was watching TV? On his lap. She even wanted to sit on his lap and have Joe read her a book as he was using the bathroom. Every video clip taken of Joe during my sister's wedding three years ago - had Ari pinned to his side. His arm was sore for days after that. So this night, was no different.

I knew things would go south when Ari insisted that Joe take her to the bathroom. And a few minutes later, I saw it: Ari darting into a dining area filled with people enjoying their night out, barefoot with her unsnapped onesie flapping wildly behind her. Joe was nowhere to be seen; I thought for a second that he might have escaped out the bathroom window. Instinctively, I thought I should just keep eating, conversing and drinking and pretend I didn't know who that crazy baby was. Which I did for a few brief moments before I got up to discreetly lure her towards me until I saw Joe, pale as the moon and a frown imbedded on his face, walk up behind her and try to smoothly pick her up, whereupon she threw a fit.

Joe was having no more of this. He hoisted her on his hip, her little dimpled butt peeking out of her open onesie, tears in full swing, no shoes, no coat, no nothing and announced that he was taking her home. His food was barely touched, his wine just waiting to drown his frustrations. I desperately looked at Patti and M; my look said it all. M immediately sprung to action and attempted for what seemed like forever, to talk Joe into coming back in. Begrudgingly, he did. And Ari remained on his lap for the rest of our now deflated, hurried, undigested meal.

The next day, I bought a portable DVD player.

Tiny Tyrant Trickery

by Patti

I was talking to my coworker, Kristin, about her delicious chunk of a baby, Mallorie. Kristin is about to hit that all-important milestone in parenting: surviving the first year. I asked her how things were going, and she lowered her voice and said, almost shyly, “Well, there is one thing I’m kind of worried about…”  She then proceeded to tell me that her little bundle of joy seemed to have developed a full-on foot fetish. Day after day, Mallorie expertly removes her adorable little socks, shoves her pudgy foot of choice into her mouth, and starts to suck. Hard. Of course, I laughed, because, as a mother, I too, have witnessed my own baby in the throes of her own fetish.  Since Kristin seemed genuinely concerned, I did her a favor and shared my story:

S had one of those colorful little exersaucers, and she would zip around the house in it, laughing almost fiendishly as she did. One day, I heard what sounded like a gagging noise, and I turned to find S standing in her exersaucer in the doorway, her fist shoved deeply into her mouth, a mischievous glint in her eye. Seeing that she was GAGGING, I promptly removed her slimy little dimpled hand from her mouth and told her, “No!” Her hand practically boomeranged straight back into her mouth, and she balled it up into a fist and shoved it as far back she as she could, and, surprise! GAGGED. Each time she did this, she would gag, remove her hand, and then laugh maniacally. The vicious cycle continued the rest of the day, and for many weeks thereafter. Each time, I would remove her hand, and each time, she would stick it right back into her mouth and gag herself.

I finally decided that I would try a little reverse psychology. After all, she was clearly getting tons of attention from me with this little maneuver of hers, so I decided to stop rewarding her with it. I didn’t have to play my game for very long, though, because shortly thereafter, I heard the usual gagging sound, and then a new, different sound. I turned to find S in the doorway again, this time, with a look of sheer surprise on her face. The other thing on her face? Vomit! Lots of it! And all over her hand, and down the front of her onesie. S just stood there in her little exersaucer, her eyes the size of plates, covered in the result of her own obsessive stubbornness.

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. My poor baby was covered in puke and I stood there laughing.

After that day, S stopped shoving her fist in her mouth, but it wasn’t the end, no not by far. She found plenty of other things to obsess over, and, as each obsession eventually petered out, I learned to stop obsessing myself, and just let her be.

Kristin is still fairly new at the game of motherhood, but soon she’ll see that to survive, you have to remain one step ahead of these little tyrants. Yes, these babies are cute, but let’s not get crazy: they are tricky as hell and have a pretty solid strategy. Fetishes, obsessions, stubbornness, defiance, all cloaked in unbearable cuteness - it’s all part of the master plan to take us over and do us in. Kristin may be worried about her little foot sucker, but what she needs to realize is that if we, the innocent parents, are not careful, we end up the suckers, each and every time.

