Ode to August

by Cathy

My love for the month of August is undying; so much so, that I have written August a letter. This originally ran last summer and nothing has changed except for the fact that this year, we don't yet feel the autumn chill in the air, but are still blessed to feel August's warmth linger...hopefully, well into that next month. Enjoy.

  
August, my love.

All year I waited with delight and disdain for your arrival.
You are at once the pinnacle of summer and the seedling of winter's onset.

Thoughts of you are equated to hot summer days at beaches and lakes, steamy summer nights that lead into watching the sunrise, lemonade stands and long-awaited holidays taken 'round the world.

Your carefree nature is like a flash of light in the night. You are a fleeting reprieve that is gone way too quickly.


I will relish the luxury of the sleep you allow and the stress you forbid before the mayhem of the school season begins.

I will yearn for the mystical allure of your full moon, for which countless songs and poems have been written, with its majestic pull that brings young lovers together and draws all of the ocean's creatures closer to the surface of the still waters of seas and oceans, just to witness it.

Your last few days are already laced with a hint of fall. There's a nip in the early morning air and a chill in the evening breeze that wasn't there when you first arrived. By some, the occasional sweater has already been released from their closets, ready to wave you off into bitter abandonment.

I can feel it in the air, August. You are leaving me. No sooner had you swept me into the throes of summer, you are now leaving me to autumn's surrender.

I will miss you August, the yellow month in which I was brought into this world, with your young spirit and blazing sun that warms my skin to the bone. And it will be a long winter's night before I breathe you in again. Stay safe on the other side of the world where you will travel.

Until we meet again.

-Cathy

It's like 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife....

by Patti

This morning I was in the shower, half-asleep, soaped up into oblivion. I swayed slightly under the warm water, once again in complete disbelief that I was now the kind of person who got up when it was still dark outside. Mid-yawn, I rinsed off the soap, reached for the shampoo, and only saw this:

Color me happy, my ass.

Panicked, I quickly looked to another part of the shower rack, and saw this:

Just look at that trio of conditioner, mocking me so

And that is when I remembered with great annoyance that, oh yeah, there is no shampoo. I had just bought some, but S had been complaining that the shampoo she and M use - the one located in the bathroom upstairs (my bathroom is in the basement) - makes her sneeze. So the night before, when I heard her sneezing in the shower, I quickly grabbed my new shampoo and conditioner and took it to her upstairs. "Don't forget to return my shampoo to my bathroom, okay?"

She forgot.

So there I was, shampoo-less. The whole idea of getting out of the shower, all dripping wet and cold, and having to towel off, run upstairs, grab the shampoo, run back downstairs, get BACK in the shower... well, my natural Lazy possessed my body whole right then and there, and I decided to instead raid my "vacation stash" - a collection of travel-sized beauty items - that was under my bathroom vanity. I got out of the shower, soaked, and squatted down, naked as the day I was born, in front of the cabinet, and began my frantic search. Out flew mini deodorants, moisturizers, gels, hairsprays, toothbrush kits (note to self: time to clean out your vacation stash).... and in the end, this is all I could find:

That's right. Nothing but CONDITIONER. I even found a long-forgotten Costco jumbo bottle, its size only serving to further mock my shampoo-less situation.

The shower still running in the background as I sat there in my birthday suit trying to will up shampoo, my bathroom had now turned into a full-fledged sauna. I was desperate and running out of time,and even though there was TWO perfectly good bottles of shampoo a mere flight of stairs away, I grabbed a years-old bottle of this:

I figured the "Protein & Honey" part of the equation might cancel out the "Soap" part, and climbed back into the shower to lather up my hair.

The truth? I am having a seriously good, bouncin' and behavin' hair day.

Thrown Under the Bus

by Cathy

"Kids say the darndest things."

So cute, so innocent and so...truthful. However, this so-called harmless honesty is not always the best policy.