Unplugged

by Cathy and Patti 

We both have daughters of the Technology Age. You know: the kids who know their way around a computer better than a playground; the ones who play tennis on a screen instead of on a court; the ones who have play dates that consist of texting one another as they sit side by side.

Call us grandmas, but this bugs us. Whatever happened to human interaction? Whatever happened to summers of skinned knees and winters of board games?

We have each contended with Technology Tantrums and Digital Doozies in our households, and frankly? We have had enough.

.........

Cathy:

I never wanted to become that family on Oprah that had every technological device removed from their house because they weren't communicating with one another. That got me so freaked, I've hunted for any scent of us going down that path ever since. When I see my kids on their DS or their iPod longer than a half hour, I demand they turn it off and find something else to do. When I notice that my husband and I are perched in front of the television too long, we make an effort to turn it off and do something with the kids.

Bella happened upon my neighbor's Wi-Fi password while she was over their house one day over the summer - my nieghbor had no idea of the consequence of giving her the password since his daughter is younger, and to his credit, has apologized for overstepping boundaries and offered to change it. I decided against that, hoping instead, to use this opportunity to teach her the life lesson of "everything in moderation." Since then, she has been watching old Disney show reruns incessantly on her iPod; so much so, that she's plugged into her iPod when she's using the bathroom and even while brushing her teeth.

Last week, I had a Tech Snap. I asked her to shut it down and hand it over to me one night while she was laying in bed and it was almost 11pm, she repeatedly, defiantly said NO while begging to finish watching her show. This wasn't the first time she did this, but it was certainly going to be the last. I yanked it away from her as my screams wafted up through the open windows for all of my neighbors to hear what a psycho snapper I can be. No iPod for three days.

Eventually, in calm mode, she and I sat down to discuss this. I told her it made me sad when she comes home from school and plugs into that iPod and I can't ask her about her day. Or when she would rather be on that thing than cuddle with me at bedtime. She had no idea how it was affecting us. Then she got sad about it. She understood.

So I made a house proclamation: Going forward, for one hour before bedtime, no DS, iPods or computers. That goes for me and Joe as well. And every Sunday will be our designated family game night. Everything in moderation. Slowly, but surely, we'll reconnect by disconnecting.


Patti: 
S is an only child, so she doesn't have a sibling to turn to when she's in the mood for some Chutes and Ladders or Monopoly. She doesn't have anybody to play "school" with, or a rousing game of Twister. Instead, she has her Papi and me, and a very uninterested hamster, who let's face it, has really short legs (and arms?) and would not do well in a game of Twister. I always end up the "kindergartener" in her "classroom", and her Papi has played and (over)played Jenga. I'll admit: We, the parents, get lazy, and fun pickins get slim. So she has turned to her BFF, the laptop.That kid knows her way around a laptop better than Steve Jobs (may he rest in peace). In fact, her dream is to work for Apple one day (when she is done touring as a ballerina and competing in Wimbeldon, that is).

S can surf the 'net on her BFF for hours on end, if we let her.  She will even take it to the bathroom with her to Skype her cousins, or research bras (because she is impatiently awaiting the day she can have one), or make Christmas lists, or listen to Selena Gomez on YouTube. And I'm all, "Can't you just poop in PEACE?". 

But then I remember, this is coming from the woman who takes her Android into the bathroom with her to catch up on celebrity gossip and send emails to friends. Seems I can't poop in peace, either.

And M? Loves him some Craiglist. He can spend hours browsing at cars he will never buy on Craigslist. If he's not on the computer, he will sit in the bathroom with his own beloved Android and plug himself into Pandora while he poops or pees, but not in peace.

So are we wrong to insist S unplug herself when we can't even unplug ourselves to, uh, unplug ourselves?

And it's not just in our household that I am finding connections being severed. I do my best to plan lots of play dates for S, and she has lots of good friends to hang out with, but I have noticed more and more that these "play dates" have no "play" in them. Instead, she and a friend will sit in front of the computer and watch YouTube videos together, or "picto chat" on their DS's, or text each other while they are both sitting on the same couch.

So I have decided: We will instill a Poop in Peace Policy in our household, AND a Friends Without Electronics Policy. I am hoping the new PIP and FWE policies will bring back some good ol' fashioned quality of life into our lives. 