The other day I was left to take Ari to her bi-weekly Kumon class - an academic summer camp of sorts that Joe signed her up for and was responsible for taking her to. Since I was not the one who sat through orientation on the way things work there, I got an ear-full when Ari showed up with only half of her workbooks completed and incompletely at that. After I got my instructional lecture from the director of the franchise, I made a note to self: always get involved in everything from the get-go.

Apparently, I wasn't the only parent that wasn't following directions. Ridden with guilt, or perhaps wanting to avoid the lecture from Ms. Trunchbull of Matilda, another mom volunteered to step into the line of fire.
"I promise, we'll be better about completing the workbooks too." She chuckled and looked at me as if wanting to commiserate. Then she added with a sigh, "It's like we're throwing our kids under the bus."

"The school bus!" I hooted as we both inappropriately broke out into fits of laughter.
The receptionist glared at us disapprovingly as she shoved even more workbooks into our kids' pouches.

 As if on cue, a dad and his young son walked into the waiting room and the boy plopped his pouch onto the receptionist's desk along with his book for the week. Without being prodded, he blurted out, "We didn't read that book."  
"Why not?" asked the receptionist.
"Because my dad forgot to read it to me." BAM! Under the bus!
"Hey!" retorted the dad quickly and in an effort to save his ass from being run over by said proverbial bus, he did what any other husband would do - he went into survival mode and threw his wife under it. "Mom was supposed to do that with you!" BAM! And she's not even there to defend herself.
Nice.

This tactic is nothing new. As parents, we are well aware the we are constantly being thrown under the bus by our own kids. Like if the phone rings and they get to it first and you tell them to say 'Mommy isn't home now,' of course, they say, "Sure. Hold on," and pass you the phone. BAM!

In the past week, Joe got thrown under the bus by each of our kids.

While dropping the kids off at a friend's house for a playdate, the little girl brought out some crocheted hotpads she made. As she was gushing on and on about how hard they were to make and didn't we looooove them??? Joe asks her if he can have one - just to be nice.

"I can use it for my morning cup of coffee!" he said politely.
The little girl's face lit up but quickly turned down when Bella screeched, "Whaaaat!?!?"
Everyone looked at Bella's oblivious face, contorted with confusion.
"Papi, you don't use hotpads for your coffee."
BAM! Thrown under the bus on Politeness Street.


Then, the other day he took Ari on a CTA bus and because he hadn't gotten a chance to fill up his bus card to comp her fare if necessary, he naturally lied about her age - even though he didn't have to because she was young enough. (Again, that survival mode kicking in.)
"How old is she?" asked the driver, just to be sure.
"Sheeeee's.....fooouuuurrrr," said Joe sounding rather unsure of himself.
Ari fists promptly fly to her hips and she blurts out, "Papi! I'm six!!"

BAM! Being thrown under the bus, WHILE ON the bus.

If kids can throw adults - their own parents - under the bus, they will have no qualms about throwing other kids under there either. This last Saturday, while waiting with Ari in a packed dance studio for Bella to finish her Nutcracker audition (yes, you heard right; and yes, it's still only August) she and Miche's four-year old son were finding ways to quell their boredom. Suddenly, we hear a loud crash near the reception desk. Miche instinctively jumps from her seat in time to hear her son say, "Uh oh." The large dry/erase board and the easel holding it up were both strewn face down on the floor. Ari was scolding him by repeating his name, in a manner which didn't allow him  to even think about throwing her under the bus for something she didn't do. Smart girl.
"What happened?" asked Miche.
"She let me do it," I overheard him say, not sure if he was trying to pin Ari or his sister, whom was nearby and he was squabbling with just seconds earlier.
 Now, if his response wasn't a clever way to attempt to get his little butt as far away from that oncoming bus, I don't know what is.

This is proof positive that throwing another under the bus is a natural, reflexive instinct we ALL resort to while in survival mode. Just keep in mind that that bus? Will always turn back around and come your way because it's forever traveling down a two-way street.

The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

by Patti

I have mastered the art of embarrassing my child. After all, isn't that what all mothers work so hard for? We don't lose sleep, hair and sanity for nothing, you know. And finally, after 11 years, I have honed my craft. I am officially The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

I was talking to a neighbor one day - her daughter is S's good friend - and she told me that her children had nearly died from embarrassment when she dared to sing along to a song on the radio that day. She admitted that she may have thrown me under the bus to save face. "I said, but Mrs. P is WAY more embarrassing than I am, isn't she?" Apparently, I have a reputation, because not only did she think to use me as  an embarrassment scapegoat - her kids? Agreed. I guess the baby talk I do with my dog in public, or the fact I regularly break out into song, or the cross-eyed monkey imitation I am prone to do with absolutely no warning might have something to do with that.

But I understood my neighbor's act of desperation. She was already in big trouble with her daughter because of that time she ran out to greet the school bus in sweat pants and an evening gown. You see, she had been trying on a new dress for an upcoming event when she realized the bus would be there any second. So she simply ran outside, the dress partially unzipped, her sweat pants the imperfect accessory. Her daughter, after dying a few thousand deaths, simply ran by her, turned inside out with mortification. She still hadn't forgiven her, so that day, when my friend foolishly sang along to the radio, she knew she had to do something. Enter: The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

Can you believe there's actually a book? 

The other day I went for a run in the park across the street from our house. S was rollerblading with that same friend, and as I ran in endless circles trying to burn off the 45 lbs of kettle corn I had just consumed, I kept an eye on the girls as they skated and gossiped. As I rounded a corner, I saw them skating toward me, and I couldn't help myself - I shimmied. Yes, I shimmied as I ran and made a crazy face. S turned bright purple and her friend giggled fiercely into her hands, probably thrilled that I was much, much more embarrassing than her own mother - the Sweatpants and Evening Gown Monster. That night, S approached me. "Mom? Why did you do that today?"
"I don't know - I felt like it."
"But... your boobs were flopping around. It was SO embarrassing." Her eyes rolled so fiercely she may have hurt herself.
"I was wearing a sports bra - how could they be flopping?"
"THEY WERE."
The next day, once dressed for another run, I did a test shimmy in the mirror. My boobs SO did NOT flop.

But I guess that's beside the point. The point, apparently, is that I am simply too embarrassing to exist. And I have to admit: now that I know this with certainty, I am liberated. This means I can pretty much do anything I want. After all, I am ALREADY embarrassing; it can't possibly get worse. So I'll just go with it.

Oh, the delicious plans I have. 

TWWW's First (Annual?) Ghetto-Que

by Cathy & Patti

How many years have we known each other? Seven.
How many times have we marveled at the fact that we live parallel lives? Lots.

Aside from having girls the same age that could probably pass for sisters, we are both married to stubborn, strong-willed Latin men. And considering all of this, how many times have we planned family get togethers? Let's just say you could count them on one hand. How ridiculous is that?

Don't get us wrong - it's not that we don't want to, it's just that we never think about that. Why? Because we met while us moms were taking our daughters to ballet class, and it slowly became this "girl" day thing every Saturday; coffee chat while the girls pirouetted and twirled in dance class, followed by lunch chat and perhaps a mall excursion. It was a win-win!

We began having more frequent get-togethers at each other's houses but again, those were usually planned when one of our husbands was working late or out of town. Thus, husbands never fully got integrated into the scene except for a few rare occasions, where they indeed hit it off. Amazingly. So it would make sense that we would get together as families, right? But we really hadn't. This realization came as a shock to us one day several weeks ago when we were Gmail-chatting and the topic came up. WHY haven't we gotten the whole family together sooner?

Amazed at how shockingly ridiculous this was, we promptly agreed on a date and time right then and there that day on G-chat. We penciled it in, and by God we were going to get our families together. So was scheduled, the first ever Barbeque de Familia de TWWW, or as we lovingly refer to it as - Ghettoque.