Ready? Set? UNPLUG!

.......

We love technology; we just don't love what it seems to have done to the human connections in our families and friendships. While we would never want to go all the way back to the days of being totally unplugged, we do want to honor the real live wires of our existence - the human ones that matter most.

One Is Not Like The Other

by Cathy

Have you known families with kids that are freakishly...the same? It usually works in extremes - the kids are all either obedient bookworms or misbehaving behemoths. In theory, it makes complete sense...if you use the same parenting technique with all the kids, they should all turn out the same way, right?

Wrong. Way wrong.

Since the very beginning when Ari, my second one, was born, I was always comparing everything she did to her older sister. It started when in the early weeks of her life when I tucked Ari in her crib for a nice, long afternoon nap that I fully expected her to take at this point because Bella did. I too settled into my bed next to her for some much needed shut-eye. Before I could fully drift off, maybe about thirty minutes later, she was up cooing and whining in her crib. I was groggy, shaky and annoyed. 'How come she doesn't take full naps?' I would say tiredly to my husband. 'Bella wasn't a catnapper!'

I would continue to do it. By this age: "Bella read more books; Bella was able to write her name; Bella never cried this much; Bella was never this headstrong; Bella listened to me; Bella never watched this much TV." They don't even like the same foods!

For every one of these comments, my husband was always quick to dismantle my conclusions. 'Yes, she did/was' or 'No, she didn't/wasn't' was usually what came out of his mouth. 'You just don't remember correctly,' he would always say to me. Really? Was I that nuts that I didn't remember these exact little things I am specifically mentioning?

Well I DO know my kids well enough to note the following differences I see between them:
Example A:
Bella is very emotional, naive, quiet and painfully honest with me about everything. When I used to pack her lunches at school, she never threw away what she didn't eat because I told her to specifically bring it home so I can see how much and what she ate that day. Even though she knew that if she brought a lot of food back, I would reprimand her for not eating. This would happen almost every day, but it never occurred to her to throw it away to avoid the confrontation with me at home. Ari on the other hand, brought her lunchbox home empty on the first day, even though I knew she couldn't have eaten everything I put in there. "Where's all of your food?" I asked her.
"I ate it," she replied.
"ALL of it?" I pressured.
"Yes."
Only when Bella jumped in and questioned her did she 'mess up' and be honest. "I threw it away," she said quietly.
After I didn't pack her preferred lunch items of choice on the first day of school, the next morning she actually sat down on the kitchen floor and started opening up her lunchbox.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I want to see what you packed me for lunch," she bossily replied. "I didn't like what you gave me yesterday." As if I was going to change it. But I had to smile at her gall and determination. Bella would never dare do that.

Example B:
Bella always kept her hair accessories in her hair; she came home looking exactly as she did when she left for school that morning, expect with a few obligatory flyaways. Ari leaves the house impeccably combed with pigtails and barrettes, and returns with her curly hair settled wildly around her face and shoulders - a disheveled mess.
Example C:
As I mentioned above, Bella is honest. Ari is a big time fibber. She fibs: when she doesn't know how to answer; when she's trying to cover up something sneaky she did; when she thinks we won't notice; to get what she wants; to get out of trouble. She is also waaaaay more stubborn than her sister. Okay, I couldn't help the comparison :)

At my husband's urging, I am now capable of recognizong their differences - who they are, their souls, their colorful personalities - instead of comparing them based on external abilities or behaviors.  I stopped expecting them to be cloned into one another, mainly because it would make my job easier.  I've come to not only accept them each for their amazing, individual personalities but also their accomplishments, strengths and interests.

And when I let go of my expectations, I feel freedom in that I am allowing them to grow into who they were each meant to be.

The School Germ Train

by Cathy

All aboaaaaard!!!!
The School Germ Train will be leaving the station momentarily. We are expected to reach our destination in June. There will be multiple stops along the way but please note that no one is allowed to get off; once you have been seated, you must remain seated. Along the way, flus, viruses, bugs, snot, fevers, vomit, strep and all of their relatives will be joining us, so make sure to leave some room. Seat belts must be worn at all times; this will be one bumpy ride.