Cathy
Of course we didn't intend for it to turn into a Ghettoque - 'cuz ya know, we strive to always be all klassy and shiat. Everything was very nice and proper from the minute we set foot into Patti and M's backyard. The patio table sat prepared with beautiful tableware, the shiny new umbrella sat tilted just so to protect us from the blazing sun and the meat was marinating in some yummy Argentinian concoction. The girls immediately took to their basement and the four of us spent the afternoon chatting, sipping and stuffing our faces with choripan, chicken, steak and Greek salad...until...the girls came out for air.

The day was hot and humid and since we didn't have the luxury of traipsing around the backyard with our bathing suits on like the girls, we had to sweat it out. While enjoying 95 degrees in the shade of the table umbrella, the girls began using the garden hose to fill up water balloons. If you've ever tried to fill up water balloons, you'll know that the only problem with that was that the hose can become a slippery little sucker when trying to fill those teeny tiny balloons. So guess where most of that water was ending up? You guessed it. All over us. After several scoldings by the Latino dads to basta! and cientate! they had enough. Into the garage they went to plan their revenge...


Patti
...suddenly, the menfolk burst out of the garage - completely wrapped in thick, black Glad bags. M had MacGyvered protective warrior gear for Joe and himself, cutting arm and head holes at lighting speed into the trash bags with who-knows-what-tool he pulled off the shelves in there. They were ready for water. Water war. Upon seeing their dads, the girls shu-RIEKED at decibels that caused the neighborhood dogs to bark themselves into a frenzy.

Note my newly-purchased beach ball in the corner. 

But let me rewind for a moment. (Cue the scratching of a record.)

When I informed M that Cathy and her family would be coming over for a long-time-comin' barbeque, at first he was confused. "Her WHOLE family?" Cathy is Greek. He pictured her parents, her sister and brother-in-law, and other assembled loud Greeks crashing our shack. I explained that I meant Cathy's family - as in: Husband? Kids? Relief flooded his anti-social face, and plans were miraculously cemented.

M likes to act all tough and macho, but underneath is a lil' pussycat who actually truly cares about making an impression. He diced and sliced and chopped up his homemade chimichurri, prepared the flan for postre, and scrubbed a wall or two for good measure.Since he cares so much about being a good host, I nearly gasped at the level of ghetto that was bedazzling our tree in the backyard when I stepped outside to prepare the patio. "What the - What IS that?" There, dangling with absolutely not a modecum of shame from that tree, was our old, green garden hose. And it was spraying water in a trailer park-y way all over the grass.

"It's a sprinkler," he said, AS IF IT WAS.
"No, it's not!" I retorted. "It's a HOSE twisted around a tree!"
Since we hadn't gotten around to buying a sprinkler attachment for the hose, and it was a scorchingly hot day, M thought he would create a "sprinkler" by wrapping our old garden hose a few times around the thickest branches of our half-chopped tree, and fashioning it into a shower head of sorts. "The girls will love it!"
"This has GOT to go!" I said, and I began to undo the monstrosity that was spewing water everywhere. I then promptly ran to CVS and bought a beach ball sprinkler, and felt instantly more civilzed. "I don't know why you spent that money," M scolded when he saw me return with the monster ball, "my idea was perfect!"

That whole incident set the entire tone for the water fight that was to be. And boy, did it be. Back to the present, as the menfolk ripped through the yard donned in black plastic, I couldn't help but wonder, at well, the wonder of it all.

Here were our husbands, practically two ships passing in the night for seven years, in complete and total solidarity against the girls who had brought us moms together so long ago:

And they were ALL screaming up a storm - even our "macho" men. Those screams combined with the flying water, the black plastic garbage bag get-ups, the neighbor's barking dog, and the chain link fence -- I mean, M might as well have left that twisted, rubbery, green "sprinkler" dangling from the tree. Indeed, our little Sunday afternoon barbeque had very quickly been taken down a few notches from  fashionable to Ghet. To.

And you know what? We wouldn't have had it any other way.

So, Here's My Schedule...Let's Plan This, Maybe?

by Cathy


I was sitting in KFC (don't ask...another lunch-on-the-run kind of day) with the girls last week for a forced sit-down lunch amidst a slew of errands for the day that ranged from buying new gymshoes for volleyball camp to driving to Niles for Bella's new middle school uniform fitting. Yes, for us school is still about a month away but preparations are in full swing.

All the while, I was on my phone texting, emailing, facebooking and calling no less than six different people to set up the following:

- Playdates (should I hang with the other mom or do I dump-and-run?)
- Family get-togethers (let's plan that trip to the waterpark but let's schedule it last minute so we can make sure the weather cooperates)
- Guitar lessons (can we reschedule? It conflicts with the nice weather day and we need to go to a waterpark)
- Swimming class (are we still on for this week or is it cancelled again?)
- Babysitting (will we be back home in time from errands so a friend can drop off her kid?)
- Kid counseling session (I know this is important but can we squeeze it in between the waterpark and gymshoe shopping?)

"THIS IS CRAZY!" I screamed at my phone. Yes. I had a meltdown in KFC. (Don't pretend this has never happened to you, okay?)

Instead of getting the usual, "Mom, what's wrong?!" from my kids, Bella decided to take make light of the situation. Apparently, my outburst reminded her of this summer's tween anthem by Carly Rae Jepsen, "Call Me Maybe". (And let's not pretend that you have never heard of this song, either, okay? Because like me, I'm sure you hear it in your sleep.)

Laughing at her approach, she smiles at me and I can't help but smile back. As we all broke out into a fit of giggles, it hit me! We can use the Jepsen hit song to create our own mommy anthem - the anthem of overscheduled, overburdened, overtired, over-erranded moms! How fitting.

So here, for your entertainment, is what we came up with:

(Sung to the tune of, well, you know what song...)

I threw a fit in the car

Don’t ask, we were pretty far

I looked insane as I yelled

And now it’s me who’s nuts

I’d trade my phone for a wish

Pennies and dimes for a spa

I wasn’t looking for this

But in a bind again

My stare was holdin’

Hair ripped out, madness showin’

Hot mess, this was blowin’

Where should I be going, baby?

Hey, I just scheduled this

I’m going crazy

Can we do it next week?

I feel so shady

It’s hard to keep things

Flowing like gravy

Got another conflict

Let's still plan this, maybe?

And all the other moms

Try to call me

I changed my number

They’re drivin’ me crazy

You took your time to call back

And threw my plans outta whack

You gave me no time or sign 

But still I worked things out

I beg, borrow and steal

To have some free time, for real

Don’t really know how that feels
Now I'm in planning hell 

My stare was holdin’

Hair ripped out, madness showin’

Hot mess, this was blowin’
How much more can I take, baby?

Hey, I know we scheduled this

But things got crazy

Can we reschedule?

Next Monday, maybe?

It's hard to deal with
This juggling, baby
This is my schedule
Just call me crazy

Happy Birthday, Friend

by Patti

“A friend is one that knows you as you are, understands where you have been, accepts what you have become, and still, gently allows you to grow.” 
― William Shakespeare

It's no secret Cathy and I did not become friend immediately. After all, I kissed her husband. And I had a waist. And I was far too perky to be allowed to live.

But seven years later, here we are. Friends. Really, really good friends.

On this day, my really, really good friend's birthday, I want to not only celebrate the fact that she has been granted another year on this earth - one with a few extra grays and maybe a new line or two, but another year nonetheless - I also want to celebrate who she is as a friend.

Because Cathy is a good friend; a true friend.

She not only makes you laugh, but she will also laugh at your jokes and your ways and make you feel like the funniest person alive.

She will listen to you, offer gentle advice if asked, and, if needed, help you see things differently - without making you feel like you are wrong about it.

She will lend you a helping hand when you need it - sometimes literally.

She will tear up when you are sad, because she really feels what you are feeling.

She will light up when things go right for you, because she is really happy for you.

Yes, Cathy is a good friend; a true friend.