This morning, Ari woke up with a cough, followed by the groggy strains of, "My throat hurts!"

This must be a new record...it took a whopping 12 days of being in school for one of my kids to get sick. I knew it would be coming sooner or later. I just didn't think it would be SO soon.

To make things worse, we received a two-page school memo, basically telling us to brace for lice. LICE. As if we didn't have enough to worry about. The letter desperately tried to reassure us: "It's very common amongst kids in school and camps! It happens to children with particularly squeaky clean hair! Lice has been around for over 3,000 years - longer than us!"

We've stopped in Liceville once before with Bella, back when she was in kindergarten, when we had no idea that lice was still being spread in schools because we were first-time parents. We were appalled. We didn't know to look out for it until we received a letter after Christmas break that year saying that there is now an 'outbreak' of lice throughout kindergarten and we need to check our kids pronto. Sure enough, Bella had it. And I had it. And the process of removing it? SUCKED.

I never want to stop in Liceville again, so now I have become a lice freak. I'm always putting their hair up, telling them: Don't hug other kids! Don't share headbands! Keep your hair up! Don't play with other kids at recess! Just play by yourself!

So as I tighten my seatbelt and brace for the long, winding road on the School Germ Train, I am comforted by the fact that I remembered to pack my sense of humor and my brave determination.

Lost

by Patti


S is a pretty responsible kid.

Despite being closer to 11 years old than my heart can handle, she still holds my hand in parking lots and when we cross the street, she obeys rules, she respects computer, cell phone and television boundaries, and she even corrects me when I cuss. Which I do. A lot.

But, man, does she lose EVERYTHING.

In the past few months alone, she has lost her:

Cell phone
Glasses
Sunglasses
iPod
Library book

This is an expensive list of stuff to lose, and everything on it? Lost. Gone. Cannot be found.

I imagine there is a black hole in the universe totally jam-packed with all the stuff she has lost in her short lifetime. There are undoubtedly a billion single socks in there, thousands of Polly Pockets and their annoyingly tiny fashions, a few backpacks, at least 5 sets of earphones, a library of books, her 2nd grade Very Important Math Assignment, that Christmas C.D. her grandfather gave her… MY MIND.

It drives me absolutely insane how she can be so scatterbrained about her things.

One morning last year I got to work and, as I usually do when I get to my desk, I reached into my purse to pull out my cell phone. It wasn’t there. I frantically dug through it for a good 10 minutes, but it was nowhere to be found. I went out to my car to see if I’d left it charging, and it wasn’t there. Then I remembered my earlier pit stop at CVS, where I screeched into a parking spot and jumped out of the car, in a hurry as usual. Had I forgotten the phone was on my lap and it then fell out when I jumped out of the car? Did I take it in the store with me, and then absentmindedly place it on a shelf while I browsed? I went back to my desk and called CVS to see if anybody has turned in a cell phone. Of course not.

During my lunch break, I went back to the CVS parking lot and searched it, looking for the phone. It was February and blustery, and we had recently had a record snowfall, and there I was, hunched over the icy parking lot like some mad cartoon detective. If the phone had fallen, it has surely fallen straight into a mountain of that snow and sunk to its arctic death by now.

That is when I had to accept it: I had lost it. It was expensive, it had years of photos and videos stored on it, every single contact I ever knew was programmed into it. And it was gone.

Worse: It was the 2nd cell phone I had lost in as many years.

I also lost my house key.

My car key.

My sunglasses.

My friend’s book she had loaned me.

And that black hole in the universe? Well, another one had to be created just to store all of the crap I have lost. Because in my lifetime, I have lost a lot of crap.

Apparently, I passed on the Lose Everything gene to my kid, and I wonder if that means I should give her a pass of sorts; an “It’s okay, me too, wink-wink” kind of pass.

But I can’t. Because the cycle must end.

I know from experience, there is nothing fun about losing stuff. It is frustrating, and makes you feel bad, and just plain sucks because sometimes that stuff you lose is pretty important stuff.

So yeah, I get frustrated with S and I guess that makes me a total hypocrite.

But isn’t that parenthood: one big, fat, shameless ball of hypocrisy?