She is also a wife and a mother; a daughter and a sister; a cousin and an aunt - one who deeply loves her husband, her daughters, her parents, her sister, her cousins, her niece.

She is fiercely independent, yet cannot live without her family; without her friends.

Cathy with her (from left) husband, sister, and brother-in-law

Beloved daughters

A night out with some friends

She is who she is, and on this day, her birthday, I'm glad for it.

Happy Birthday, Beeyotch!

Love,
Your Friend

Restroom Reading

by Cathy

We are a family of readers. I have my books near my nightstand, the girls have a huge library in their bedroom to choose from for bedtime stories and Joe has his stack of reading material mainly in the restroom. Yeah, you heard right. Well, to be fair, we all have our fair share of reading materials in our restrooms.

Yes, I know it's called a "rest" room for a reason (it's also called a bathroom but we do more in there than bathe and it's also called a washroom but we do more in there than wash...you catch my drift) but who wants to sit there twiddling their thumbs impatiently waiting for nature to take its course? There's no time for resting or twiddling; we got shit to do (no pun, really). So, naturally, we placed magazine racks in each of our two bathrooms to appease our boredom. The pros: this promotes good reading habits and keeps our productivity momentum going. The cons: the bathrooms can be occupied for looooong stretches of time and we all know that's not good for our bottoms.

The other day as I turned a corner in our hallway, I stopped in my tracks at the sight through the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. There stood Bella, pants around her knees, little moon shining, hunched over the magazine rack which sits right below the toilet paper holder. Thinking that she was fidgeting with changing the roll, I asked her if everything was okay and did she need any help?

"Do we have any real magazines in here?" she sighed in exasperation as she plopped a pile of magazines back down into the rack that is conveniently wedged next to the toilet.

"What do you mean, real magazines?" I said. "Aren't all of those real magazines?"

"Um..." began Bella as she lifted them one by one and presented them to me. "Wine Enthusiast...Bev Net...Bon Appetit...Imbibe....INC.....Wine Spectator....Fast Company...a Uline catalog...really?!?"

I laughed out loud. Yes, our bathroom library is pretty boring, even for me since it's basically Joe's stash.  Every so often, I'll throw in a "real" magazine but for the most part, it's these magazines and the occasional Reader.

"I mean, do we have any good magazines? You know, like Us Weekly, Glamour, InStyle, you know, something interesting?!" She sat back on the toilet in a huff.

"I don't think so, honey," I said sympathetically. (Sidenote: this is why I just bring my phone into the bathroom. But I don't like to promote this with my kids because the last time that happened, Bella's iPod fell into the toilet.)

"You can try digging through that whole stack and see what you find buried below, but I don't think you'll find those."

"I don't care, even if they're old! I just want to read something interesting!" she yelled, her voice trailing after me down the hallway.

"Why didn't you just go to your bathroom?" I asked.

"Because this was closer and I really had to go!"

Now their bathroom (the girls' bathroom) has a magazine rack that is stuffed with reading material more their speed. PB Teen and American Girl catalogs, Teen Vogue, Discovery Girls, the Pinkalicious and Whimpy Kid book series, etc.

Now at least Bella can muddle through and find something that can appease her reading appetite while she's in there doing her business. Ari? Cannot possibly read anything that is already in her bathroom, because she loooooves to make special requests - once she has already sat down to do her thing - about what she wants to read.

"Moooom! Can you bring me a book? Ooooh how about My Sweet Friends? And not..." she goes on to name all the books she doesn't want, as if I know them all. So I choose the first book I find and bring it in to her.

"Noooo! Not that one! Can you bring me Madeline? Or Eloise?"
 "Ari, really?!? No. If you want to read, you'll just have to read that one. I don't have time to be your personal bathroom book butler," I say as I walk off. The nerve! And she does that every. single. time.

So depending on which bathroom one chooses, they'll never be satisfied with the reading options in each. But one thing is for sure. No matter which bathroom I decide to use, I basically still need to bring my phone. If I don't, I'm pretty much left staring at the walls or redecorating the bathrooms in my head - and leaving women with that much time to think about that kind of stuff is a dangerous thing. Regardless,  I make a mental note to myself to pick up a home decorating magazine next time I'm out. Oh, and maybe a "real" magazine or two like In Touch or Star.

All Growed Up

by Patti

As of this morning I am officially the mother of a junior high kid. I know I've talked about it several times on this blog. I've lamented its impending doom; the fact that my baby is now a young lady; the complicated emotions surrounding this bittersweet milestone. But now? It's here. It's really, really here. And at this very moment, she is boarding a school bus, her backpack dangerously heavy with notebooks and pencils and expandable 13-pocket folders, and her father is waving goodbye to her. And she is turned away from the window, talking to her friends, even though every fiber of her 11-year old being wants to press her nose against the glass and wave back.

A few days ago, S sat down on a stool in our kitchen and got ready for a haircut. M, the family hairdresser, tried to talk her out of the choppy layers she begged for him to cut into her hair, explaining that her curly hair - the very hair that he curses every morning as he tames it back with a dollop of gel - was not the best candidate for the style she wanted. "But I'm not a kid anymore, papi! I want something cool! Pleeease?"

Moments before, when S was still in the shower, I had prepared M for this conversation. I reminded him that, as much as he adored her ridiculously gorgeous, long locks, they were not his."You need to let her choose her own style. She wants to experiment." He didn't like it, but he did it. His scissors reluctantly went into action, and inches and inches of curls floated to the floor.

He finally finished, and I clapped with excitement. "Oh, honey! It looks GREAT!" She looked immediately more mature - more "edgy". She ran to the bathroom, and her voice carried her approval through the house. "I LOVE IT!" She ran back into the kitchen, a grin eating her face whole. "Thanks, Papi!" She hugged him tightly, smiling into his chest.

The next morning she woke up and walked into my bathroom, where I was getting ready for the day. Her hair? Was a disaster. The curls puffed to the heavens and corked widly out to the sides. "Mom?" Her eyes begged me to help her. I immediately swung into action, weilding a comb and cream and explaining to her how she could fix her hair in the morning, promising her that once it got "used to" the new cut, it wouldn't be so hard to tame. Within minutes, her hair was back to its golden crown of glory; the curls fat and defined, the layers giving them a style meant for one going into junior high.

Last night, as I lugged laundry out of the basement, I noticed writing on S's whiteboard. I moved in closer, and saw that she had written herself a note - a guide, of sorts:

Frow = Fro

I chuckled to myself, but at the same time, I felt my throat tighten with emotion. A few days before, there had been a different message scrawled on her whiteboard. It had read, "6th grade is probably scary." She had worried about starting middle school all summer, and that worry had worked its way in red marker onto her whiteboard - her mind's voice reflecting right back to her. But now, that message had been replaced with a step-by-step guide to ensure the warding off of any hair trauma. After all, no way was she going to go into sixth grade with a "FROW", for crying out loud. Unacceptable!

I went upstairs to her room, where she was already asleep, her newly layered hair in lion-like tangles around her face. I leaned in to kiss her, and for one moment, her mouth moved just as it did when she was a baby - when she dreamed of milk or pacifiers. "You'll do great," I whispered into her hair. And then I turned off her light and went to bed, my baby's new journey just one sleep away.

The IKEA Effect

by Patti

My mom recently embarked on a new chapter in her life, and part of that chapter meant downsizing from a 3-bedroom to a spectacularly tiny 1-bedroom. This of course meant she had to sell much of her furniture and replace it with furniture better-suited for spectacularly tiny spaces. Enter: IKEA. Those clever little Swedes - not only have they cornered the market on good skin and blonde hair, they have also certainly figured out how to maximize space, haven't they?

If you've never been to IKEA, you can't know the feeling that overcomes you as you near the bright blue and yellow building - at first a beacon in the distance; a glowing structure of glass questionably sturdy pre-fab-ness - and as you draw nearer, you are overcome with a sense of growing anticipation; that feeling that something is about to change. You see the simple block letters that spell out possibilities and fresh beginnings, and you actually might just get a little jittery with glee. You will circle the parking lot for some time, because you might foolishly believe that you will actually find a spot near the front. But no, don't bother. Just park the 3,925 miles away from the entrance and know that you will arrive; you'll just have to walk to get there.

But once you are inside; oh, once you are inside...

The day I accompanied my mom on her IKEA journey, S came along for the ride. She had never been to IKEA before, and though we were there for my mom, she couldn't help but be infected by IKEA FevAH. It began with the expected "WOAH!" as we pulled into the parking lot. "THIS WHOLE THING IS ONE PLACE?" Once inside, she looked up into the three stories of glass and escalators and Sunday shoppers stuffing their giant IKEA bags full of trinkets and glorious uselessness that, for some reason, the moment you step into an IKEA is suddenly very, very necessary. "MOM! Can we re-do my room?" I yanked her toward the escalator and led her and my mom to the second floor, where the goal was to find a couch. All the way up S yammered on. "I SO need a new room, Mom! Something more teenager-y. Can we get a new bed? Ooh! Can I get a couch in my room? Something cool where me and my friends can hang out? PLEEEASE?"

Once we reached the second floor, I expertly guided S away from the danger zone: The kids' bedrooms. We immediately found the couches - the first one we crossed was a turquoise number.

 "OH MY GAWD! MOM! THIS IS IT!" I steered her away, reminding her that we were here for her Nono, and to please focus on finding a couch for her. One that was not turquoise. We plopped down on a few and within 15 minutes actually found "The One". I whipped out my cell phone and snapped a pic of the item number, and we headed to find a dining room table. On the way, we snaked through countless aisles of magical goods: fairy-like lighting, colorful lampshades, room after room of fabulously decorated, yet suspiciously spotless, kitchens. "Okay, MOM? THIS is the kind of kitchen I want when I have my own place!" She pointed to an all-white kitchen - one that had no dirty dishes in the sink  or pizza hand prints on the counter tops. "NO WAIT! THIS ONE!" This time she pointed to a cherry kitchen. I hesitated. I needed this kitchen. 

We finally found the dining room tables, and were able to find one almost instantly. I snapped another pic, and started the treacherous journey through the remaining lands of quirky shower curtains, fluffy down comforters, jewel toned plates, decorative mirrors and picture frames, and then - the squeal.
"NO WAY! LOOK AT THIS ROOM!"

S ran into a red and pink bedroom and twirled in it, pretending it was hers. "THIS is how I want my room, Mom!" Never mind that the room was 5 times bigger than her room and included a pink couch and a flat screen TV. Clearly, it needed to be her room. We spent the next half hour pretend-living in various bedrooms, living rooms, and kitchens. "Mom? Wouldn't it be cool if we could just live in IKEA and then, whenever we get bored of a room, we could just move into another style?"

I looked around at all of the expertly decorated rooms, and as much as I told S to be happy with what she had, I couldn't help but compare them to my own house: Suddenly, it seemed dated, messy, BORING. It took everything I had not to snatch up all of the prefabricated, boxed-up goodness for my very own, and reassemble my house into something that would make me squeal.

Instead, we left, loaded down with my mom's prefabricated goodness, and, after spending the rest of my Sunday in IKEA-assembling-hell, I headed back to my non-IKEA, non-creative, fingerprint-y, dog hair-y, maybe boring, but somehow? Always comfortable home. As I sank into my non-IKEA couch, I slowly felt the IKEA Effect wearing off. I no longer felt inadequate or driven to to splash red onto my walls in some never-before-attempted, clever way. I marveled at the temporary insanity I had allowed to own my brain, and sunk deeper into the couch, remote in hand. "MOM! LOOK!" S ran into the room waving a magazine in her hand. "It's the IKEA catalog!"

Hjälp!